“It will be a mere matter of business,” Frank Amberley remarked, as Captain Desfrayne hesitated. A slight grimace which passed over his countenance might have served to mark the words as ironical; but it came and went unnoticed. “Be it so. When Miss Turquand returns, I will take care she is duly informed of the fact which you have confided to me. She would, perhaps, be better pleased if the information came from yourself, but as you are so averse to seeing her on the subject, why, I must simply do as you wish.”
“The sooner she knows the better.”
“But,” said Mr. Amberley, as if another idea had occurred to him, “I think you mentioned just now, when down-stairs, that you were about to start for Gloucestershire, to join your regiment. I thought you told Mr. Salmon that you were going to Holston to-morrow, if I understood rightly?”
“Quite true.”
“I have never visited the neighborhood; but if you are anywhere near Flore Hall”—he hesitated—“the probabilities are that you may see Miss Turquand before I do. I have no idea how long she will remain at Holston, and did not know a visit was contemplated: I heard of it by accident this morning.”
Paul Desfrayne reflected. Unhappily, his meditations were neither of an agreeable nor a profitable nature.
“True,” he slowly replied, speaking as if with difficulty. “I will not seek Miss Turquand—I cannot; you must bear with what may seem like culpable weakness; but if I should meet her——”
“I quite understand your situation and feelings, and I hope you will treat me as a friend,” said Frank Amberley. “I will do what I can for you; and, believe me, I sympathize with you. Let me know if there should be any explanation between you and the young lady, and if you do not find a good opportunity for speaking to her on the subject, I will undertake to act for you.”
Paul Desfrayne looked into those kindly, truthful eyes, and held out his hand, as if to mutely express his gratitude. Then, after a few more words, he departed, wearily.
“Poor fellow!” Frank Amberley thought. “They may well paint fortune as blind. Yesterday I envied him—to-day I cannot but pity him. So this, then, is the secret. Poor soul! what a burden to bear.”