“Ay! mother, you have not heard all.”
“You are not in a scrape, my boy?”
“Yes, I am. You see I lost my head after the pebble transaction. I couldn’t stand small talk, or bear to go near Raymond, so I got among some other fellows with Sir Harry—”
“And excitement and distress led you on?”
“I don’t know what came over me. I could not stand still for fear I should feel. I must be mad on something. Then, that mare of Duncombe’s, poor fellow, seemed a personal affair to us all; and Sir Harry, and a few other knowing old hands, went working one up, till betting higher and higher seemed the only way of supporting Duncombe, besides relieving one’s feelings. I know it was being no end of a fool; but you haven’t felt it, mother!”
“And Sir Harry took your bets?”
“One must fare and fare alike,” said Frank.
“How much have you lost?”
“I’ve lost Lena, that’s all I know,” said the poor boy; but he produced his book, and the sum appalled him. “Mother,” he said in a broken voice, “there’s no fear of its happening again. I can never feel like this again. I know it is the first time one of your sons has served you so, and I can’t even talk of sorrow, it seems all swallowed up in the other matter. But if you will help me to meet it, I will pay you back ten or twenty pounds every quarter.”
“I think I can, Frankie. I had something in hand towards my own possible flitting. Here is the key of my desk. Bring me my banker’s book and my cheque book.”