Chapter Five.
The Officer of the Guards.
It would not take much guessing to arrive at the course taken by Frank Gowan. He cudgelled his brains well, being in a kind of mental balance, which one day went down in favour of making a clean breast of all he knew to his mother; the next day up went that side, for he felt quite indignant with himself.
Here, he argued, was he, Frank Gowan, freshly appointed one of the Prince’s pages, a most honourable position for a youth of his years, and with splendid prospects before him, cut off from his old school friendships, and enjoying a new one with a handsome, well-born lad, whom, in spite of many little failings at which he laughed, he thoroughly admired for his dash, courage, and knowledge of the world embraced by the court. This lad had completely taken him under his wing, made him proud by the preference he showed for his companionship, and ready to display his warm admiration for his new friend by making him the confidant of his secret desires; and what was he, the trusted friend, about to do? Play traitor, and betray his confidence. But, then, was not Andrew Forbes seeking to play traitor to the King?
“That’s only talk and vanity,” said the boy to himself. “He has done nothing traitorous; but if I go and talk to any one, I shall have done something—something cruelly treacherous, which must end in the poor fellow being sent away from the court in disgrace, perhaps to a severe punishment.”
He turned cold at the thought.
“They hang or behead people for high treason,” he thought; “and suppose Drew were to be punished like that, how should I feel afterward? I should never forgive myself. Besides, how could I go and worry my mother about such a business as this? It is not women’s work, and it would only make her unhappy.”
But he felt that he might go to his father, and confide the matter to him, asking him on his honour not to do anything likely to injure Drew.
But he could not go and confide in his father, who was generally with his regiment, and they only met on rare occasions. By chance he caught sight of him on duty at the Palace with the guard, but he could not speak to him then. At other times he was at his barrack quarters, and rarely at his town house across the Park in Queen Anne Street. This place was generally only occupied by the servants, Lady Gowan having apartments in the Palace.
Hence Frank felt that it would be very difficult to see his father and confide in him, and he grew more at ease in consequence. It was the way out of a difficulty most dear to many of us—to wit, letting things drift to settle themselves.
And so matters went on for some days. Frank had been constantly in company with Andrew Forbes, and his admiration for the handsome lad grew into a hearty friendship, which was as warmly returned.
“He can’t help knowing he is good-looking,” thought Frank, “and that makes him a bit conceited; but it will soon wear off. I shall joke him out of it. And he knows so much. He is so manly. He makes me feel like an awkward schoolboy beside him.”
Frank knitted his brow a little over these thoughts, but he brightened up with a laugh directly.
“I think I could startle him, though,” he said half aloud, “if I had him down at Winchester.”
It was one bright morning at the Palace, where he was standing at the anteroom window just after the regular morning military display, and he had hardly thought this when a couple of hands were passed over his eyes, and he was held fast.
“I know who it is,” he said, “though you don’t think it. It’s you, Drew.”
“How did you know?” said that individual merrily.
“Because you have hands like a girl’s, and no lady here would have done it.”
“Bah! hands like a girl’s indeed! I shall have to lick you into a better shape, bear. You grow too insolent.”
“Very well; why don’t you begin?” said Frank merrily.
“Because I don’t choose. Look here, young one; I want you to come out with me for a bit this afternoon.”
“No, thank you,” replied the boy, shaking his head. “I don’t want to go and see mad politicians quarrel and fight in the city, and get nearly squeezed to death.”
“Who wants you to? It’s only to go for a walk.”
“That was going for a walk.”
“Afraid of getting your long hair taken out of curl?” said Andrew banteringly.
“No; that would curl up again; but I don’t want to have my clothes torn off my back.”
“You won’t get them torn off this afternoon. I want you to come in the Park there, down by the water-side. You’ll like that, savage.”
“Yes, of course. Can we fish?”
“No, that wouldn’t do; but I tell you what: you can take some bread with you and feed the ducks.”
“Take some bread with me and feed the ducks!” cried the boy contemptuously.
“Well, that’s what I’m going to do. Then you won’t come?”
“Yes, I will, Drew, if I can get away. Of course I will. Oh, mother, you there?”
Lady Gowan had just entered the room, and came up toward the window, smiling, and looking proud, happy, and almost too young to be the mother of the stout, manly-looking boy who hurried to meet her; and court etiquette did not hinder a loving exchange of kisses. She shook hands directly after with Andrew Forbes.
“I am afraid that you two find it very dull here sometimes,” she said.
“Well, yes, Lady Gowan,” said the youth, “I often do. I’m not like Frank here, with his friends at court.”
“But I have so few opportunities for seeing him, Mr Forbes. After a few weeks, though, I shall be at home yonder, and then you must come and spend as much time there as you can with Frank.”
Andrew bowed and smiled, and said something about being glad.
“Frank dear,” said Lady Gowan, “I have had a letter from your father this morning, and I have written an answer. He wants to see you for a little while. He is at home for a couple of days. You can take the note across.”
“Yes,” cried Frank, flushing with pleasure; but the next moment he turned to Andrew with an apologetic look.
“What is the matter?” said Lady Gowan. “Am I interrupting some plans?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, Lady Gowan,” said Andrew, warmly.
“I was going out with Drew, mother; but we can go another time. He will not mind.”
“But it was only this afternoon.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Gowan, “he will be back in an hour or so. I am glad that you were going out, my boy; it will make a little change for you. And I am very glad, Mr Forbes, that he has found so kind a companion.”
Andrew played the courtier to such perfection, that as soon as she had passed out of the room with her son Lady Gowan laughed merrily.
“In confidence, Frank,” she said, “and not to hurt Mr Forbes’s feelings, do not imitate his little bits of courtly etiquette. They partake too much of the dancing-master. I like to see my boy natural and manly. There, quick to your father, with my dear love, and tell him I am longing for his leave, when we can have, I hope, a couple of months in Hampshire.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Frank, as he hurried across the Park; “a couple of months in Hampshire. I wonder how long it will be?”
Ten minutes later he was going up two steps at a time to the room affected by his father in the spacious house in Queen Anne Street, where, as soon as he threw open the door, he caught sight of the lightly built but vigorous and active-looking officer in scarlet, seated at the window overlooking the Park, deep in a formidable-looking letter.
“Ah, Frank, my dear boy,” he cried, hurriedly thrusting the letter into his breast, “this is good. What, an answer already? You lucky young dog, to have the best woman in the world for a mother. Bless her!” he cried, kissing the letter and placing it with the other; “I’ll read that when you are gone. Not come to stay, I suppose?”
“No, father,” cried the boy, whose eyes flashed with excitement as they took in every portion of the officer in turn. “I’ve only come to bring the note; mother said you wished to see me.”
“Of course, my boy, so as to have a few words. I just catch a glimpse of you now and then, but it’s only a nod.”
“And I do often long so to come to you,” cried Frank, with his arm upon his father’s shoulder.
“That’s right, boy,” said Sir Robert, smiling and taking his hands; “but it wouldn’t do for the captain of the guard to be hugging his boy before everybody, eh? We men must be men, and do all that sort of thing with a nod or a look. As long as we understand each other, my boy, that’s enough, eh?”
“Yes, father, of course.”
“But bravo, Frank; you’re growing and putting on muscle. By George, yes! Arms are getting hard, and—good—fine depth of chest for your age. Don’t, because you are the Prince’s page, grow into a dandy macaroni milk-sop, all scent, silk, long curls, and pomatum. I want you to grow into a man, fit for a soldier to fight for his king.”
“And that’s what I want to do, father,” said the lad proudly.
“Of course you do; and so you will. You are altering wonderfully, boy. Why, hallo! I say,” cried the captain, with mock seriousness, as he held his son sidewise and gazed at his profile against the light.
“What’s the matter, father?” cried Frank, startled.
“Keep your head still, sir; I want to look. Yes, it’s a fact—very young and tender, but there it is; it’s coming up fast. Why, Frank boy, you’ll soon have to shave.”
“What nonsense!” cried the boy, reddening partly at being laughed at, but quite as much with satisfaction.
“It’s no nonsense, you young dog. There’s your moustache coming, and no mistake. Why, if I had a magnifying-glass, I could see it quite plainly.”
“I say, father, don’t; I can’t stop long, and—and—that teases one.”
“Then I won’t banter you, boy,” cried Sir Robert, clapping him heartily on the shoulder; “but, I say, you know: it’s too bad of you, sir. I don’t like it.”
“What is, father? What have I done?”
“Oh I suppose you can’t help it; but it’s too bad of you to grow so fast, and make your mother look an old woman.”
“That she doesn’t, father,” cried the boy. “Why, she’s the youngest-looking and most beautiful lady at court.”
“So she is, my boy—so she is. Heaven bless her!”
“And as for you, father, you talk about looking old, and about me growing big and manly; I shall never grow into such a fine, handsome officer as you.”
“Why, you wicked, parasitical, young court flatterer!” cried Sir Robert; “you’re getting spoiled and sycophantish already.”
“I’m not, father!” cried the boy, flushing; “it’s quite true, every word of it. Everybody says what a noble-looking couple you are.”
“Do they, my boy?” said the father more gently, and there was a trace of emotion in his tone. “But there’s not much couple in it, living apart like this. Ah, well, we have our duty to do, and mine is cut out for me. But never mind the looks, Frank, my boy, and the gay uniform; it’s the man I want you to grow into. But all the same, sir, nature is nature. Look there.”
“What, at grandfather’s portrait?”
“Yes, boy. You will not need to have yours painted, and I have not had mine taken for the same reason. Is it like me?”
“Yes, father. If you were dressed the same, it would be exactly like you.”
“In twenty years’ time it will do for you.”
Frank laughed.
“But I say yes, sir,” cried Sir Robert. “Why, in sixteen years’ time, if I could have stood still, we two would be as much alike as a couple of peas. But in sixteen years perhaps I shall be in my grave.”
“Father!”
“Well, I’m a soldier, my boy; and soldiers have to run risks more than other men.”
“Oh, but you won’t; you’re too big and brave.”
“Ha—ha—ha! Flattering again. Why, Frank, I sometimes think I’m a coward.”
“You! A coward! I should like to hear any one say so.”
“A good many will perhaps, boy. But there, never mind that; and perhaps after all you had better not follow my profession.”
“What! not be a soldier!”
“Yes. Do you really wish to be?”
“Why of course, father; I don’t want to be a palace lapdog all my life.”
“Bravo, Frank! well said!” cried the father heartily. “Well, you come of a military family, and I dare say I can get you a commission when the beard really does grow so that it can be seen without an optic glass.”
“Oh, I say, father, you’re beginning to tease again. I say, do get up and walk across the room.”
“Eh? What for?”
“I want to look at you.”
Sir Robert smiled and shook his head. Then, slowly rising, he drew himself up in military fashion, and marched slowly across the room and back, with his broad-skirted scarlet and gold uniform coat, white breeches, and high boots, and hand resting upon his sword hilt, and looking the beau ideal of an officer of the King’s Guards.
“There, have I been weak enough, Frank?” he said, stopping in front of his son, and laying his hands affectionately upon his shoulders. “All show, my boy. When you’ve worn it as long as I have, you will think as little of it; but it is quite natural for it to attract a boy like you. But now sit down and tell me a little about how you spend your time. I find that you have quite taken up with Andrew Forbes. His father promised me that the lad should try and be companionable to you. Forbes is an old friend of mine still, though he is in disgrace at court. How do you get on with Andrew? Like him?”
“Oh, very much, father.”
“Well, don’t like him too much, my boy. Lads of your age are rather too ready to make idols of showy fellows a year or two older, and look up to them and imitate them, when too often the idol is not of such good stuff as the worshipper. So you like him?”
“Yes, father.”
“Kind and helpful to you?”
“Oh, very.”
“Well, what is it?”
“What is what, father?”
“That cloudy look on your face. Why, Frank, I’ve looked at you so often that I can read it quite plainly. Why, you’ve been quarrelling with Andrew Forbes!”
“Oh no, father; we’re the best of friends.”
“Then what is it, Frank? You are keeping something back.”
Sir Robert spoke almost sternly, and the son shrank from gazing in the fine, bold, questioning eyes.
“I knew it,” said Sir Robert. “What is it, boy? Speak out.”
It was the firm officer talking now, and Frank felt his breath come shorter as his heart increased the speed of its pulsations.
“Well, sir, I am waiting. Why don’t you answer?”
“I can’t, father.”
“Can’t? I thought my boy always trusted his father, as he trusts his son. There, out with it, Frank. The old saying, my lad. The truth may be blamed, but can never be shamed. What is it—some scrape? There, let’s have it, and get it over. Always come to me, my boy. We are none of us perfect, so let there be no false shame. If you have done wrong, come to me and tell me like a man. If it means punishment, that will not be one hundredth part as painful to you as keeping it back and forfeiting my confidence in my dear wife’s boy.”
“Oh, I would come. I have wanted to come to you about this, but I felt that I could not.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be dishonourable.”
“Perhaps that is only your opinion, Frank. Would it not be better for me to give you my opinion?”
The boy hesitated for a moment. Then quickly:
“I gave my word, father.”
“To whom?”
“Andrew Forbes.”
“Not to speak of whatever it is?”
“Yes, father.”
Sir Robert Gowan sat looking stern and silent for a few moments as if thinking deeply.
“Frank boy,” he said at last. “I am a man of some experience; you are a mere boy fresh from a country school, and now holding a post which may expose you to many temptations. I, then, as your father, whose desire is to watch over you and help you to grow into a brave and good man, hold that it would not be dishonourable for you to confide in me in every way. It can be no dishonour for you to trust me.”
“Then I will tell you, father;” and the boy hastily laid bare his breast, telling of his adventures with Andrew Forbes, and how great a source of anxiety they had proved to be.
“Hah!” said Sir Robert, after sitting with knitted brows looking curiously at his son and hearing him to the end. “Well, I am very glad that you have spoken, my boy, and I think it will be right for you to stand your ground, and be ready to laugh at Master Andrew and his political associations. It is what people call disloyal and treasonable on one side; on the other, it is considered noble and right. But you need not trouble your head about that. Andrew Forbes is after all a mere boy, very enthusiastic, and led away perhaps by thoughts of the Prince living in exile instead of sitting on the throne of England. But you don’t want to touch politics for the next ten years. It would be better for many if they never touched them at all. There, I am glad you have told me.”
“So am I now, father. But you will not speak about it all, so as to get Drew in disgrace?”
“I give you my word I will not, Frank. Oh, nonsense! It is froth—fluff; a chivalrous boy’s fancy and sympathy for one he thinks is oppressed. No, Frank, no words of mine will do Drew Forbes any harm; but as for you—”
“Yes, father.”
“Do all you can to help him and hold him back. It would be a pity for him to suffer through being rash. They might treat it all as a boy’s nonsense— No, it would mean disgrace. Keep him from it if you can.”
“I, father! He is so much older than I am, and I looked up to him.”
“Proof of what I said, Frank,” cried Sir Robert, clapping his son upon the shoulder. “He is a bright, showy lad; but you carry more ballast than he. Brag’s a good dog, you know, but Holdfast’s a better. Now, then, I think you ought to be going back. Good-bye, my boy. I look to you to be your mother’s protector more and more. Perhaps in the future I may be absent. But you must go now, for I have an important letter to write. My dear love to your mother, and come to me again whenever you have a chance.”
Sir Robert went down to the garden door with his son, and let him out that way into the Park.
“Mind,” he said at parting. “Keep away from political mobs.”
“I will,” said Frank to himself, as he turned back. “Well, it will be all right going with Drew this afternoon, as it is only to feed the ducks.”
Chapter Six.
Frank Feeds The Ducks.
Something very nearly akin to a guilty feeling troubled Frank upon meeting his fellow-page that afternoon; but his father’s promise, in conjunction with his words respecting Andrew’s actions being merely those of an enthusiastic boy, helped to modify the trouble he felt, and in a few minutes it passed off. For Andrew began by asking how his friend’s father was, and praising him.
“I always liked your father, Frank,” he said; “but he’s far too good for where he is. Well, we’re off duty till the evening. Ready for our run?”
“Oh yes, I’m ready,” said Frank, laughing; “but you won’t run unless somebody’s carriage is being mobbed. You could go fast enough then.”
“Well, of course I can run if I like. Come along.”
“Where’s the bread?” asked Frank.
“Bread? What bread? Are you hungry already?”
“No, no; the bread you talked about.”
“The bread I talked about? What nonsense! I never said anything about bread that I can remember.”
“Well, you said we were going to feed the ducks.”
“Oh–h–oh!” ejaculated Andrew; and he then burst into a hearty fit of laughter. “Of course: so I did. I didn’t think of it. Well, perhaps we had better take some. Ring the bell, and ask one of the footmen to bring you some.”
Frank thought it strange that his companion, after proposing that they should go and feed the ducks, had forgotten all about the bread. However, he said no more, but rang, and asked the servant to get him a couple of slices.
The man stared, but withdrew, and came back directly.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “but did you wish me to bring the bread here?”
“Certainly. Be quick, please. We are waiting to go out.”
The man withdrew for the second time, and the lads waited chatting together till Andrew grew impatient.
“Ring again,” he cried. “Have they sent to have a loaf baked? It’s getting late. Let’s start. Never mind the bread.”
“Oh, let’s have it now it’s ordered. How are we to feed the ducks without?”
“Throw them some stones,” said Andrew mockingly. “Come along. We’ll look at other people feeding them—if there are any. Look here; it’s twenty minutes by that clock since you gave the order.”
At that moment another footman opened the door, and held it back for one of his fellows to enter bearing a tray covered with a cloth, on which were a loaf, a butter-dish, knives, plates, glasses, and a decanter of water.
“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Andrew impatiently. “There, cut a slice, Frank, put it in your pocket, and come along, or we shall be late.”
“I did not know that ducks had particular hours for being fed,” thought the boy, as he cut into the loaf, and then hacked off two slices instead of one, the two men-servants standing respectfully back and looking on, both being too well-trained to smile, as Frank thrust one slice into his pocket and offered the other to Andrew. “Oh, I don’t want it,” he said impatiently. “Better take it,” cried Frank. “I shan’t give you any of mine.”
Andrew hesitated for a moment, and then snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped the slice in it, and thrust the handkerchief back.
“Perhaps I had better take one too,” he said aloud; and then to his companion as they went out: “Makes one look so ridiculous and childish before the servants. They’ll go chattering about it all over the place.”
“Let them,” said Frank coolly. “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of.”
“No,” said Andrew, with something like a sneer, “you don’t; but you will some day. There, let’s make haste.”
It did not strike the lad that his companion’s manner was peculiar, only that he felt it to be rather an undignified proceeding; but he said nothing, and accommodating his stride to Andrew’s long one, they crossed the courtyard, went out into the Park, and came in sight of the water glittering in the sun.
“There’s a good place,” said Frank. “Plenty of ducks close in.”
“Oh, there’s a better place round on the other side,” said Andrew hastily. “Let’s go there.”
“Anywhere you like,” said Frank, “so long as we’re out here on the fresh grass again. What a treat it is to be among the green trees!”
“Much better than the country, eh?”
“Oh no; but it does very well. I say, I wish we might fish.”
“Oh, we’ll go fishing some day. Walk faster; we’re late.”
“Fast as you like. What do you say to a run? You can run, you say, when you like.”
“Oh no, we needn’t run; only walk fast.”
“Or the ducks will be impatient,” said Frank, laughing.
“Yes, or the ducks may be impatient,” said Andrew to himself, as he led on toward the end of the ornamental water nearest to where Buckingham Palace now stands, and bore off to the left; and when some distance back along the farther shore of the lake and nearly opposite to Saint James’s Palace, he said suddenly:
“Look, Frank, there is some one beforehand;” and he pointed to where a gentleman stood by the edge of the water shooting bits of biscuit with his thumb and finger some distance out, apparently for the sake of seeing the ducks race after them, some aiding themselves with their wings, and then paddling back for more.
The two lads walked up to where the gentleman was standing, and as he heard them approach he turned quickly, and Frank saw that he was a pale, slight, thin-faced, youngish-looking man who might be forty.
“Ah, Andrew,” he said, “you here; how are you? You have not come to feed the ducks?”
“Oh yes, I have,” said Andrew, giving the stranger a peculiar look; “and I’ve brought a friend with me. Let me introduce him. Mr Frank Gowan, Captain Sir Robert Gowan’s son, and my fellow-servant with his Royal Highness. Frank, this happens to be a friend of mine—Mr George Selby.”
“I am very glad to meet any friend of Andrew Forbes,” said the stranger, raising his hat with a most formal bow. “I know Sir Robert slightly.”
As he replaced his hat and smiled pleasantly to the salute Frank gave in return, he took a biscuit from his pocket, and began to break it in very small pieces, when, apparently without any idea of its looking childish, Andrew took out his piece of bread, and after a moment’s hesitation Frank did the same, the ducks in his Majesty’s “canal,” as he termed it, benefiting largely by the result.
“Any news?” said Andrew, after this had been going on for some minutes, and as he spoke he turned his head and looked fixedly at Mr Selby.
“No, nothing whatever; everything is as dull as can be,” was the reply, and the fixed look was returned.
There seemed to be nothing in these words of an exciting nature, and Frank was intent upon a race between two green-headed drakes for a piece of crust which he had jerked out to a considerable distance; but all the same Andrew Forbes drew a deep breath, and his face flushed up. Then he glanced sharply at Frank, and looked relieved to find how his attention was diverted.
“Er—er—it is strange what a little news there is stirring nowadays,” he said, huskily.
“Yes, very, is it not?” replied their new companion; “but I should have thought that you gentlemen, living as you do in the very centre of London life, would have had plenty to amuse you.”
“Oh no,” said Andrew, with a forced laugh. “Ours is a terrible humdrum life at the Palace, so bad that Gowan there is always wanting to go out into the country to find sport, and as he cannot and I cannot, we are glad to come out here and feed the ducks.”
“Well,” said the stranger gravely, jerking out a fresh piece of biscuit, “it is a nice, calm, and agreeable diversion. I like to come here for the purpose on Wednesday and Friday afternoons about this time. It is harmless, Forbes.”
“Very,” said the youth, with another glance at Frank; but he was breaking a piece of crust for another throw, and another meaning look passed between the two, Forbes seeming to question the stranger with his eyes, and to receive for answer an almost imperceptible nod.
“Yes, I like feeding the ducks,” said Selby. “One acquires a good deal of natural history knowledge thereby, and also enjoys the pleasure of making new and pleasant friends.”
This was directed at Frank, who felt uncomfortable, and made another bow, it being the proper thing to do, as his new acquaintance—he did not mentally call him friend—dropped a piece of biscuit, to be seized by a very fat duck, which had found racing a failure, and succeeded best by coming out of the water, to snap up the fragments which dropped at the distributors’ feet.
As the piece of biscuit fell, the stranger formally and in a very French fashion raised his cocked hat again.
“And so you find the court life dull, Mr Gowan,” he said.
“Yes,” said the boy, colouring. “You see, I have not long left Winchester and my school friends. Miss the ga— sports; but Andrew Forbes has been very friendly to me,” he added heartily.
“Of course you feel dull coming among strangers; but never fear, Mr Gowan, you will have many and valuable friends I hope, your humble servant among the number. It must be dull, though, at this court. Now at Saint—”
“That’s my last piece of bread, Selby,” said Andrew hastily. “Give me a bit of biscuit.”
“Certainly, if I have one left,” was the smiling reply, with another almost imperceptible nod. “Yes, here is the last. Of course you must find it dull, and we have not seen you lately at the club, my dear fellow. By the way, why not bring Mr Gowan with you next time?”
“Oh, he would hardly care to come. He does not care for politics, eh, Frank?”
“I don’t understand them,” said the boy quietly.
“You soon will now you are resident in town, Mr Gowan; and I hope you will favour us by accompanying your friend Forbes. Only a little gathering of gentlemen, young, clever, and I hope enthusiastic. You will come?”
“I—that is—”
“Say yes, Frank, and don’t be so precious modest. He will bring up a bit of country now and then. But he is fast growing into a man of town.”
“What nonsense, Drew!” cried the boy quickly.
“Yes, what nonsense!” said the new acquaintance, smiling. “Believe me, Mr Gowan, we do not talk of town at our little social club. I shall look forward to seeing you there as my guest. What do you say to Monday?”
“I say yes for both of us,” said Andrew quickly.
“I am very glad. There, my last biscuit has gone, so till Monday evening I will say good-bye—au revoir.”
“Stick to the English, Selby,” said Andrew sharply. “French is not fashionable at Saint James’s.”
“You are quite right, my dear Forbes. Good-bye, Mr Gowan. It is a pleasure to shake your father’s son by the hand. Till Monday then, my dear Forbes;” and with a more courtly bow than ever, the gentleman stalked slowly away, with one hand raising a laced handkerchief to his face, the other resting upon his sword hilt.
“Glad we met him,” said Andrew quickly, and he looked unusually excited. “One of the best of men. You will like him, Frank.”
“But you should not have been so ready to accept a stranger’s invitation for me.”
“Pooh! he isn’t a stranger. He’ll be grateful to you for going. Big family the Selbys, and he’ll be very rich some day. Wonderful how fond he is, though, of feeding the ducks.”
“Yes, he seems to be,” said Frank; and he accompanied his companion as the latter strolled on now along the bank after finishing the distribution of bread to the feathered fowl by sending nearly a whole biscuit skimming and making ducks and drakes on the surface of the water; but the living ducks and drakes soon ended that performance and followed the pair in vain. For Andrew Forbes had suddenly become very thoughtful; while his companion also had his fit of musing, which ended in his saying to himself:
“I wish I was as clever as they are. It almost seemed as if they meant something more than they said. It comes from living in London I suppose, and perhaps some day I shall get to be as sharp and quick as they are. Perhaps, though, it is all nonsense, and they meant nothing. But I wish Drew had not said we’d go. I’m not a man, and what do I want at a club? I don’t know anything that they’d want to know, living as I do shut up in the Palace.” But there Frank Gowan was wrong, for what went on at Saint James’s Palace in the early days of the eighteenth century was of a great deal of interest to some people outside, and he never forgot the feeding of the ducks.
Chapter Seven.
How Frank Gowan grew one Year older in one Day.
“I Seem to have so many things to worry me,” thought Frank. “Any one would think that in a place like this without lessons or studies there would be no unpleasantries; but as soon as I’ve got the better of one, another comes to worry me.”
This was in consequence of the invitation for the following Monday. His mind was pretty well at ease about his confidential talk with his father; but he was nervous and uncomfortable about the visit to the club, and several times over he was on the point of getting leave to go across to Sir Robert to ask his opinion as to whether he ought to go.
“I can’t go and bother my mother about such a thing as that,” he mused. “I ought to be old enough now to be able to decide which is right and which is wrong. Drew thinks and talks like a man, while it seems to me that I’m almost a child compared to him.
“Well, let’s try. Ought I to go, or ought I not? There can’t be any harm to me in going. There may be some friends of Drew’s whom I shan’t like; but if there are I needn’t go again. It’s childish, when I want to become more manly, to shrink from going into society, like a great girl.—I’ll go. If there’s any harm in it, the harm is likely to be to Drew, and—yes, of course; I could save him from getting into trouble.
“Then I ought to go,” he said to himself decisively, and he felt at ease, troubling himself little more about the matter, but going through his extremely easy duties of waiting in the anteroom, bearing letters and messages from one part of the Palace to the other, and generally looking courtly as a royal page.
Then the Monday came, with Andrew Forbes in the highest of spirits, and ready to chat about the country, his friend’s life at Winchester, and to make plans for running down to see them when his father and mother went out of town.
“I don’t believe you’d like it if you did come,” said Frank.
“Oh yes, I should. Why not?”
“Because you’d find some of the lanes muddy, and the edges of the roads full of brambles. You wouldn’t care to see the bird’s and squirrels and hedgehogs, nor the fish in the river, nor the rabbits and hares.”
“Why, those are all things that I am dying to see in their natural places. I wish you would not think I am such a macaroni. Why, after the way in which you have gone on about the country, isn’t it natural that I should want to see more of it?”
He kept on in this strain to such an extent that, instead of convincing his companion, he overdid it, and set him wondering.
“I don’t understand him a bit,” he said to himself; “and I wish he wouldn’t keep on calling me my dear fellow and slapping me on the back. I never saw him so wild and excitable before.”
The lad’s musings were interrupted to his great disgust by Andrew coming behind him with the very act and words which had annoyed him. For he started and turned angrily upon receiving a sounding slap between the shoulders.
“Why, Frank, my dear fellow,” cried Andrew, “what ails you? Hallo! eyes flashing lightning and brow heavy with thunder. Has the gentle, shepherd-like swain from the country got a temper of his own?”
“Of course I have,” cried the boy angrily. “Why don’t you let it lie quiet, and not wake it up by doing that!”
“Is the temper like a surly dog, then?” cried Andrew, laughing mockingly. “Will it bite?”
“Yes, if you tease it too much,” snapped out Frank.
“Oh, horrible! You alarm me!” cried Andrew, bounding away in mock dread.
“Don’t be a fool!” cried Frank angrily; and the tone and gesture which accompanied the request sobered Andrew in a moment, though his eyes looked his surprise that the boy whom he patronised with something very much like contempt could be roused up into showing so much strength of mind.
“What’s the matter, Frank boy?” he said quietly; “eaten something that hasn’t agreed with you?”
“No,” said the boy sharply. “I haven’t eaten it—I can’t swallow it.”
“Eh? What do you mean? What is it?”
“You,” said Frank shortly.
“Oh!” said Andrew, raising his eyebrows a little and staring at him hard; “and pray how is it you can’t swallow me?”
“Because you will keep going on in this wild, stupid way, and treating me as if I were some stupid boy whom you meant to make your butt.”
“What, to-day?”
“Yes, and yesterday, and the day before that, and last week, and—and ever since I’ve been here.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me of it if I did, like a gentleman should, and not call me a fool?”
“I didn’t; I said don’t be a fool.”
“Same thing. You insulted me.”
“Well, you’ve insulted me dozens of times.”
“And amongst gentlemen, sir,” continued Andrew haughtily, and ignoring the other’s words, “these things mean a meeting. Gentlemen don’t wear swords for nothing. They have their honour to defend. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand,” said Frank warmly. “I haven’t been behind the trees in the big field at Winchester a dozen times perhaps without knowing what that means.”
“Pish!” said Andrew contemptuously; “schoolboys’ squabbles settled with fists. Black eyes, bruised knuckles, and cut lips.”
“Well, schoolboys don’t wear swords,” cried Frank, who was by no means quelled. “I learned fencing, and I dare say I could use mine properly. I’ve fenced with my father in the holidays many a time.”
“Then I shall send a friend to you, sir,” said Andrew fiercely.
“You mean an enemy,” said Frank grimly.
“A friend, sir—a friend,” said Andrew haughtily; “and you can name your own.”
“No, I can’t, and I shouldn’t make such a fool of myself,” cried Frank defiantly.
“You are very free, sir, with your fools,” cried Andrew. “Such language as this is not fitted for the anteroom in the Palace.”
“I suppose I may call myself a fool if I like.”
“When you are alone, sir, if you think proper, but not in my presence. Perhaps you will have the goodness to name your friend now; it will save time and trouble.”
Frank looked at his companion sharply.
“Then you mean to fight?”
“Yes, sir, I mean to chastise this insolence.”
“They wouldn’t let us cross swords within the Palace grounds.”
“Pooh! No paltry excuses and evasions, sir,” cried Andrew, in whose thin cheeks a couple of red spots appeared. “Of course we could not hold a meeting here. But there is the Park. I see, though. Big words, and now the dog that was going to bite is putting his tail between his legs, and is ready to run away.”
“Is he?” said Frank sharply, and a curiously stubborn look came into his face. “Don’t you be too sure of that. But, anyhow, I’m not going to cross swords with you in real earnest.”
“I thought so. You are afraid that I should pink you.”
“Who’s afraid?”
“Bah!” cried Andrew contemptuously. “You are.”
“Oh, am I?” growled Frank. “Look here; I’m sure my father wouldn’t like me to fight you with swords, whether you pinked me as you call it, or I wounded you.”
“Pish! Frank Gowan, you are a poltroon.”
“Perhaps so; but look here, Andrew Forbes, you’ve often made me want to hit you when you’ve been so bounceable and patronising. Now, we were going to see your friend to-night—”
“We are going to see my friend to-night, sir. Even if gentlemen have an affair, they keep their words.”
“If they can, and are fit to show themselves. I’m not going to that place with you this evening, though I had got leave to go out. You can go afterwards if you like; but if you’ll come anywhere you like, where we shan’t be stopped, I’ll try and show you, big as you are, that I’m not a coward.”
“Very well. I dare say we can find a place. But your sword is shorter than mine. You must wear my other one.”
“Rubbish! I’m not going to fight with swords!” cried Frank.
“What! you mean pistols?”
“I mean fists.”
In Honour’s Cause.
“Pah! like schoolboys or people in the mob.”
“I shan’t fight with anything else,” said Frank stubbornly.
“You shall, sir. Now, then, name your friend.”
“Can’t; he wouldn’t go. He’s such a hot, peppery fellow too.”
“Then he is as big a coward as you are.”
“Look here,” said Frank, almost in a whisper. “I don’t know so much as you do about what we ought to do here, but I suppose it means a lot of trouble; and if it does I can’t help it, but if you call me a coward again I’ll hit you straight in the face.”
“Coward then!” cried Andrew, in a sharp whisper. “Now hit me, if you dare.”
As he spoke he drew himself up to his full height, threw out his chest, and folded his arms behind him.
Quick as thought Frank doubled his fist, and as he drew back his arm raised his firm white knuckles to a level with his shoulder, and then reason checked him, and he stood looking darkly into his fellow-page’s eyes.
“I knew it,” cried the latter—“a coward; and your friend is worse than you, or you wouldn’t have chosen him.”
“Oh! don’t you abuse him,” said Frank, with his face brightening; and his eyes shone with the mirth which had suddenly taken the place of his anger.
“What! do you dare to mock me?” cried Andrew.
“No; only it seemed so comic. You know, I’ve only had one friend since I’ve been here. How could I ask you?”
For a few moments Andrew stood gazing at him, as if hardly knowing how to parry this verbal thrust, and then the look which had accompanied it did its work.
“I say,” he said, in an altered tone, “this is very absurd.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Frank. “I never thought we two were going to have such a row.”
“But you called me a fool.”
“Didn’t! But you did call me a coward. Ha—ha! and yourself too. But, I say, Drew, you don’t think I’m a coward, do you?”
Andrew made no reply.
“Because I don’t think I am,” continued Frank. “I always hated to have to fight down yonder. And as soon as we began I always felt afraid of hurting the boy I fought with; but directly he hit out and hurt me I forgot everything, and I used to go on hammering away till I dropped, and had to give in because he was too much for me, and I hadn’t strength to go on hammering any more. But somehow,” he added thoughtfully, and with simple sincerity in his tones, “I never even then felt as if I was beaten, though of course I was.”
“But you used to beat sometimes?” said Andrew quietly.
“Oh yes, often; I generally used to win. I’ve got such a hard head and such bony knuckles. But, I say, you don’t think I should be afraid to fight, do you?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be,” cried Andrew, with animation, “and—and, there I beg your pardon for treating you as I have and for calling you a coward. It was a lie, Frank, and—will you shake hands?”
There was a rapid movement, and this time the boy’s fist flew out, but opened as it went and grasped the thin white hand extended toward him.
“I say, don’t please; you hurt,” said Andrew, screwing up his face.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried the boy. “I didn’t mean to grip so hard. I say, though, is it as the officers say to the soldiers?”
“What do you mean?” said Andrew wonderingly.
“As you were?”
“Of course. I’m sure our fathers never quarrelled and fought, and I swear we never will.”
“That’s right,” cried Frank.
“And I never felt as if I liked you half so much as I do now. Why, Frank, old fellow, you seem as if you had suddenly grown a year older since we began to quarrel.”
“Do I?” said the boy, laughing. “I am glad. No, I don’t think I am. But, I say, we mustn’t quarrel often then, for I shall grow old too soon.”
“I said we’d never quarrel again,” said Andrew seriously; “and somehow you are really a good deal older than I have thought. But, I say, we must go and meet Mr Selby to-night.”
“Oh yes, of course; and I shall always stand by and stop you in case you turn peppery to any one else, and stop you from righting him.”
“If it was in a right cause you would not.”
“I shouldn’t?”
“No; I believe you would help me, and be ready to draw on my behalf.”
Frank turned to the speaker with a thoughtful, far-off look in his eyes, as if he were gazing along the vista of the future at something happening far away.
“I hope that will never come,” he said quietly, “for when I used to fight with my fists, as I said, I always forgot what I was about. How would it be if I held a drawn sword?”
“You would use it as a gentleman, a soldier, and a man of honour should,” said Andrew warmly.
“Should I?” said Frank sadly.
“Yes, I am sure you would.”
Chapter Eight.
The Traitors’ Heads.
“Where is Mr Selby’s club?” asked Frank, as they started that afternoon to keep their appointment.
“You be patient, and I’ll show you,” replied Andrew.
“But we are not going by water, are we?”
“To be sure we are. It’s the pleasantest way, and we avoid the crowded streets. I am to introduce you, so I must be guide.”
This silenced Frank, who sank back in his seat when they stepped into a wherry without hearing the order given to the waterman; and once more his attention was taken up by the busy river scene, which so engrossed his thoughts that he started in surprise on finding that they were approaching the stairs where they had landed upon their last visit, but he made no remark aloud.
“I did not know it was in the city,” he said, however, to himself; and when they landed, and Andrew began to make his way toward Fleet Street, his suspicion was aroused.
“Is the club anywhere near that court where there was the fight?” he said suddenly.
“Eh? Oh yes, very near! This is the part of London where all the wits, beaux, and clever men meet for conversation. You learn more in one night listening than you do in a month’s reading. You’ll like it, I promise you.”
Frank was silent, and in spite of his companion’s promise felt a little doubtful.
“Have you known Mr Selby very long?” he asked.
“Depends upon what you call long.”
“Do you like him?”
“Oh yes, he’s a splendid fellow. So are his friends splendid fellows. You’ll like them too. Thorough gentlemen. Most of them of good birth.”
Frank was silent again; but he was becoming very observant now, as he noticed that, though they were going by a different way, they were tending toward the scene of their adventure, and the fight rose vividly before his imagination. But all was perfectly quiet and orderly around. There were plenty of people about, but all apparently engaged in business matters, though all disposed to turn and look after the well-dressed youths, who seemed foreign to their surroundings.
It was a relief to Frank to find that there were no signs of an idling crowd, and he was congratulating himself upon that fact when, after increasing his pace as if annoyed at being noticed, Andrew said sharply:
“Walk a bit faster. How the oafs do stare!”
“Why, Drew!” cried Frank, suddenly checking himself, as his companion, who had led him to the spot from the opposite side, suddenly turned into the court where they had been wedged in the crowd.
“What is it?” said his companion impatiently. “Come along, quick!”
“But this is the place where they were fighting.”
“Of course; I know it is. What of it? They’re not fighting now.”
As he spoke he was glancing rapidly up and down the court, and with his arm well through that of Frank he urged him on toward the door of the large house.
Frank was annoyed at having, as he felt, been deceived as to their destination, and ready to hang back. But he felt that it would seem cowardly, and that Andrew’s silence had been from a feeling that if he had said where they were coming he would have met with a refusal, while the next moment the boy found himself in the passage of the house.
A burly man, in a big snuff-coloured coat, confronted them, arranging a very curly wig as he came, but smiled, bowed, and drew back to allow the visitors to pass; and with a supercilious nod Andrew led on, apparently quite familiar with the place, and turned up a broad, well-worn staircase, quite half of whose balusters were perfectly new and unpainted, evidently replacing those broken out for weapons during the fight.
The sight of these and their suggestions did not increase Frank’s desire to be there, but he went on up.
“For this time only,” he said to himself; “but I’m not going to let him cheat me again.”
A buzz of voices issued from a partly opened door on the first floor, and Andrew walked straight in without hesitation, Frank finding himself in the presence of about twenty gentlemen, standing at one end of a long room, along whose sides were arranged small tables laid for dinner.
The conversation stopped on the instant, and every eye was turned toward the new-comers, who doffed their hats with the customary formal bows, when, to the great relief of Frank, one gentleman detached himself from the group and came to meet them.
“How are you, Mr Selby?” said Andrew loudly.
“The happier for seeing you keep your engagement,” said their friend the feeder of ducks, smiling. “Mr Gowan, I am delighted to find my prayer has not been vain. Let me introduce you to our friends here of the club. We look upon this as a home, where we are all perfectly at our ease; and we wish our visitors—our neophytes—to feel the same. Gentlemen, let me introduce my guest, Mr Frank Gowan. I think some of you have heard his father’s—Sir Robert Gowan’s—name.”
There was a warm murmur of assent, and to a man the party assembled pressed forward to bid the visitors welcome. So pleasantly warm was the reception given to him, and so genuine the efforts made to set him at his ease, that the lad’s feeling of diffidence and confusion soon began to pass away, and with it the feeling of uneasiness; for the boy felt that these gentlemen could not have been of the party engaged in the riot, and he had nearly persuaded himself that, as this was evidently a public tavern, quite another class of people had occupied the room on his previous visit to the place, only he could not make this explanation fit with Andrew’s excitement and desire to join in the fight.
But he had little time for thought. His bland and pleasant-spoken host took up too much of his attention, chatting fluently about the most matter-of-fact occurrences, political business being entirely excluded, and cleverly drawing the lads out in turn to talk about themselves and their aspirations, so ably, indeed, that before the agreeable little dinner served to these three at a table close to the window was half over, Frank found that he was relating some of his country life and school adventures to his host, and that the gentlemen at the tables on either side were listening.
The knowledge that he was being overheard acted as an extinguisher to the light of the boy’s oratory, and he stopped short.
“Well?” said his host, with a pleasant smile; while Andrew leaned back, apparently quite satisfied with the impression his companion was making. “Pray go on. You drew the great trout close to the river-bank. Don’t say you lost it after all.”
“Oh no, I caught it,” said Frank, colouring; “but I am talking too much.”
“My dear boy,” said Mr Selby, “believe me, your fresh, young experiences are delightful to us weary men of the town. Cannot you feel how they revive our recollections of our own boyish days? There, pray don’t think we are tired of anecdotes like this. Forbes here used to be fond of the country; but he has grown such a lover of town life and the court that he hardly mentions it now.”
He went on playfully bantering Andrew, till quite a little passage of give-and-take ensued, which made Frank think of what a strange mixture of clever, vain boy and thoughtful man his fellow-page seemed to be, while his own heart sank as he began to make comparisons, and he felt how thoroughly young he seemed to be amongst the clever men by whom he was surrounded.
But all the time his ears were active, and he listened for remarks that would endorse his suspicions of the principles of the members. Still, not a word reached him save such as strengthened Andrew’s assurance that Mr Selby was one of a party of clever men who liked to meet for social intercourse. The fight must have been with other people who occupied the room, he thought, and in all probability had nothing to do with this club at all.
The evening passed rapidly away, and before Frank realised that it was near the time when they ought to be back at Saint James’s Mr Selby turned to him.
“We are early birds here,” he said; “so pray excuse what I am about to say, and believe that I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, one which is the beginning, I feel, of a life friendship. Gentlemen,” he said, rising, “it is time to part till our next meeting. Hands round, please, and then adieu.”
He turned to Frank, and held out his hand with a smile.
“Our little parting ceremony,” he said.
The boy involuntarily held out his, ready to say good-bye; but it was clasped warmly by Selby in his left and retained, while Andrew with a quick, eager look took his other.
Frank stared, for the rest, who had increased by degrees to nearly forty, all joined hands till they had formed a ring facing inward.
What did it mean? For a moment the boy felt ready to snatch his hands away; but as he thought of so doing, he felt the clasp on either side grow firmer, and in a clear, low voice their host said:
“Across the water.”
“Across the water,” was echoed in a low, deep murmur by every one but Frank.
Then hand ceased to clasp hand, people began to leave, and Mr Selby went quickly to the other end of the room.
“All over,” said Andrew, in a quick whisper. “Now then off, or we shall get into trouble for being late.”
“Yes, let’s go,” said Frank, in a bewildered way; and he went downstairs with his companion, and out into the cool, pleasant night air of the street.
“We shall have to walk,” said Andrew, “so step out.”
Frank obeyed in silence, and nothing more was said till, without thinking of where they were, they saw Temple Bar before them.
“What did they mean by that?” said Frank suddenly.
“By what?”
“Joining hands together and saying ‘Across the water.’”
“Oh, nothing. A way of saying good-bye if you live in Surrey.”
“Don’t treat me as if I were a child,” cried Frank passionately. “I’m sure it meant more than that.”
“Well, suppose it does, what then?”
“What then? Why, you have been tricking and deceiving me. Just too as it seemed that we were going to be the best of friends.”
“Nonsense! We are the best of friends, tied more tightly than ever to stand by each other to the end.”
“Then there is something in all this?”
“Of course there is. You knew there was when we agreed to come.”
“I did not!” cried Frank indignantly; “or if I thought that there might be, I felt that it was only a little foolish enthusiasm on your part, and that Mr Selby was only a casual friend.”
“Oh no; he is one of my best friends.”
“Drew, I shall never forgive you. It was mean and cruel to take me there in ignorance of what these men were.”
“Very nice gentlemanly fellows, and you looked as if you enjoyed their society.”
“I see it all clearly enough now,” continued Frank excitedly, and without heeding; “they are Jacobites.”
“Not the only ones in London, if they are.”
“And ‘Across the water’ means that man—the Pretender.”
“Hush! Don’t call people names,” said Andrew, in a warning whisper. “You never know who is next you in the street.”
“I don’t care who hears me. It is the truth.”
“Don’t you be peppery now. Why, you were all amiability till we came away.”
“Because I could not think that there was anything in it. I could not believe you would play me such a trick.”
“All things are fair in love and war,” said Andrew.
“It is a base piece of deception, and I’ll never trust you again.”
“Oh yes, you will, always. You’ll like them more and more every time you go.”
“I go there again? Never!”
“Oh yes, you will, often, because we all like you, and you are just the boy to grow into the man we want. I had no sooner mentioned your name to Mr Selby than he said, ‘Yes, he must join us, of course.’”
“Join you? Why, you are a band of conspirators.”
“Silence, I tell you! That man in front heard you and turned his head.”
“I don’t care.”
“Then I must make you. Look here, Frank, whatever we are, you are the same.”
“I!” cried the boy in horror.
“Of course. This is twice you have come to our club, and there is not a man there to-night who does not look upon you as our new brother.”
“Then they must be undeceived.”
“Impossible! You have joined hands with us, and breathed our prayer for him across the water.”
“I did not; I never opened my lips.”
“You seemed to; anyhow, you clasped hands with us, and that is enough.”
“I refuse to have any dealings with your club, and for your sake as well as mine I shall acquaint my father with everything that has taken place.”
“That would not matter,” said Andrew coolly. “But you will not. I introduced you to Mr Selby, who had come on purpose to see you.”
“Then that feeding ducks was a design?”
“Of course it was; the spies and the guard might interfere with a stranger hanging about at the water-side, but they can have nothing to say to a man feeding the ducks.”
“Oh, what base treachery and deception! But I will not be tricked like this. It was the act of a traitor.”
“It was the act of a friend to save you in the troubles that are to come.”
“I don’t care what you say. I will clear myself from even a suspicion of being an enemy of the King.”
“You are a friend of the King,” said Andrew, tightening his hold of his companion’s arm; “and you cannot draw back now.”
“I can, and will. Why can I not? Who is to prevent me?”
“Every man you saw there to-night—every man of the thousand who was not there. Frank boy, ours is a great and just cause, and the sentence on the man who has joined us and then turns traitor—”
“I have not joined.”
“You have, and I am your voucher. You are one of us now.”
“And if I go back, what then?” cried Frank contemptuously.
“The sentence is death.”
“Bah! nonsense! But let me tell you this, that the sentence really is death for him who, being the King’s servant, turns traitor. Who stands worse to-night, you or I?—Oh!” ejaculated the boy quickly, and with a sharp ring of horror in his tones; “look there!”
The moon was shining brightly now, full upon the grim-looking old city gateway, and Frank Gowan stood where he had stopped short, as if paralysed by the sight before him.
“Yes, I know,” said Andrew coolly, as he looked up; “I have seen them before. Traitors’ heads.”