Chapter Fourteen.
Frank’s Dreadful Dawn.
Frank Gowan lay awake for hours that night with his brain in a wild state of excitement. The scene at the dinner, the angry face of his father as he stood defying the baron’s friends after striking the German down, the colonel’s stern interference, and his orders for Sir Robert to go to his quarters—all troubled him in turn; then there was the idea of his father being under arrest, and the possibility of his receiving some punishment, all repeating themselves in a way which drove back every prospect of sleep, weary as the lad was; while worst of all, there was Andrew Forbes’s remark about an encounter to come, and the possible results.
It was too horrible. Suppose Sir Robert should be killed by the fierce-looking baron! Frank turned cold, and the perspiration came in drops upon his temples as he thought of his mother. He sat up in bed, feeling that he ought to go to his father and beg of him to escape anywhere so as to avoid such a terrible fate. But the next minute his thoughts came in a less confusing way, and he knew that he could not at that late hour get to his father’s side, and that even if he could his ideas were childish. His father would smile at him, and tell him that they were impossible—that no man of honour could fly so as to avoid facing his difficulties, for it would be a contemptible, cowardly act, impossible for him to commit.
“I know—I know,” groaned the boy, as he flung himself down once more. “I couldn’t have run away to escape from a fight at school. It would have been impossible. Why didn’t I learn German instead of idling about as I have! If I had I should have known what the baron said. What could it have been?”
The hours crept sluggishly by, and sleep still avoided him. Not that he wished to sleep, for he wanted to think; and he thought too much, lying gazing at his window till there was a very faint suggestion of the coming day; when, leaving his bed, he drew the curtain a little on one side, to see that the stars were growing paler, and low down in the east a soft, pearly greyness in the sky just over the black-looking trees of the Park.
It was cold at that early hour, and he shivered and crept back to bed, thinking that his mother in the apartments of the ladies of honour was no doubt sleeping peacefully, in utter ignorance of the terrible time of trouble to come; and then once more he lay down to think, as others have in their time, how weak and helpless he was in his desires to avert the impending calamity.
“No wonder I can’t sleep,” he muttered; and the next moment he slept. For nature is inexorable when the human frame needs rest, or men would not sleep peacefully in the full knowledge that it must be their last repose on earth.
Five minutes after, his door was softly opened, a figure glided through the gloom to his bedside, and bent over him, like a dimly seen shadow, to catch him by the shoulder.
“Frank! Frank! Here, quick! Wake up!”
The lad sprang back into wakefulness as suddenly as if a trigger had been touched, and all the drowsiness with which he was now charged had been let off.
“Yes; what’s the matter? Who’s there?”
“Hush! Don’t make a noise. Jump up, and dress.”
“Drew?”
“Yes. Be quick!”
“But what’s the matter?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and dressed, and opened my window to stand looking out at the stars, till just now I heard a door across the courtyard open, and three men in cloaks came out.”
“Officers’ patrol—going to visit the sentries.”
“No; your father, Captain Murray, and some one else. I think it was the doctor; he is short and stout.”
“Then father’s going to escape,” said Frank, in an excited whisper.
“Escape! Bah!” replied Andrew, in a tone full of disgust. “How could he as a gentleman? Can’t you see what it means? They’re going to a meeting.”
“A meeting?” faltered Frank.
“Oh, how dull you are! Yes, a meeting; they’re going to fight!”
Frank, who had leisurely obeyed his companion’s command to get up and dress, now began to hurry his clothes on rapidly, while Andrew went on:
“I don’t know how they’ve managed it, because your father was under arrest; but I suppose the officers felt that there must be a meeting, and they have quietly arranged it with the Germans. Of course it’s all on the sly. Make haste.”
“Yes. I shan’t be a minute. You have warned the guard of course?”
“Done what?” said Andrew.
“Given the alarm,” panted Frank.
“I say, are you mad, or are you still asleep? What do you mean?”
“Mad! asleep! Do you think I don’t know what I’m saying?”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“Do you think I want my father to be killed?”
“Do you think your father wants to be branded as a coward? Don’t be such a foolish schoolboy. You are among men now. I wish I hadn’t come and woke you. They’ll be getting it over too before I’m there.”
He made a movement toward the door, but Frank seized him by the arm.
“No, no; don’t go without me,” he whispered imploringly.
“Why not? You’d better go to bed again. You’re just like a great girl.”
“I must go with you, Drew. I’m afraid I didn’t hardly know what I was saying; but it seems so cold-blooded to know that one’s own father is going to a fight that may mean death, and not interfere to stop it.”
“Interfere to stop it—may mean death! I hope it does to some one,” whispered Andrew fiercely. “There, let go; I can’t stop any longer.”
“You’re not going without me. There, I’m ready now.”
“But I can’t take you to try and interfere. I thought you’d like me to tell you.”
“Yes, I do. I must come, and—and I won’t say or do anything that isn’t right.”
“I can’t trust you,” said Andrew hastily. “It was a mistake to come and tell you. There, let go.”
“You are not going without me!” cried Frank, fiercely now; and he grasped his companion’s arm so firmly that the lad winced.
“Come on, then,” he said; and, with his breath coming thick and short, Frank followed his companion downstairs and out of the door of the old house in the Palace precincts, into the long, low colonnade.
They closed the door softly, and ran together across the courtyard in the dim light, but were challenged directly after by a sentry.
“Hush! Don’t stop us,” whispered Andrew. “You know who we are—two of the royal pages.”
“Can’t pass,” said the man sternly.
“But we must,” said Frank, in an agonised whisper. “Here, take this.”
“Can’t pass,” said the man; “’gainst orders. You must come to the guardroom.”
But he took the coin Frank handed to him, and slipped it into his pocket.
“We want to go to the meeting—the fight,” whispered Andrew now. “We won’t own that you let us go by.”
“Swear it,” said the man.
“Yes, of course. Honour of gentlemen.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the man.
“Yes, you do. Which way did they go when they passed the gate?”
“Couldn’t see,” said the man; “too dark. I thought it was one of them games. My mate yonder’ll know, only he won’t let you go by without the password.”
“Oh yes, he will,” said Andrew excitedly. “Come on.”
“Mind, I never see you go by,” said the man.
“Of course you didn’t,” said Andrew; “and I can’t see you; it’s too dark yet.”
They set off running, and the next minute were at the gate opening on to the Park, where another sentry challenged them.
“I’m Mr Frank Gowan, Captain Sir Robert Gowan’s son, and this is Mr Andrew Forbes, Prince’s page.”
“Yes, I know you, young gentlemen; but where’s the password?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Andrew impatiently. “Don’t stop us, or they’ll get it over before we’re there. Look here; come to our rooms any time to-day, and ask for us. We’ll give you a guinea to let us go.”
“I dursn’t,” said the man, in a whisper.
“Which way did they go?” said Frank, trembling now with anxiety.
“Strite acrost under the trees there. They’ve gone to the bit of a wood down by the water.”
“Yes; that’s a retired spot,” panted Andrew. “Here, let’s go on.”
“Can’t, sir, and I darn’t. It’s a jewel, aren’t it?”
“Yes, a duel.”
“Well, I’m not going to be flogged or shot for the sake of a guinea, young gentlemen, and I won’t. But if you two makes a roosh by while I go into my sentry-box, it aren’t no fault o’ mine.”
He turned from them, marched to his little upright box, and entered it, while before he could turn the two lads were dashing through the gate, and directly after were beneath the trees.
It was rapidly growing lighter now; but the boys saw nothing of the lovely pearly dawn and the soft wreaths of mist which floated over the water. The birds were beginning to chirp and whistle, and as they ran on blackbird after blackbird started from the low shrubs, uttering the chinking alarm note, and flew onward like a velvet streak on the soft morning glow.
In a minute or so they had reached the water-side, and stopped to listen; but they could hear nothing but the gabbling and quacking of the water-fowl.
“Too late—too late!” groaned Frank. “Which way shall we go?”
“Left,” said Andrew shortly. “Sure to go farther away.”
They started again, running now on the grass, and as they went on step for step:
“Mayn’t have begun yet,” panted Andrew. “Sure to take time preparing first.—There, hark!”
For from beneath a clump of trees, a couple of hundred yards in front, there was an indistinct sound which might have meant anything. This the boys attributed to the grinding together of swords, and hurried on.
Before they had gone twenty yards, though, it stopped; and as all remained silent after they had gone on a short distance farther, the pair stopped, too, and listened.
“Going wrong,” said Frank despairingly.
“No. Right,” whispered Andrew, grasping his companion’s arm; for a low voice in amongst the trees gave what sounded like an order, and directly after there was a sharp click as of steel striking against steel, followed by a grating, grinding sound, as of blade passing over blade.
Frank made a rush forward over the wet grass, disengaging his arm as he did so; but Andrew bounded after him, and flung his arms about his shoulders.
“Stop!” he whispered. “You’re not going on if you are going to interfere.”
“Let go!” said Frank, in a choking voice. “I’m not going to interfere. I am going to try and act like a man.”
“Honour?”
“Honour!” and once more they ran on, to reach the trees and thread their way through to where a couple of groups of gentlemen stood in a grassy opening, looking on while two others, stripped to shirt and breeches, were at thrust and parry, as if the world must be rid of one of them before they had done.
As Frank saw that one was his father—slight, well-knit, and agile—and the other—heavy, massively built, and powerful—the Baron Steinberg, the desire was strong to rush between them; but the power was wanting, and he stood as if fixed to the spot, staring with starting eyes at the rapid exchanges made, for each was a good swordsman, well skilled in attack and defence, while the blades, as they grated edge to edge and played here and there, flashed in the morning light; and as if in utter mockery of the scene, a bird uttered its sweet song to the coming day.
There were moments when, as the German’s blade flashed dangerously near Sir Robert’s breast, Frank longed to close his eyes, but they were fixed, and with shuddering emotion he followed every movement, feeling a pang as a deadly thrust was delivered, drawing breath again as he saw it parried.
For quite a minute the baron kept up a fierce attack in this, the second encounter since they had begun, but every thrust was turned aside, and at last, as if by one consent, the combatants drew back a step or two with their breasts heaving, and, without taking their eyes off each other, stood carefully re-rolling up their shirt sleeves over their white muscular arms.
And now a low whispering went on among the officers, German and English, who were present, and Andrew said softly in Frank’s ear:
“Don’t move—don’t make a sign. It might unsettle Sir Robert if he knew you were here.”
Frank felt that this was true, and with his heart beating as if it would break from his chest he stood watching his father, noting that his breathing was growing more easy, and that he was, though his face was wet with perspiration, less exhausted than his adversary, whose face appeared drawn with hate and rage as he glared at the English captain.
Suddenly Captain Murray broke the silence by saying aloud to the German officers:
“We are of opinion, gentlemen, that only one more encounter, the third, should take place. This should decide.”
“Tell them not to interfere,” said Steinberg fiercely, but without taking his eyes off his adversary. Then in French, with a very peculiar accent, he cried, “En garde!” and stepped forward to cross swords with Sir Robert once more.
The latter advanced at the same moment, and the blades clicked and grated slightly, as their holders stood motionless, ready to attack or defend as the case might be.
For nearly half a minute they stood motionless, eye fixed on eye, each ready to bring to bear his utmost skill, for, from the first the German had fought with a vindictive rage which plainly showed that he was determined to disable, if he did not slay, his adversary; while, enraged as he had been, there was, after some hours of sleep, no such desire on the part of Sir Robert. He desired to wound his enemy, but that was all; and as he at the first engagement realised the German’s intentions, he fought cautiously, confining himself principally to defence, save when he was driven, for his own safety, to retaliate.
The seconds and those who had come as friends, at the expense of a breach of discipline and the consequences which might follow, had grasped this from the first; and though he had great faith in his friend’s skill, Captain Murray had been longing for an opportunity to interfere and end the encounter. None had presented itself, and the German officers had so coldly refused to listen to any attempt at mediation that there was nothing for it but to let matters take their course.
And now, as the adversaries stood motionless with their blades crossed, Sir Robert’s friends felt to a man, as skilled fencers, that the time had arrived for him to take the initiative, press his adversary home, and end the duel by wounding him.
But Sir Robert still stood on his guard, the feeling in his breast being—in spite of the terrible provocation he had received—that he had done wrong in striking his colonel’s guest, and he kept cool and clear-headed, resolved not to attack.
Then, all at once, by an almost imperceptible movement of the wrist, the baron made his sword blade play about his enemy’s, laying himself open to attack, to tempt his adversary to begin.
Twice over he placed himself at so great a disadvantage that it would have been easy for Sir Robert to have delivered dangerous thrusts; but the opportunities were declined, for the English captain’s mind was made up, and Frank heard an impatient word from Murray’s lips, while Andrew uttered a loud sigh.
Then, quick as lightning, the baron resumed his old tactics, sending in thrust after thrust with all the skill he could command. His blade quivered and bent, and seemed to lick that of Sir Robert like a lambent tongue of fire; and Frank felt ready to choke, as he, with Andrew, unable to control their excitement, crept nearer and nearer to the actors in the terrible life drama, till they were close behind Captain Murray and the other English officers, hearing their hard breathing and the short, sharp gasps they uttered as some fierce thrust was made which seemed to have gone home.
But no: giving way very slightly, in spite of the fashion in which he was pressed by the German, Sir Robert turned every thrust aside; and had he taken advantage of his opportunities, he could have again and again laid the baron at his feet, but not in the way he wished, for his desire now was to inflict such a wound as would merely place his enemy hors de combat.
A murmur now arose amongst the Englishmen, for the affair was becoming murderous on one side. But the German officers looked on stolidly, each with his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, as if ready to resent any interference with the principals in a deadly way.
There was no hope of combination there to end the encounter, and once more Captain Murray and his friends waited for Sir Robert to terminate the fight, as they now felt that he could at any time.
For, enraged by the way in which he was being baffled by the superior skill of his adversary, the baron’s attack was growing wild as well as fierce; and, savagely determined to end all by a furious onslaught, he made a series of quick feints, letting his point play about Sir Robert’s breast, and then, quick as lightning, lunged with such terrible force that Frank uttered a faint cry. His father heard it, and though he parried that thrust, it was so nervously that he was partly off his guard with that which followed, the result being that a red line suddenly sprang into sight from just above his wrist, nearly to his elbow, and from which the blood began to flow.
A cry of “Halt!” came from Captain Murray and his friends, and this was answered by a guttural roar from the baron, while, as the former, as second, stepped forward to beat down the adversaries’ swords, the German officers at once drew their weapons, not to support the baron’s second, but as a menace.
It was all almost momentary, and while it went on the baron, inspired by the sight of the blood, pressed forward, thrusting rapidly, feeling that the day was his own.
But that strong British arm, though wounded, grasped the hilt of Sir Robert’s blade as rigidly as if it were of the same metal; and as the baron lunged for what he intended for his final thrust, he thoroughly achieved his object, but not exactly as he meant. His sword point was within an inch of Sir Robert’s side, when a quick beat in octave sent it spinning from his hand, while at the same instant, and before the flying sword had reached the ground, Sir Robert’s blade had passed completely through his adversary’s body.
The German officers rushed forward, not to assist their fallen leader, but, sword in hand, evidently to avenge his fall, so taking the Englishmen by surprise that, save Sir Robert’s second, neither had time to draw.
It would have gone hard with them, but, to the surprise of all, there was a short, sharp order, and an officer and a dozen of the Guards dashed out of the clump of trees which sheltered the duellists, to arrest the whole party for brawling within the Palace precincts.
Chapter Fifteen.
The Conqueror.
The German party blustered, but the officer in command of the Guards had no hesitation in forcing them to submit. They threatened, but the fixed bayonets presented at their breasts, and the disposition shown by the sturdy Englishmen who bore them to use them on the instant that an order was given, ended in a surrender.
As the baron fell, the feeling of horror which attacked Frank passed away, and, handkerchief in hand, he sprang to his father’s side, binding it tightly round the wound, and following it up by the application of a scarf from his neck.
“Ah, Frank lad,” said Sir Robert, as if it were quite a matter of course that his son should help him; and he held up his arm, so that the wound could be bound while he spoke to Captain Murray.
“It was an accident,” he said excitedly. “I swear that I was only on my defence.”
“We saw,” said the captain quietly. “He regularly forced himself on your blade.”
“How is he, doctor?” said Sir Robert excitedly.
“Bad,” replied the surgeon, who was kneeling beside the fallen man, while his disarmed companions looked fiercely on.
“Don’t worry yourself about it, Gowan,” said one of Sir Robert’s brother-officers; “the brute fought like a savage, and tried his best to kill you.”
“I’d have given ten years of my life sooner than it should have happened.—That will do, boy.”
“Bad job, Gowan,” said the officer who had arrested them. “The colonel was very wild as soon as he knew that you had broken arrest and come to this meeting, and it will go hard with you, Murray, and you others.”
“Oh, we were spectators like the boys here,” said one of the officers.
“Yes, it’s a bad job,” said Captain Murray; “but a man must stand by his friend. Never mind, Gowan, old fellow; if they cashier us, we must offer our swords elsewhere. I say,” he continued, turning to the captain of the guard, “you are not going to arrest these boys?”
“The two pages? No; absurd. They found out that there was an affair on, and came to see. Got over the wall, I suppose. I should have done the same. I can’t see them. Now, doctor, as soon as you say the word, my men shall carry our German friend on their muskets. How is he?”
“As I said before—bad,” replied the surgeon sternly. “Better send two men for a litter. He must be taken carefully.”
“Then I’ll leave two men with you while I take my prisoners to the guard-house. Fall in, gentlemen, please. You boys get back to your quarters. Now, messieurs—meinherrs, I mean—you are my prisoners. Vorwarts! March!”
“Aren’t you faint, father?” whispered Frank, who took Sir Robert’s uninjured arm.
“Only sick, boy—heartsick more than anything. Frank, your mother must know, and if she waits she will get a garbled account. Go to her as soon as you get to the Palace, and tell her everything—the simple truth. I am not hurt much—only a flesh wound, which will soon heal.”
“And if she asks me why you fought, father,” whispered Frank, “what am I to say?”
Sir Robert frowned heavily, and turned sharply to gaze in his son’s eyes.
“Frank boy,” he said, “you are beginning trouble early; but you must try and think and act like a man. When I go, your place is at your mother’s side.”
“When you go, father?”
“Yes, I shall have to go, boy. Tell her I fought as a man should for the honour of those I love. Now say no more; I am a bit faint, and I want to think.”
The strange procession moved in toward the gates, the German officers talking angrily together, and paying little heed to their fellow-prisoners, save that one of them darted a malignant glance at Sir Robert Gowan, which made Andrew turn upon him sharply with an angry scowl, looking the officer up and down so fiercely that he moved menacingly toward the lad; but the Guardsman at his side raised his arm and stepped between them.
Just then the boys’ eyes met, and Frank, who was still supporting his father, gave his friend a grateful look.
When the guard-house was reached, it was just sunrise, upon as lovely a morning as ever broke; and it contrasted strangely with the aspect of the men who had been out for so sinister a design.
Frank felt something of the kind as the door was opened to admit his father, one accustomed to command, and now ready to enter as a prisoner; but he had very little time then for private thought, for the colonel suddenly appeared, and without a glance at Sir Robert said sharply:
“Well?”
“Too late to stop it, sir,” reported the officer in command. “Captain Sir Robert Gowan wounded in the arm.”
“Baron Steinberg?”
“The doctor is with him, sir. A litter is to be sent at once.”
“But—surely not—”
“No, not dead, sir; but run through the body.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the colonel; and he turned now to Sir Robert with words of reproach on his lips, but the fixed look of pain and despair upon his officer’s features disarmed him, and he signed to the prisoner to enter.
“What shall I do now, father?” said Frank. “Let me fetch another doctor.”
“Nonsense, boy. Only a flesh wound. Go back to the Park at once; I want to hear what news there is.”
“Of the baron, father?”
“Yes; make haste. I must know how he is.”
Frank gave a quick, short nod, pressed his father’s hand, and hurried out, to find Andrew, whom he had forgotten for the moment, walking up and down in front of a knot of soldiers, looking as fretful as a trapped wolf in a cage.
“They wouldn’t let me come in,” he said impatiently.
“I only got in because I was supporting my father,” said Frank quickly. “Come along; I’m going to see how the baron is. Has the litter gone?”
“No; there are the men coming with it now.”
The two lads set off running, Andrew’s ill-humour passing off in action, and he chatted quite cheerily as they made for the Park.
“Your father was splendid, Frank!” he cried. “I was proud of him. What a lesson for those haughty sausage-eaters!”
“But it is a terrible business, Drew.”
“Stuff! only an affair of honour. Of course it may be serious for your father if the baron dies: but he won’t die. Some of his hot blood let out. Do him good, and let all these Hanoverians see what stuff the English have in them. Don’t you fidget. Why, every one in the Guards will be delighted. I know I am. Wouldn’t have missed that fight for anything.”
“You don’t ask how my father’s wound is.”
“No, and he would not want me to. Nasty, shallow cut, that’s all. Here we are.”
They trotted into the opening where the greensward was all trampled and stamped by the combatants’ feet, and found the doctor kneeling by his patient just as they had left him, and the two Grenadiers with grounded arms standing with their hands resting on the muzzles of their pieces.
“Hallo! young men,” cried the doctor, rising and stepping to them. “Is that litter going to be all day?”
“They’re bringing it, sir,” said Frank; “we ran on first. How is he now?”
Frank looked at the white face before him with its contracted features and ghastly aspect about the pinched-in lips.
“About as bad as he can be, my lad. A man can’t have a sharp piece of steel run through his chest without feeling a bit uncomfortable. Lesson for you, my boys. You see what duelling really is. You’ll neither of you quarrel and go out after this.”
“Why not?” said Andrew sharply. “I should, and so would Frank Gowan, if we were insulted by a foreigner.”
“Bah!” cried the doctor testily. “Nice language for a boy like you.”
“Please tell me, sir,” said Frank anxiously. “Will he get better?”
“Why do you want to know, you young dog?” said the doctor, turning upon him sharply. “No business here at all, either of you.”
“My father is so anxious to know. I want to run back and tell him.”
“Oh, that’s it!” said the doctor gruffly. “No business to have broken out to fight; but I suppose I must tell him. Go back and say that the baron has got a hole in his chest and another in his back, and his life is trying to slip out of one of them; but I’ve got them stopped, and that before his life managed to pop out. Lucky for him that I was here; and I’m very glad, tell your father, that it has turned out as it has, for I stood all through the ugly business, expecting every moment that he would go down wounded to the death.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” said Frank hurriedly.
“Don’t rush off like that, boy. How should you like to be a surgeon?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“And quite right,” said the doctor, taking out his box, and helping himself to a liberal pinch of snuff. “Nice job for a man like me to have to do all I can to save the life of a savage who did all he could to murder one of my greatest friends. There, run back and tell him to make his mind easy about my lord here. I won’t let him die, and as soon as I can I’ll come and see to his arm.”
The boys ran off again, passing the litter directly; but when they reached the guard-house, the sentry refused to let them pass, and summoned another of the Guards, who took in a message to the captain who made the arrest.
He came to the door directly, and learned what they wanted.
“I can’t admit you,” he said. “The colonel’s orders have been very strict. I’ll go and set your father’s mind at rest, for of course he’ll be glad that he did not kill his adversary.”
The captain nodded in a friendly way, and went back.
“He can’t help himself, Frank,” said Andrew. “Don’t mind about it. And there won’t be any punishment. The King and the Prince will storm and shout a bit in Dutch, and then it will all blow over. Your father’s too great a favourite with the troops for there to be any bother, and the bigwigs know how pleased every one will be that the Dutchman got the worst of it. I say, look; it’s only half-past five now!”
“What: not later than that!” cried Frank in astonishment, for he would have been less surprised if he had heard that it was midday.
“Here they come,” whispered Andrew; and, turning quickly, Frank saw the soldiers bearing in the wounded baron, with the doctor by his side, and they waited till they saw the litter borne in to the guardroom, and the door was shut.
“I say, who would have thought of this when we were going over to the messroom yesterday evening? What shall we do now—go back to bed?”
“To bed!” said Frank reproachfully. “No. I have the worst to come.”
“What, are you going to challenge one of the Germans? I’ll second you.”
“Don’t be so flippant. There, good-bye for the present.”
“Good-bye be hanged! You’re in trouble, and I’m going to stick to you like a man.”
“Yes, I know you will, Drew; but let me go alone now.”
“What for? Where are you going? You’re not going to be so stupid as to begin petitioning, and all that sort of nonsense, to get your father off?”
“No,” said Frank, with his lower lip quivering; “he’ll fight his own battle. I’ve got a message from him for my mother, and I have to break the news to her.”
Andrew Forbes uttered a low, soft whistle, and nodded his head.
“Before she gets some muddled story, not half true. I say, tell her not to be frightened and upset. Sir Robert shan’t come to harm. Why, we could raise all London if they were to be queer to him. But take my word for it, they won’t be.”
Frank hardly heard his last words, for they were now in the calm, retired quadrangle of the Palace, one side of which was devoted to the apartments of the ladies in attendance upon the Queen and Princess, and the lad went straight to the door leading to his mother’s rooms, and rang.
Chapter Sixteen.
Frank has a Painful Task.
For the moment Frank Gowan forgot that it was only half-past five, and after waiting a reasonable time he rang again.
But all was still in the court, which lay in the shade, while the great red-brick clock tower was beginning to glow in the sunshine. There were some pigeons on one of the roofs preening their plumes, and a few sparrows chirping here and there, while every window visible from where the boy stood was whitened by the drawn-down blinds.
He rang again and waited, but all was as silent as if the place were uninhabited, and the whistling of wings as half a dozen pigeons suddenly flew down to begin stalking about as if in search of food sounded startling.
“Too soon,” thought Frank; and going a little way along, he seated himself upon a dumpy stone post, to wait patiently till such time as the Palace servants were astir.
And there in the silence his thoughts went back to his adventures that morning, and the scene, which seemed to have been enacted days and days ago, came vividly before his eyes, while he thrilled once more with the feeling of mingled horror and excitement, as he seemed to stand again close behind Captain Murray, expecting moment by moment to see his father succumb to the German’s savage attack.
There it all was, as clear as if it were still going on, right to the moment when the baron missed his desperate thrust and literally fell upon his adversary’s point.
“It was horrid, horrid, horrid,” muttered the lad with a shiver; and he tried to divert his mind by thinking of how he should relate just a sufficiency of the encounter to his mother, and no more.
“Yes,” he said to himself. “I’ll just tell her that they fought, that father was scratched by the baron’s sword, and then the baron was badly wounded in return.
“That will do,” he said, feeling perfectly satisfied; “I’ll tell her just in this way.”
But as he came to this determination, doubt began to creep in and ask him whether he could relate the trouble so coolly and easily when his mother’s clear eyes were watching him closely and searching for every scrap of truth; and then he began to think it possible that he might fail, and stand before her feeling guilty of keeping a great deal back.
“I know I shall grow confused, and that she will not believe that poor father’s arm was only scratched, and she’ll think at once that it is a serious wound, and that the baron is dead.”
He turned so hot at this that he rose quickly, and walked along all four sides of the quadrangle to cool himself before going to the door once more and giving a sharp ring.
“Are the servants going to lie in bed all day?” he said peevishly. “They ought to be down before this.”
But the ring meeting with no response, he sat down again to try and think out what the consequences of the events of the morning would be. Here, however, he found himself confronted by a thick, black veil, which shut out the future. It was easy enough to read the past, but to imagine what was to come was beyond him.
At last, when quite an hour had passed, he grew impatient, and rang sharply this time, to hear a window opened somewhere at the top of the house; and when he looked up, it was to see a head thrust forth and rapidly withdrawn.
Five minutes or so afterward he heard the shooting of bolts and the rattling down of a chain, the door was opened, and a pretty-looking maidservant, with sleep still in her eyes, confronted him ill-humouredly.
“How late you are!” cried Frank.
“No, sir; please, it’s you who are so early. We didn’t go to bed till past one.”
“Is Lady Gowan up yet?”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, no! Why—oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure, sir. I didn’t know you at first; it’s her ladyship’s son, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. I want to see her directly.”
“But you can’t, sir. She won’t be down this two hours.”
“Go and tell my mother I am here, and that I want to see her on important business.”
“Very well, sir; but I know I shall get into trouble for disturbing her,” said the maid ill-humouredly. “She was with the Princess till ever so late.”
The girl went upstairs, leaving Frank waiting in the narrow passage of the place, and at the end of a few minutes she returned.
“Her ladyship says, sir, you are to come into her little boudoir and wait; she’ll dress, and come down in a few minutes.”
Frank followed the maid to the little room, and stood waiting, for he could not sit down in his anxiety. He felt hot and cold, and as if he would have given anything to have hurried away, but there was nothing for it but to screw up his courage and face the matter.
“She’ll be half an hour yet,” he muttered, “and that will give me time to grow cool; then I can talk to her.”
He was wrong; for at the end of five minutes there was the rustling of garments, and Lady Gowan entered, in a loose morning gown, looking startled at being woke up by such a message.
“Why, Frank, my darling boy, what is it?” she cried, as the boy shrank from her eyes when she embraced him affectionately. “You are ill! No; in trouble! I can see it in your eyes. Look up at me, my boy, and be in nature what you are by name. You were right to come to me. There, sit down by my side, and let it be always so—boy or man, let me always be your confidante, and I will forgive you and advise you if I can.”
Frank was silent, but he clung to her, trembling.
“Speak to me, dear,” she said, drawing him to her and kissing his forehead; “it cannot be anything very dreadful—only some escapade.”
His lips parted, but no words would come, and he shivered at the thought of undeceiving her.
“Come, come, dear,” she whispered, “there is no one to hear you but I; and am I not your mother?”
“Yes, but—”
That was all. He could say no more.
“Frank, my boy, why do you hesitate?” she whispered, as she passed her soft, warm hand over his forehead, which was wet and cold. “Come, speak out like a brave lad. A boy of your age should be manly, and if he has done wrong own to it, and be ready to bear the reproof or punishment he has earned. Come, let me help you.”
“You help me?” he gasped.
“Yes, I think I can. You dined at the mess last night; your face is flushed and feverish, your head is hot, and your hands wet and cold. Phoebe tells me that in her sleep she heard you ringing at the bell soon after five. Is this so?”
“Yes,” he said with his eyes and a quick nod of the head.
“Hah! And am I right in saying that you have had scarcely any or no sleep during the night?”
He nodded again quickly, and felt as if it would be impossible to try and set his mother right.
“Hah! I am angry with you. I feel that I ought to be. There has been some escapade. Your father would have watched over you while he was there. It must have been afterwards—Andrew Forbes and some of the wild young officers. Yes, I see it now; and I never warned you against such a peril, though it is real enough, I fear.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” groaned the boy in agony.
“I knew it,” she said sternly; “they have led you away to some card- or dice-playing, and you have lost. Now you are fully awake to your folly.”
The boy made a brave effort to speak out, but still no words would come.
“Well,” said Lady Gowan, taking his hand to hold it firmly between her own.
But he was still silent.
“I am angry, and cruelly disappointed in you, Frank,” she said sternly. “But your repentance has been quick, and you have done what is right. There, I will forgive you, on your solemn promise that you will not again sin like this. I will give you the money to pay the miserable debt, and if I have not enough I will get it, even if I have to sell my diamonds.”
She looked at him as it expecting now a burst of repentant thanks; but he remained speechless, and a feeling of resentment against him rose in Lady Gowan’s breast, as she felt that this was not the return the boy should have made to her gentle reproof, her offer to free him from his difficulty, and her eyes flashed upon him angrily.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, “don’t look at me like that.”
“I must, Frank,” she said, loosing his hand, “you are not meeting me in this matter as you should.”
“No, no,” he cried, finding his tongue now, and catching her hands in his, as he sank on his knees before her. “Don’t shrink from me, though it does seem so cruel of me.”
“More cruel, my boy, than you think,” she said, as she resigned her hands to him lovingly once more. “Speak out to me, then. It is what I fear?”
“Oh no, no, mother darling,” he groaned. “I must speak now. It is far worse than that.”
“Worse!” she cried, with a startled look in her eyes. “Some quarrel?”
He bowed his head, partly in assent, partly to escape her piercing look.
“And you are no longer a schoolboy—you wear a sword. Oh, Frank, Frank! you—Andrew Forbes.”
He shook his head and bowed it down. Then he raised it firmly and proudly, and met his mother’s eyes gazing wildly at him now, as she tried to release her hands, but as he held them tightly, pressed them with her own against her throbbing breast.
“He told me to come to you as a man and break the news.”
“He—your father—told you—to break the news. Ah, I see it all. A quarrel—and they have fought—but he bade you come. Then he lives!”
“Yes, yes, mother dear. He is wounded, but very slightly in the arm.”
Lady Gowan uttered a low, piteous cry, and sank upon her knees beside her son, with her lips moving quickly for some moments, as he supported her where they knelt together.
“Wounded—dangerously?” she moaned.
“No, no; believe me, mother, slightly in his sword arm. He walked back with me.”
“To his quarters?”
“No. He was arrested.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Lady Gowan. “Arrested—why?”
Frank hastily explained.
“Oh the horror of these meetings! But this man, your father struck him? But why?”
Frank repeated his father’s message, and Lady Gowan looked bewildered.
“I cannot understand,” she said. “These German officers are favourites of the King, and the baron must have cruelly insulted your father, or he, who is so brave and strong and gentle, would never have done this. They are proud and overbearing, and I know treat our English officers with contempt. Yes, it must have been from that. When was it?”
“At daybreak.”
“Where?”
“Just yonder in the Park.”
“And your father took you?” said Lady Gowan, with a look of horror.
“No, no, mother; he did not know I was there till it was just over, and he told me how it was.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I was horrified and frightened when Drew came and told me. I could not keep away.”
“No,” she said softly, “of course not. I should have gone myself had I known. But your good, brave father wounded, and the man who insulted him escaped unhurt!”
“No, no, mother; he is—”
“Frank! Not dead?” she cried in horror, for the boy stopped.
“No, no; but very dangerously wounded. The soldiers carried him back on a litter, but the doctor says that he will live.”
Once more, while she knelt there, Lady Gowan’s lips moved as her eyes closed, and she bent down her head above her son’s shoulder.
At last she raised it, and said, firmly:
“We must be brave over this terrible misfortune, Frank dear. But tell me; do I know the worst?”
“Yes, yes, mother; I meant to keep a great deal back, and I can’t look in your eyes, and say anything that is not perfectly true.”
“And never will, my son,” she cried, with a wildly hysterical burst of tears, which she checked in a few moments. “There, your mother is very weak, you see, dear; but I am going to be strong now. Then that explains the sternness of the arrest. Let us look the matter in the face. Your father struck this German nobleman, the guest of the regiment. They fought this morning, and the cause of the trouble is badly hurt. The King and the Prince will be furious. They will look upon it as a mutinous attack upon one of their favourites. Yes, I must see the Princess at once. I will go to her chamber now; so leave me, my boy, and wait. I will write to you, and I must try and get a note to your father. There, go, my own brave boy, and be comforted. The trouble may not be so great after all, for we have a friend who loves us both—the Princess, and she will help me in my sore distress. There, go, my boy; she must have the news from me, as your father contrived that it should come to me. I can go to her chamber at any time, for she has told me again and again that she looks upon me as her dearest friend.”
The next minute Frank was crossing the quadrangle on his way back, feeling relieved of much of his burden; but before he reached the quarters occupied by the royal pages, Andrew Forbes stood before him.
“At last!” he said. “I’ve been waiting here ever since. How does she take it?”
“Bravely,” said Frank, with a proud look. “She has just gone in to tell the Princess.”
“And she will get Sir Robert out of the scrape if she can. But it won’t do, Frank,” said Andrew, shaking his head. “She’ll be very kind to your mother, but you may as well know the worst. She can’t; for his Majesty will have something to say about his baron. Your father might as well have hit the King himself.”
Chapter Seventeen.
The King’s Decree.
“Any fresh news?”
“No. Have you any?”
“Not much; but I’ve seen the doctor again this morning.”
“You told me yesterday that he said you were not to dare to come to him any more.”
“Yesterday! Why, that was four days ago.”
“Nonsense! That would have been before the duel.”
“I say, Frank, are you going out of your mind?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy wearily. “My head’s muddled with want of sleep.”
“Muddled? I should think it is. Why, it’s a week to-day since that glorious fight in the Park.”
“Glorious?”
“Yes. I wish our officers would challenge all the German officers, fight them, and wound them, and send them out of the country.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Talk about the doctor. He did tell you not to come any more.”
“Yes; he said he wouldn’t be bothered by a pack of boys.”
“Yes; he said the same to me every time I went.”
“Every time! Have you been there much?”
“About four times a day.”
“No wonder he was snappish to me, then.”
“I suppose it has been tiresome, and he has called me all sorts of names, and said I worried his life out; but he always ended by smiling and shaking hands.”
“You haven’t been this morning of course?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well?”
“He says father’s arm is going on well; but the baron is very bad.”
“Serve him right.”
“But I want him to get well.”
“Oh, he’ll get well some day. He’s such a big, thick fellow, that it’s a long wound from front to back, and takes time. Be a lesson to him. I say, how’s Lady Gowan?”
“Very miserable and low-spirited.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Andrew; and he glanced in a curious, furtive way at his companion. “I say, I thought the Princess was to speak to the King, and get your father pardoned.”
“She did speak to him, and the Prince has too.”
“Well?”
“We don’t know any more yet. I suppose my father is kept under arrest so as to punish him.”
“Yes,” said Andrew, with a strange hesitation, which took Frank’s attention.
“Why did you say ‘yes’ like that?” he cried, with his dull, listless manner passing off, and a keen, eager look in his eyes.
“Did I say ‘yes’ like that?”
“You know you did. What is it you are keeping back, Drew?”
“I say, don’t talk like that,” said Andrew petulantly. “I never saw such a fellow as you are. Here, only the other day you looked up to me in everything, and I tried to teach you how to behave like a young man of the world in courtly society.”
“Yes, you did, and I am greatly obliged; but—”
“Seems like it,” said Andrew sharply. “Then all at once you set up your hackles, and show fight like a young cockerel, and begin bouncing over me—I mean trying to; and it won’t do, young Gowan. I’m your senior.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Frank angrily; “but this is all talk, just for the sake of saying something to put me off. Now speak out; what is it you’re keeping back?”
“There you go again, bully Gowan! Here, I say, you know I’m not going to stand this. You keep your place.”
“Don’t, don’t, Drew, when I’m in such trouble!” cried Frank appealingly.
“Ah! that’s better. Now you’ve dropped into your place again, boy.”
“You have something fresh—some great trouble—and you are hiding it from me.”
“Well, how can I help it?” said Andrew. “You’re bad enough as it is, and I don’t want to make matters worse.”
“But that’s what you are doing. Why don’t you speak?”
“Because you’ll go and tell dear Lady Gowan, and it will half kill her.”
“What!” cried Frank, springing at his companion, and catching him by the shoulder.
“And I look upon her as if she was my mother as well as yours, and I’d cut off my hand sooner than hurt her feelings more.”
“I knew there was something fresh,” cried Frank excitedly; “and, whatever it is, I must tell her, Drew. I promised her that I’d be quite open, and keep nothing from her.”
“There, I knew I was right. How can I help keeping it back? And don’t, Frank lad. I say, how strong you are. You’re ragging my collar about. I shan’t be fit to be seen.”
“Then why don’t you speak? It’s cruel, horrible,” cried Frank hoarsely.
“Because it comes so hard, old lad. I feel just as you told me you felt when you had to go and tell Lady Gowan that morning.”
“Yes, yes, I know; but do—do speak! You’ve tortured me enough.”
“I’ve just seen Captain Murray.”
“Ah!”
“He was coming out of the colonel’s quarters.”
“Well? Be quick—oh, do be quick!”
“I ran to him, and he took me into his room and told me.”
“Yes—told you—what?”
“He said he was very sorry for you and Lady Gowan, but the King was as hard as a rock. The Prince had been at him, and the Princess too; but he would hardly listen to them, and the most he would do was— It seems that Steinberg is a very old favourite.”
“Oh, I knew all that long ago! Why do you break off in that tantalising way?”
“There is to be no regular court-martial, such as was to have been as soon as the doctor said Sir Robert could bear it.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Oh, it’s no, no, Frank. He’s to be dismissed from his regiment.”
“I was afraid so,” cried Frank. “But to exchange into another. What regiment is he to go in?”
Andrew was silent.
“Well, go on! Why don’t you speak?” cried Frank wildly. “I asked you what regiment he was to go in.”
“No regiment at all. He’s dismissed from the King’s service, and he is to leave the country. If he comes back, he is to be severely punished.”
“Oh, they could not punish him more severely,” cried Frank, with an angry stamp of the foot.
“Yes, they could. His Majesty”—Andrew Forbes said the two last words with bitter irony in his tones—“might order his execution.”
“Then we are all to go away,” said Frank, frowning.
“I don’t know about that,” replied Andrew. “But it’s a good thing for your father.”
“What! A good thing?”
“Yes; to get out of the service of such a miserable usurper. If it were not for the terrible upset to Lady Gowan, I should be ready to congratulate her.”
“That will do,” said Frank sharply. “Don’t get introducing your principles here.”
“Our principles,” whispered Andrew, with a meaning look.
“Your principles,” continued Frank, with emphasis. “I’m in no temper for that, and I don’t want to quarrel. I must go and tell her as soon as I’m off duty. She’ll be ready to hate the sight of me for always bringing her bad news.”
But before the boy was relieved from his daily duties in the anteroom, a note was brought to him from Lady Gowan confirming Andrew’s words. In fact, Frank’s mother had known the worst over-night. But there was other news in the letter which told the lad that his father was to leave London that evening, that he was to accompany his mother to see him for a farewell interview, and that she wished him to be ready to go with her at seven o’clock.
Frank read the letter twice, and felt puzzled. He read it again, and sought out his friend.
“Been to see Lady Gowan?” Andrew asked.
“No; read this.”
The lad took the letter, shrugged his shoulders as he read it, and handed it back.
“That’s plain enough,” he said bitterly.
“Do you think so? I don’t. I can’t make out the end.”
“You are to call for Lady Gowan, and take her to Sir Robert’s quarters.”
“No, no, I mean about a farewell visit.”
“Well, isn’t that plain?”
“But we shall go too.”
“I don’t think so. Your mother is the Princess’s friend, and she does not wish to lose her. You will both have to stay.”
“Impossible!” cried Frank excitedly.
“Well, we shall see,” said Andrew meaningly.
That evening Frank took his mother, closely veiled, to Sir Robert’s quarters, where he had been ever since the duel, with a sentry beneath his window, another stationed at his door.
The pass Lady Gowan bore admitted them at once, and the next minute they were in Sir Robert’s room, to find him looking pale and stern, busily finishing with his servant the preparations for an immediate start.
The man was dismissed, and father, mother, and son were alone.
Lady Gowan was the first to speak.
“You know the orders that have been given, Robert?” she said.
“Yes; I travel with a strong escort to Harwich, where I am to take ship and cross.”
“Of course we are going with you, Robert,” said Lady Gowan.
Sir Robert was silent for a few moments, and Frank stood watching him anxiously, eager to hear his reply.
“No,” he said at last. “I am driven out of the country, and it would not be right to take you with me now.”
“Robert!” cried Lady Gowan.
“Hush!” he said appealingly. “I have much to bear now; don’t add to my burden. At present I have no plans. I do not even know where I shall direct my steps. I am to be shipped off to Ostend. It would be madness to take you from here yet. The Princess is your friend, and I understand that the Prince is well-disposed toward me. You must stay here for the present.”
“But I am sure that her Royal Highness will wish me to leave her service now.”
“And I am not,” said Sir Robert. “For the present I wish you to stay.”
Lady Gowan bent down and kissed his hand in obedience to her husband’s wishes.
“But you will take me with you, father?” cried Frank.
“You, my boy? No. You cannot leave your mother. She and I both look to you to fill my place till the happier days come, when I can return to England. You hear me, Frank?”
A protest was on the lad’s lips; but there was a stern decision in Sir Robert’s eyes and tones which silenced it, and with quivering lip he stood listening to his father’s instructions, till there was a tap at the door, and an officer appeared to announce that the visitors must leave.
“Very well,” said Sir Robert quietly, and the officer withdrew.
“Oh, father!” cried Frank, “let me go and ask for another hour.”
“No, my boy,” said Sir Robert, firmly. “It is better so. Why should we try to prolong pain? Good-bye, Frank, till we meet again. You must be a man now, young as you are. I leave your mother in your care.”
His farewell to Lady Gowan was very brief, and then at his wish she tore herself away, and with her veil drawn-down to hide her emotion, she hurried out, resting on Frank’s arm; while he, in spite of his father’s recent words, was half choked as he felt how his mother was sobbing.
“Don’t speak to me, dear,” she whispered, as they reached her apartments. “I cannot bear it. I feel as if we were forsaking your father in the time of his greatest need.”
It was painful to leave her suffering; but there was a feeling of desire urging the lad away, and he hurried out, finding Andrew faithfully waiting at the door, and ready to press his hand in sympathy.
“It’s terribly hard, lad,” he said. “Oh, dear; what a wicked world it is! But you are coming to see him go?”
Frank nodded—he could not trust himself to speak—and they started back for Sir Robert’s quarters.
They were none too soon; for already a couple of coaches were at the door, and a military guard was drawn up, keeping back a little crowd, the wind of the approaching departure having got abroad.
The lads noticed that fully half were soldiers; but they had little time for making observations, for already Sir Robert was at the door, and the next minute he had stepped into the first coach, the second, standing back, being filled with guards, one being beside the coachman on the box, and two others standing behind. An officer and two soldiers followed Sir Robert. The door was banged to as Frank and Andrew dashed forward, and forced their way past the sentries who kept back the crowd.
It required little effort, for as soon as the Guards recognised them they gave place, and enabled them to run beside the coach for a little way, waving their hands to the banished man.
Sir Robert saw them, and leaned forward, and his face appeared at the window, when, as if influenced by one spirit, the soldiers uttered a tremendous cheer, the rest joined in, and the next minute the boys stood panting outside in front of the clock tower, with the carriages disappearing on their way east.
“Oh, Frank, Frank!” cried Andrew excitedly, “is this free England? If we had only known—if we had only known.”
Frank’s heart was too full for speech, and, hardly heeding his companion’s words, he stood gazing after the two coaches, feeling lower in spirits than he ever had before in his life.
“We ought to have known that the soldiers and the people were all upon his side. A little brave effort, with some one to lead them, and we could have rescued him. The men would have carried everything before them.”
“Rather curious expressions of opinion for one of the royal pages, young gentleman,” said a stern voice.
“Captain Murray!” cried Andrew, who was thoroughly startled to find his words taken up so promptly by some one behind him.
“Yes, my lad, Captain Murray. I am glad, Gowan, that such words did not fall from you, though in your case they would have been more excusable.”
“Perhaps, sir,” cried Frank, in his loyalty to his friend, though truthfully enough, “it was because I could not speak. I wish I had helped to do it, though.”
“Hah! Yes, brave and manly, but weak and foolish, my boy. Recollect what and where you are, and that whispers spoken in the precincts of the Palace often have echoes which magnify them and cause those who uttered them much harm.”
“I’m not sorry I spoke,” said Andrew hotly. “It has been horribly unjust to Sir Robert Gowan.”
“Suppose we discuss that shut in between four walls which have no ears, my lad. But let me ask you this, my hot-blooded young friend—suppose you had roused the soldiers into rising and rescuing Sir Robert Gowan, what then?”
“It would have been a very gallant thing, sir,” said Andrew haughtily.
“Of course, very brave and dashing, but a recklessly impulsive act. What would have followed?”
Captain Murray turned from Andrew to Frank, and the latter saw by the dim lamplight that the words were addressed more particularly to him.
“We should have set him free.”
“No. You might have rescued him from his guards; but he would have been no more free than he is now. He could not have stayed in England, but would have had to make for the coast, and escape to France or Holland in some smuggler’s boat. You see he would have been just where he is now. But it is more probable that you would not have secured him, for the guard would at the first attempt have been called upon to fire, and many lives would have been sacrificed for nothing.”
“I thought you were Sir Robert Gowan’s friend, sir,” said Andrew bitterly.
“So I am, boy; but I am the King’s servant, sworn to obey and defend him. His Majesty’s commands were that Sir Robert should leave his service, and seek a home out of England. It is our duty to obey. And now listen to me, Mr Andrew Forbes, and you too, Frank Gowan; and if I speak sternly, remember it is from a desire to advise my old comrade’s son and his companion for the best. A still tongue maketh a wise head. But I am not going to preach at you; and it is better that you should take it to heart—you in particular, Andrew Forbes, for you occupy a peculiar position here. Your father is a proscribed rebel.”
“You dare to say that of my father!” cried the lad, laying his hand upon his sword.
“Yes, you foolish lad. Let that hilt alone. Keep your sword for your enemies, not for your friends, even if they tell you unpleasant truths. Your tongue, my lad, runs too freely, and will get you sooner or later into trouble. Men have been punished for much less than you have said, even to losing their lives.”
“Is this what a King’s officer should do?” cried Andrew, who was white with anger,—“play the part of a spy?”
“Silly, hot-headed boy,” said Captain Murray. “I saw you both, and came up to speak to my old friend’s son, when I could not help hearing what your enemies would call traitorous remarks. Frank, my lad, you are the younger in years, but you have the older head, and you must not be led away by this hot-blooded fellow. There, come both of you to my quarters.”
“Frank, I’m going to my room,” said Andrew, ignoring the captain’s words.
“No, you are coming with us,” said Captain Murray. “Frank, my lad, your father asked me to give an eye to you, and bade me tell you that if you were ever in any difficulty you were to come to me for help. Remember that please, for I will help Robert Gowan’s son in every way I can.”
The friendly feeling he had already had for his father’s companion all came back on the instant, and Frank held out his hand.
“Hah, that’s right, boy. You have your father’s eye for a friend. Come along, and let’s have a quiet chat. I want company to-night, for this business makes one low-spirited. Come along, Hotspur.”
“Do you mean to continue insulting me, sir?” said Andrew sharply.
“I? No. There, you are put out because I spoke so plainly. Look here, Forbes, I should not like to see you arrested and dismissed from your service for uttering treasonable words, and you will be one of these days. It is being talked about in the Palace, but fortunately only by your friends. Come, it is only a few steps, and we may as well talk sitting down.”
The lad was on the point of declining coldly; but the officer’s extended hand and genial smile disarmed him, and there was something so attractive in his manner that, unable to resist, he allowed Captain Murray to pass an arm through his and march both lads to his quarters.
“Hah! this is better,” he said, as he placed chairs for his visitors. “Poor old Gowan! I wish he were with us. Why, Frank, my lad, what a series of adventures in a short time! Only the other night, and we were all sitting comfortably at dinner. How soon a storm springs up. Heard the last about our German friend?”
“Enemy,” muttered Andrew.
“Well, enemy if you like. I saw the doctor just before I caught sight of you, and he told me—”
“Not dead?” said Frank wildly.
“No. He has made a sudden change for the better. The doctor says he has the constitution of an ox, and that has pulled him through.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated Andrew; and Frank spoke hastily to cover his companion’s rudeness.
“How long do you think my father will have to be away?”
“Till his. Majesty dies, or, if he is fortunate, till your mother and the Princess have won over his Royal Highness to do battle with his father on your father’s behalf.”
“But do you think he is likely to succeed?”
“I hope so, my lad. The King may give way. It will not be from friendly feeling, or a desire to do a kind action—what do you call it?—an act of clemency.”
“He’ll never pardon Sir Robert!” cried Andrew, bringing his fist down upon the table heavily.
“I think he will,” said Captain Murray; “for his Majesty is a keen man of the world, a good soldier, and a good judge of soldiers. I think that out of policy, and the knowledge that he is very unpopular, he may think it wise to pardon a gallant officer, and to bring him back into the ranks of the men whom he can trust.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Frank excitedly; and his eyes brightened as he treasured up words, every one of which would, he felt sure, gladden his mother’s heart.
“Hadn’t you better get up and see if any one is listening at the door, Captain Murray?” said Andrew sarcastically.
“Because my words sound treasonable, my lad?”
“Yes, and may be magnified by the echoes of the Palace walls, sir.”
The big, frank officer sank back in his chair, and laughed merrily.
“You’re a queer fellow, Forbes—a clever fellow—with a splendid memory; but—there, don’t feel insulted—you must have been meant for a woman: you have such a sharp, spiteful tongue. No, no, no—sit still. You must take as well as give. Do you two ever fall out, Frank? He’s as hot as pepper.”
“Yes, often,” said Frank, smiling; “but we soon make it up again, for he’s about the bravest and best fellow I ever knew.”
As Frank spoke, he reached over and gripped his friend’s arm warmly.
“You don’t know how good and kind and helpful he has been in all this trouble.”
“I believe it,” said Captain Murray, smiling. “He’s a lucky fellow too, for he has won a good friend. You hear, Hotspur? A good friend in Frank here, who is the very spit of his father, one of the bravest, truest soldiers that ever lived.”
These words were said in a way which made Frank feel a little choky, and turned the tide of Andrew Forbes’s anger, which now ebbed rapidly away.
“You’ll come to me, my lads, both of you, if you want help?” said the captain, at their parting an hour later.
“Yes, of course,” cried Frank eagerly; but Andrew Forbes was silent.
“And you, Andrew lad. Gowan asked me to be a friend to you too; for he said that Lady Gowan liked you, and that it was a hard position for a lad like you to be placed in, and he is right.”
“Did Sir Robert say that, sir?” said the lad huskily.
“Yes, when we said good-bye.”
“Yes, I will come to you, sir—when I can.”
The last words were to himself, and he was silent for some time as they walked back to their quarters.
“I wish I hadn’t such a sharp temper, Frank,” he said at last. “But it is a queer position, and the harness galls me. I can’t help it. I ought to go away.”