Chapter Thirty Four.
A Stirring Encounter.
More sentries were about the Palace, and the guardroom was full of soldiers, but no one interfered with the Prince’s page, who went straight to the gates, and without the slightest attempt at concealment walked across to the banks of the canal, along by its edge to the end, passed round, and made for his father’s house.
Twice over he saw men whom his ready imagination suggested as belonging to the corps of spies who kept the comers and goers from the Palace under observation, but he would not notice them.
“Let them watch if they like. I’m doing something I’m proud of, and not ashamed.”
In this spirit he made for the house, and reached it, to find that the battered door had been replaced by a new one, which looked bright and glistening in its coats of fresh paint.
He knocked and rang boldly, and as he waited he glanced carelessly to right and left, to see that one of the men he had passed in the Park had followed, and was sauntering slowly along in his direction.
“How miserably ashamed of himself a fellow like that must feel!” he thought.
At that moment there was the rattling of a chain inside, and the door was opened as far as the links would allow.
“Oh, it’s you, Master Francis,” said the housekeeper, whose scared and troubled face began to beam with a smile; and directly after he was admitted, and the door closed and fastened once more.
Frank confined his words to friendly inquiries as to the old servant’s health, and she hesitated after replying, as if expecting that he would begin to question her; but he went on upstairs, and shut himself in the gloomy-looking room overlooking the Park. Then, obeying his first impulse, he walked to the window to throw back the shutters.
“No. Wouldn’t do,” he said to himself. “There is sure to be some one watching the house from the back, and it would show them that I came straight here for some particular reason. I can manage in the dark.”
It was not quite dark to one who well knew the place; and with beating heart he went across to the picture, and, familiar now with the ingenious mechanism, he pressed the fastening, and then stood still, with the picture turned so that the closet stood open before him.
He hesitated, for though he was so full of hope that he felt quite certain that there would be some communication from his father, he did not like to put it to the test for fear of disappointment. That he felt—after his brave defence of his father, and his belief that he would be able to find a letter which would sweep away all doubt and prove to his mother that she was wrong—would be almost unbearable, and so he waited for quite two minutes.
“Oh, what a coward I am,” he muttered at last; and running his hand along the bottom shelf, he felt for the letter he hoped to find.
His heart sank, for there was nothing there, and he hesitated once more, feeling that half his chance was gone. But there was the upper shelf, and once more with beating heart he began to pass his hand over it very slowly, and the next moment he touched a packet, which began to glide along the shelf. Then he started back, thrust to the canvas-covered panel and fastened it almost in one movement, turning as he did so to face the door, which was slowly opened, and a dimly seen figure stepped forward, to stand gazing in.
“Why didn’t I lock the door after me?” thought the boy, who was half wild now with excitement and dread, as he tried to make out by the few rays which struck across from the shutters who the man could be.
That was too hard; but it seemed from the attitude that his back was half turned to him, and that he was trying to see what was going on in the room.
The next moment he had proof that he was right, for the dimly seen figure softly turned and gazed straight at where he stood.
“He must see me,” thought the boy; and in his excitement he felt that he must take the aggressive, and began the attack.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he cried sharply. “A thief?”
“Oh no, young gentleman,” said a voice. “What are you doing here?”
For answer Frank stepped quickly to the window and threw open one of the shutters, the light flashing in and showing him the face of the man he had passed in the Park, the man who had followed him into the street, and seen him enter the house.
“Oh, I see,” said Frank contemptuously,—“a spy.”
“A gentleman in the King’s service, boy, holding his Majesty’s warrant, and doing his duty. Why have you come here?”
“Why have I come to my own house? Go back out of here directly. How came the housekeeper to let you in?”
“She did not, my good boy,” said the man quietly; “and she did not put up the chain.”
“Then how did you get in, sir?”
“With my key of course—into your house.”
“Oh, this is insufferable!” panted Frank. “While my father is away it is my house. I am his representative, and I don’t believe his Majesty would warrant a miserable spy to use false keys to get into people’s homes.”
“You have a sharp tongue for a boy,” said the man coolly; “but I must know why you have come, all the same.”
“Watch and spy, and find out then, you miserable, contemptible hound!” cried Frank in a rage—with the man for coming, and with himself for not having taken better precautions. For it was maddening. There was the letter waiting for him; he had touched it; and now he could not get at it for this man, who would not let him quit his sight, and perhaps after he was gone would search until he found it.
The man looked hard at him for a few moments, but not menacingly. It was in the fashion of a man who was accustomed to be snubbed, bullied, and otherwise insulted, but did not mind these things in the least, so long as he could achieve his ends. He made Frank turn cold, though, with dread, for he began to look round the room, noticing everything in turn in search of the reason for the boy’s visit, for naturally he felt certain that there was some special reason, and he meant to find it out.
Frank stood watching him for a while, and then, as the man did not walk straight at the picture, and begin to try if he could find anything behind, the boy began to pluck up courage, and, drawing a long breath by way of preparation, he said, as he stepped forward:
“Now, sir, I don’t feel disposed to leave you here while I go upstairs to my old room, so have the goodness to leave.”
“When you do, Mr Gowan—not before.”
“What!” cried Frank fiercely; and he clapped his hand to where his sword should hang, but it had not been returned to him by the officer who arrested him, and he coloured with rage and annoyance.
“Ah, you have no sword,” said the man coolly. “Just as well, for you would not be able to use it. At the least attempt at violence, one call from this whistle would bring help to the back and front of the house, and you would be arrested. I presume you do not want to be in prison again?”
“What do you know about my being arrested?”
“There is not much that I do not know,” said the man, with a laugh. “It is of no use to kick, my good sir. I only wish you to understand that violence will do no good.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Frank angrily; and he walked straight out of the room on to the landing, trying to bang the door behind him; but the man caught it, and came out quickly and quietly after him.
“What shall I do?” thought Frank; and for a moment he was disposed to descend and leave the house, but he felt that he could not without first gaining possession of the letter. It would be impossible to bear the strain, especially with the accompaniment of the dread of its being discovered and placing information which might prove disastrous to his father in the hands of a spy.
The next minute his mind was made up. He determined to weary out the man if he could, while he on his part went up to his own old bedroom, which he used to occupy when he came home from school while his father and mother were in town. He would go up to it, and sit down and read if he could. The man should not come in there, of that he was determined; and he felt that he must risk the fellow’s searching the place they had left.
“For if he has a key, he could come in at any time, and hunt about the place. But how did he get a key to fit the door?”
Frank thought for a few moments, and then it was plain enough: he had obtained it from the people who made the new door to the house.
“I must get the letter before I go,” thought the boy now, “so as to send word to father that he must not venture to come again, because the place is so closely watched; and I must tell him of this piece of miserable intrusion.”
He took a few steps down, and the man followed; but before the landing was reached, he turned sharply round, and began to ascend rapidly.
The man still followed close to his elbow, and in this way the second floor was reached, where the door of Frank’s bedroom lay a little to the right.
The last time he was up there he was in company with his father in the dark, on the night of the escape, and a faint thrill of excitement ran through him as he recalled all that had passed.
He turned sharply to the spy, and said indignantly:
“Look here, fellow, this is my bedroom;” and he pointed to the door.
“Yes, I know,” said the man coolly; “but it’s a long time since you slept there.”
“And what’s that to you? Go down. You are not coming in there.”
“I have the warrant of his Majesty’s Minister to go where I please on secret service, sir,” said the man blandly; “and you, as one of the Prince’s household, dare not try to stop me.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the boy fiercely; and seizing the door knob he turned it quickly, meaning to rush in, bang the door in the fellow’s face, and lock him out.
“Let him do his worst,” thought Frank, who was now beside himself with rage; but he did not carry out his plan, for the door did not yield. It was locked, and as he rattled the knob his fingers rubbed against the handle of the key.
Perhaps it was the friction against the steel which sent a flash of intelligence to his brain; but whether or no the flash darted there, and lit up that which the moment before was very dark with something akin to despair.
He rattled the handle to and fro several times; and uttering an ejaculation full of anger, he threw himself heavily against the door, but it did not of course yield.
“Pooh!” he cried; and letting go of the door knob, he seized the handle of the key, and dragged and dragged at it, making it grate and rattle among the wards, each moment growing more excited, and ended by snatching his hand away, and stamping furiously on the floor.
“Don’t stand staring there, idiot!” he cried, with a flash of anger. “Can’t you see that key won’t turn?”
“Not if you drag at it like that,” said the man, smiling blandly. “That is good for locksmiths, not for locks;” and stepping calmly forward, he took hold of the key, turned it slowly so that the bolt shot back with a sharp snap; then, turning the knob, he opened the door, walked into the little bedroom, and stood back a little, holding it so that there was room for Frank to pass in.
“Bah!” ejaculated Frank savagely; and he stepped in, raising his right hand, and making a quick menacing gesture, as if to strike the man a heavy blow across the face.
Taken thoroughly by surprise by Frank’s feint, the spy made a step back, when, quick as thought, the boy seized the handle, drew it to him, banging the door and turning the key, and stood panting outside, his enemy shut safely within.
“Here, open this door!” cried the man; and he began to thump heavily upon the panels. “Quick! before I break it down.”
“Break it down,” cried the boy tauntingly. “How clever for a spy to walk into a trap like that.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then—as if long coming—something which resembled the echo of Frank’s angry stamp on the floor was heard, followed by a heavy bump. The man had thrown himself against the door.
“He won’t break out in a hurry,” muttered the boy; and he ran to the staircase, and in familiar old fashion seized the rail, threw himself half over, and let himself slide down the polished mahogany to the first floor, where he rushed in, closed and locked the door of the room, hurried excitedly to the picture door of the closet, the portrait of his ancestor seeming to his excited fancy to smile approval, and, as he applied his hand to the fastening, he heard faintly a noise overhead. The next moment a chill ran through him, for the window of his bedroom had evidently been thrown open, and a clear, shrill whistle twice repeated rang out.
“That means help,” thought Frank, and he hesitated; but it was now or never, he felt, and opening the closet, he snatched the desired letter from the shelf, thrust it into his breast, and closed the closet once more.
The whistle was sounded again, and a fresh thought assailed the boy.
“They’ll seize me, search me, and take the letter away. What shall I do?”
He ran to the window in time to see a strange man climb the rails, and drop into the garden, run toward the house, stoop down, and pick up something.
“The key that opens the front door,” cried Frank in despair. “He must have thrown it out.”
For a moment or two he stood helpless, unable to move; then, recalling the fact that the man would have to run round to the front door, he darted out of the room, bounded down the staircase, reached the hall door, and with hands trembling from the great excitement in which he was, he slipped the top and bottom bolts.
“Hah!” he ejaculated; “the key won’t open them.”
Then, darting to the top of the stairs leading down to the housekeeper’s room, he ran almost into the old servant’s arms.
“Oh, Master Frank, was that you whistling, sir?” she cried.
“No; that man upstairs.”
“What man upstairs, my dear?”
“Hush! Don’t stop me. Have you a fire there?”
“Yes, my dear; it is very chilly down in that stone-floored room, that I am obliged to have one lit.”
“That’s right. Go away; I want to be there alone. And listen, Berry; I have bolted the front door. If any one knocks, don’t go.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t say people are coming to break it down again!”
“Never you mind if they are. Get out of my way.”
There was the rattling of a key faintly heard, and then bang, bang, bang, and the ringing of the bell.
“They’ve come,” said Frank. “But never mind; I’ll let them in before they break it.”
There was a faint squeal from the kitchen just then.
“Oh!” cried the housekeeper wildly, “that girl will be going into fits again.”
“Let her,” said Frank. “Stop! Is the area door fastened?”
“Oh yes, my dear. I always keep that locked.”
Frank stopped to hear no more, but ran into the housekeeper’s room, whose window, well-barred, looked up a green slope toward the Park.
There was a folding screen standing near the fire, a luxury affected by the old housekeeper, who used it to ward off draughts, which came through the window sashes, and the boy opened this a little to make sure that he was not seen by any one who might come and stare in. Then, standing in its shelter, he tore the letter from his breast pocket, broke the seal, opened it with trembling fingers, and began to read, with eyes beginning to dilate and a choking sensation rising in his breast.
For it was true, then—the charge was correct. Andrew Forbes’s words had not been an insult, the Prince had told the simple fact.
“Oh, the shame of it!” panted the boy, as he read and re-read the words couched in the most affectionate strain, telling him not to think ill of the father who loved him dearly, and begged of him to remember that father’s position, hopeless of being able to return from his exile, knowing that his life was forfeit, treated as if he were an enemy. So that in despair he had yielded to the pressure put upon him by old friends, and joined them in the bold attempt to place the crown upon the head of the rightful heir.
“Whatever happens, my boy, I leave your mother to you as your care.”
Frank’s hands were cold and his forehead wet as he read these last words, and the affectionate, loving way in which his father concluded his letter, the last information being that he was in England, and had gone north to join friends who would shortly be marching on London.
“Burn this, the last letter I shall be able to leave for you, unless we triumph. Then we shall meet again.”
“‘Burn this,’” said Frank, in a strange, husky whisper. “Yes, I meant to burn this;” and in a curious, unemotional way, looking white and wan the while, he dropped the letter in the fire, and stood watching it as it blazed up till the flame drew near the great red wax seal bearing his father’s crest. This melted till the crest was blurred out, the wax ran and blazed, and in a few moments there was only a black, crumpled patch of tinder, over and about which a host of tiny sparks seemed to be chasing each other till all was soft and grey.
“I needn’t have burned it,” said the boy, in a low, pained voice. “What does it matter now?”
He stood looking old and strange as he spoke. It did not seem a boy’s face turned to the fire, but that of an effeminate young man in some great suffering, as he said again, in a voice which startled him and made him shiver:
“What does it matter now?”
He turned his head and listened then, before stooping to take up the poker and scatter the grey patch of ashes that still showed letters and words; for he appeared to have suddenly awakened to the fact that the thundering of the knocker was still going on and the bell pealing.
“Hah!” he sighed; “I must go back and tell her I was wrong. Poor mother, what she must feel!”
He moved slowly toward the door of the room, and then encountered the housekeeper standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she moaned; “what shall we do? I heard them send for hammers to break in again.”
“They will not, Berry,” he said quietly. “I will go up and let them in.”
“Oh, my dear!” cried the woman, forgetting the noise at the front door. “Don’t speak like that. What is the matter? You’re white as ashes.”
“Matter?” he said, looking at the old woman wistfully. “Matter—ashes—yes, ashes. I can’t tell you, Berry. I’m ill. I feel as if—as if—”
He did not finish the sentence aloud, but to himself, and he said:
“As if my father I loved so were dead.” He walked quietly upstairs now into the hall, where there was the buzzing of voices coming in from the street, where people were collecting, and he distinctly heard some one say:
“Here they come.”
It did not seem to him to matter who was coming; and he walked quietly to the door, shot back the bolts, and threw it open, for half a dozen men to make a dash forward to enter; but the boy stood firmly in the opening, with his face flushing once more, and looking more like his old self. “Well,” he cried haughtily. “What is it?”
“Mr Bagot—Mr Bagot! Where is he?”
“Bagot? Do you mean the spy who insulted me?” At the word “spy” there was an angry groan from the gathering crowd, and the men began to press forward.
“The fellow insulted me,” said Frank loudly, “and I locked him in one of the upstairs rooms.”
“Hooray!” came from the crowd. “Well done, youngster!” And then there was a menacing hooting. “Go and fetch him down,” continued Frank. “Yah! Spies!” came from the mob, and the men on the step gladly obeyed the order to go upstairs, and rushed into the house.
“Shall we fetch ’em out, sir,” cried a big, burly-looking fellow, “and take and pitch ’em in the river?”
“No; leave the miserable wretches alone,” said the boy haughtily. “Don’t touch them, if they go quietly away.”
“Hooray!” shouted the crowd; and then all waited till Bagot came hurriedly down, white with anger, followed by his men, and seized Frank by the shoulder.
“You’re my prisoner, sir.”
“Stand off!” cried the lad fiercely; and he wrenched himself free, just as the mob, headed by the burly man, dashed forward.
“You put a finger on him again, and we’ll hang the lot of you to the nearest lamps!” roared the man fiercely; and the party crowded together, while Frank seized the opportunity to close the door.
“Look here, fellow,” he said haughtily. “I am going back to the Palace. You can follow, and ask if you are to arrest me there.” Then turning to the crowd:
“Thank you, all of you; but they will not dare to touch me, and if you wish me well don’t hurt these men.”
“Ur–r–ur!” growled the crowd.
“Look here, you,” cried Frank, turning to the leader of the little riot. “I ask you to see that no harm is done to them.”
“Then they had better run for it, squire,” cried the man. “If they’re here in a minute, I won’t answer for what happens.”
“Then let your lads see me safely back to my quarters,” said the boy, as a happy thought; and starting off, the crowd followed him cheering to the Palace gates, where they were stopped by the sentries; and they cheered him loudly once more as he walked slowly by the soldiery.
“Arrested again!” said Frank softly. “Well, if I can only go and see her first, it does not matter now.”
Chapter Thirty Five.
Frank asks Leave to go.
“Yes,” said Lady Gowan sadly, after her meeting with her son, “it is terrible; but after all my teaching, telling you of your duty to be loyal to those whom we serve and who have been such friends to us, I could not nerve myself to tell you the dreadful truth. You are right, my boy. More than ever now we are out of place here; we must go.”
“Yes, mother,” said the boy gravely, “we must go.”
“Let me read the letter, Frank.”
“Read it, mother? I have repeated every word. It wanted no learning. I knew it when I had read it once.”
“Yes; but I must read your father’s letter to you myself.”
“How could I keep it?” he said, almost fiercely. “I expected to be arrested and searched. It is burned.”
Lady Gowan uttered a weary sigh, and clung to her boy’s hand.
“Going, dear?” she said; “so soon?”
“Yes, mother; I have so much to do. I can’t stay now. Perhaps I shall be a prisoner again after this business, and coming back here protected by a riotous crowd.”
“No, no, dear; the Prince, however stern his father may be, is just, and he will not punish you.”
“I don’t know,” said the boy drearily. “I want to do something before I am stopped;” and he hurried away, looking older and more careworn than ever, to go at once to the officers’ quarters, intending to see Captain Murray; but the first person he met was the doctor, who caught him by the arm, and almost dragged him into his room.
“Sit down there,” he cried sharply, as he scanned the boy with his searching gaze.
“Don’t stop me, sir, please,” said Frank appealingly. “I am very busy. Do you want me?”
“No; but you look as if you want me.”
“No, sir—no.”
“But I say you do. Don’t contradict me. Think I don’t know what I’m saying? You do want me. A boy of your years has no business to look like that. What have you been doing? Why, your pulse is galloping nineteen to the dozen, and your head’s as hot as fire. You’ve been eating too much, you voracious young wolf. It’s liver and bile. All right, my fine fellow! Pill hydrarg, to-night, and to-morrow morning a delicious goblet before breakfast—sulph mag, tinct sennae, ditto calumba. That will set you right.”
Frank looked at him for a moment piteously, and then burst into a strange laugh.
“Eh, hallo!” cried the doctor; “don’t laugh in that maniacal way, boy. Have I got hold of the pig by the wrong tail? Bah! I mean the wrong tail by the pig. Nonsense! nonsense! I mean the wrong pig by— Oh, I see now. Why, Frank, my boy, of course. Ah, poor lad! poor lad! Murray has been telling me. Well, it’s a bad job, and I shouldn’t have thought it of Rob Gowan. But there, I don’t know: humanum est errare. Not so much erroring in it either. Circumstances alter cases, and I dare say that if I were kicked out of the army, and I had a chance to be made chief surgeon to the forces of you know whom, I should accept the post.”
The boy’s head sank down upon his hands, and he did not seem to hear the doctor’s words.
“Poor lad!” he continued; “it’s a very sad affair, and I’m very sorry for you. I always liked your father, and I never disliked you, which is saying a deal, for I hate boys as a rule. Confounded young monkeys, and no good whatever, except to get into mischief. There, I see now—ought to have seen it with half an eye. There, there, there, my lad; don’t take on about it. Cheer up! You’re amongst friends who like you, and the sun will come out again, even if it does get behind the black clouds sometimes.”
He patted the boy’s shoulder, and stroked his back, meaning, old bachelor as he was, to be very tender and fatherly; but it was clumsily done, for the doctor had never served his time to playing at being father, and begun by practising on babies. Hence he only irritated the boy.
“He talks to me and pats me as if I were a dog,” said Frank to himself; and he would have manifested his annoyance in some way to one who was doing his best, when fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door, and a familiar voice cried:
“May I come in, doctor?”
“No, sir, no. I’m particularly engaged. Oh, it’s you, Murray!—Mind his coming in, Gowan?”
“Oh no; I want to see him!” cried the boy, springing up.
“Come in!” shouted the doctor.
“You here, Frank?” said the captain, holding out his hands, in which the boy sadly placed his own, but withdrew them quickly.
“Yes, of course he is,” said the doctor testily. “Came to see his friends. In trouble, and wants comforting.”
“Yes,” said Captain Murray quietly, as he laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “Then you know the truth now, Frank?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy humbly. “I was coming to apologise to you, when the doctor met me and drew me in here.”
“Yes; looked so ill. Thought I’d got a job to tinker him up; but he only wants a bit of comforting, to show him he’s amongst friends.”
“You were coming to do what, boy?” said the captain, as soon as he could get in a word,—“apologise?”
“Yes, sir; I was very obstinate and rude to you.”
“Yes, thank goodness, my lad!” cried the captain, holding the boy by both shoulders now, as he hung his head. “Look up. Apologise! Why, Frank, you made me feel very proud of my old friend’s son. I always liked you, boy; but never half so well as when you spoke out as you did to the Prince. So you know all now?”
“Yes,” said the boy bitterly.
“How?”
“My father has written to me telling me it is true.”
“Hah! Well, it’s a bad job, my lad; but we will not judge him. Robert Gowan must have suffered bitterly, and been in despair of ever coming back, before he changed his colours. But we can’t see why, and how things are. I want no apology, Frank, only for you to come to me as your father’s old friend.”
Frank looked at him wonderingly.
“Come with me, boy.”
Frank looked at him still, but his eyes were wistful now and full of question.
“I want you to come with me to the Prince.”
“Yes, sir,” said Frank gravely. “I want to beg for an audience before I go.”
“Before you go, Frank?”
“Yes, sir. Of course we cannot stay here now.”
“Humph! Ah, yes, I see what you mean,” said the captain quietly. “Well, come. You are half a soldier, Frank, and the Prince is a soldier, I want you to come and speak out to him, and apologise as you did to me—like a man.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Frank, “that is what I wished to do.”
“Then forward!” cried the captain. “Let’s make our charge, even if we are repulsed.”
“Good-bye, and thank you, doctor,” said Frank.
“What for? Pooh! nonsense, my lad; that’s all right. And, I say, people generally come and see me when they want something, physic or plasters, or to have bullet holes stopped up, or arms and legs sewn on again. Don’t you wait for anything of that sort, boy; you come sometimes for a friendly bit of chat.”
Frank smiled gratefully, but shook his head as he followed Captain Murray out into the stable-yard.
“Come along, Frank; there’s nothing like making a bold advance, and getting a trouble over. We may not be able to get an audience with so many officers coming and going; but I’ll send in my name.”
Frank followed him into the anteroom, the place looking strange to him, and seeming as if it were a year since he had been there last, a fancy assisted by the fact that some five-and-twenty officers, whose faces were strange, stood waiting their turns when Captain Murray sent in his name by a gentleman in attendance.
But, bad as the prospect looked, they did not have long to wait, for, at the end of about a quarter of an hour, the attendant came out, passing over all those who looked up eagerly ready to answer to their names, and walked to where Captain Murray was seated talking in a low voice to Frank.
“His Royal Highness will see you at once, gentlemen.”
Frank did not feel in the slightest degree nervous as he entered, but followed the captain with his head erect, ready to speak out and say that for which he had come, when the Prince condescended to hear; but he took no notice of the boy at first, raising his head at last from his writing, and saying:
“Well, Captain Murray, what news?”
“None, your Royal Highness,” said the soldier bluffly. “I have only come to bring Frank Gowan, your page, before you.”
“Eh? Oh yes. The boy who was so impudent, and told me I was no speaker of the truth.”
“I beg your Royal Highness’s pardon.”
“And you ought, boy. What more have you to say?”
“That I was wrong, sir. I believed it could not be true. I have found out since that it was as you said.”
“Hah! You ought always to believe what a royal personage says—eh, Murray?”
The captain bowed, and smiled grimly.
“Don’t agree with me,” said the Prince sharply. “Well, boy, you are very sorry, eh?”
“Yes, your Royal Highness, I am very sorry,” said Frank firmly. “I know better now, and I apologise to you.”
The Prince, moving himself round in his chair, frowning to hide a feeling of amusement, stared hard at the lad as if to look him down, and frowned in all seriousness as he found the boy looked him full in the eyes without a quiver of the lid.
“Humph! So you, my page, consider it your duty to come and apologise to me for doubting my word?”
“Yes, your Highness, and to ask your forgiveness.”
“And suppose I refuse to give it to so bold and impudent a boy, what then?” and he gazed hard once more in the lad’s flushing face.
“I should be very, very sorry, sir; for you and the Princess have been very good and kind to my poor mother and me.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Prince, “too kind, perhaps, to have such a return as—”
He stopped short as he saw a spasm contract the boy’s features.
“But there,” he continued, “you are not to blame, and I do forgive you, boy. I liked the bold, brave way in which you showed your belief in your father.”
Captain Murray darted a quick glance at his young companion, as much as to say, “I told you so.”
“Go on, my boy, as you have begun, and you will make a firm, strong, trustworthy man; and, goodness knows, we want them badly enough. There, I will not say any more—yes, I will one word, my boy. I am sorry that your father was not recalled some time back. He was a brave soldier, for whom I felt respect.”
Frank could bear no more, and he bent his head to conceal the workings of his face.
“There, take him away, Murray, and keep him under your eye. There’s good stuff in the boy, and we must get him a commission as soon as he is old enough.”
“No, your Highness,” said Frank, recovering himself.
“Eh? What?”
“I came to beg your Royal Highness’s pardon, and to ask your permission for my mother and me to leave the royal service at once. We both feel that it is not the place for us now.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the Prince, frowning; “and I think differently. Take him away, Murray; the boy is hurt—wounded now.—That will do, Gowan; go. No: I refuse absolutely. The Princess does not wish Lady Gowan to leave; and I want you.”
“There!” cried Captain Murray, as they crossed the courtyard on their way back to the officers’ quarters; “it is what I expected of the Prince. You can’t leave us unless you run away, Frank; and you’ve proved yourself too much of a gentleman for that. You see, everybody wants you here.”
Frank could not trust himself to speak, for he was, in spite of his troubles, some years short of manhood and manhood’s strength.
Chapter Thirty Six.
The Worst News.
Next morning Frank rose in his old quarters, firmly determined to keep to his decision. It was very kind and generous of the Prince, he felt; but his position would be intolerable, and his mother would not be able to bear an existence fraught with so much misery; and, full of the intention to see her and beg her to prevail on the Princess to let them leave, he waited his time.
But it did not come that day. He had to return to his duties in the Prince’s anteroom, and at such times as he was free he found that his mother was engaged with her royal mistress.
The next day found him more determined than ever; but another, a greater, and more unexpected obstacle was in the way. He went to his mother’s apartments, to find that, worn out with sorrow and anxiety, she had taken to her bed, and the Princess’s physician had seen her and ordered complete rest, and that she should be kept free from every anxiety.
“How can I go now!” thought the boy; “and how can she be kept free from anxiety!”
It was impossible in both cases, while with the latter every scrap of news would certainly be brought to her, for the Palace hummed with the excitement of the troubles in the north; and as the day glided by there came the news that the Earl of Mar had set up the standard of the Stuarts in Scotland, and proclaimed Prince James King of Great Britain; but the Pretender himself remained in France, waiting for the promised assistance of the French Government, which was slow in coming.
Still the Scottish nobles worked hard in the Prince’s cause, and by degrees the Earl of Mar collected an army of ten thousand fighting men, including the staunch Highlanders, who readily assumed claymore and target at the gathering of the clans.
It was over the English rising that Frank was the more deeply interested, and he eagerly hungered for every scrap of news which was brought to the Palace, Captain Murray hearing nearly everything, and readily responding to the boy’s questions, though he always shook his head and protested that it would do harm and unsettle him.
“You’d better shut up your ears, Frank lad, and go on with your duties,” he said one day. “But tell me first, what is the last news about Lady Gowan?”
“Ill, very ill,” said the boy wearily. “All this is killing her.”
“Then the bad news ought to be kept from her.”
“Bad news!” gasped Frank. “Is it then so bad?”
“Of course; isn’t it all bad?”
“Oh!” ejaculated the boy; “I thought there was something fresh—something terrible. But how can the news be kept from her? The Princess goes and sits with her every day, and then tells her everything. She learns more than I do, and gets it sooner; but I can’t go and ask her, for I always feel as if it were cruel and torturing her to make her speak about our great trouble while she is so ill. Now, tell me all you know.”
“It is not much, boy. The Duke of Argyle is busy; he is now appointed to the command of the King’s forces in Scotland, and some troops are being landed from Ireland to join his clans.”
“Yes, yes; but in England?” cried the boy. “My father is not in Scotland. It is about what is going on in England that I want to know.”
It was always the same, and by degrees, as the days went by, Frank learned that his father had, with other gentlemen, joined the Earl of Derwentwater, and that they were threatening Newcastle.
It seemed an age before the next tidings came, and Frank’s heart sank, while those in the Palace were holding high festival, for the Pretender’s little army there had been beaten off, and was in retreat through Cumberland on the way to Lancashire.
A little later came news that in the boy’s secret heart made him rejoice and brought gloom into the Palace. For it soon leaked out that the county militias had been assembled hastily to check the Pretender’s forces, but only to be put to flight and scattered in all directions.
Then despatch after despatch reached the Palace from the north, all containing bad news. The rebels had marched on, carrying everything before them till they neared Preston in triumph.
“Then they’ll go on increasing in strength,” whispered Frank, as he sat with Captain Murray on the evening of the receipt of that news, “and march right on to London!”
“Want them to?” said the captain drily.
“Yes—no—no—yes—I don’t know.”
“Nice loyal sort of a servant the Prince has got,” said the captain.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Captain Murray,” said the boy passionately. “I feel that I hate for the rebels to succeed; but how can I help wishing my father success?”
“No, you cannot,” said the captain quietly. “But he will not succeed, my lad. He and the others are in command of a mere rabble of undisciplined men, and before long on their march they will be met by some of the King’s forces sent to intercept them.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the boy, with his cheeks flushing, “and then?”
“What is likely to happen in spite of the training of the leaders? The undrilled men cannot stand against regular troops, even if they are enthusiastic. No: disaster must come sooner or later, and then there is only one chance for us, Frank.”
“For us? I thought you said that the King’s troops would win.”
“Yes, and they will. I as a soldier feel that it must be so. We shall win; but I say there is only one chance for us as friends—a quick escape for your father to the coast and taking refuge in France. We must not have him taken, Frank, come what may.”
“Thank you, Captain Murray,” said the boy, laying his hand on his friend’s sleeve. “You have made me happier than I have felt for days.”
“And it sounds very disloyal, my boy; but I can’t help my heart turning to my old friend to wish him safe out of the rout.”
“Then you think it will be a rout?” panted Frank.
“It must be sooner or later. They may gain a few little advantages by surprise, or the cowardice of the troops; but those successes can’t last, and when the defeat comes it will be the greater, and mean a complete end to a mad scheme.”
“But the Prince must be with them by this time, sir.”
“The Pretender? No; he is still in France without coming forward, and leaving the misguided men who would place him on the throne to be slaughtered for aught he seems to care.”
Captain Murray proved to be a true prophet, for he had spoken on the basis of his experience of what properly trained men could do against troops hastily collected, and badly armed men whose discipline was of the rudest description.
Sooner even than the captain had anticipated the news came in a despatch brought from the north of England. The Pretender’s forces, under Lords Derwentwater, Kenmuir, and Nithsdale, were encountered by the King’s troops; and before the two bodies joined battle a summons was sent to the rebel army calling upon the men to lay down their arms or be attacked without mercy.
The Pretender’s generals tried to treat the summons to surrender with contempt, laughed at it, and bade their followers to stand fast and the victory would be theirs. But, in spite of the exhortations of their officers, the sight of the King’s regular troops drawn up in battle array proved too much for the raw forces. Probably they were wearied with marching and the many difficulties they had had to encounter. Their enthusiasm leaked out, life seemed far preferable to death, and they surrendered at discretion.
There was feasting and rejoicing at Saint James’s that night, when the news came of the bloodless victory; while in one of the apartments mother and son were shut up alone in the agony of their misery and despair, for whatever might be the fate of the common people of the Pretender’s army, the action of the King toward all who opposed him was known to be of merciless severity. The leaders of the rebellion could expect but one fate—death by the executioner.
“But, mother, mother! oh, don’t give way to despair like that,” cried Frank. “We have heard so little yet. Father would fight to the last before he would fly; but when all was over he would be too clever for the enemy, and escape in safety to the coast.”
“No,” said Lady Gowan, in tones which startled her son. “Your father, Frank, would never desert the men he had led. It would be to victory or death. It was not to victory they marched that day.”
“But his name is not mentioned in the despatch.”
“No,” said Lady Gowan sadly. “Nor is that of Colonel Forbes.”
“Ah!” cried Frank; “and poor Drew, he would be there.”
At last he was compelled to quit the poor, suffering woman; but before going to his own chamber, he went over to the officers’ quarters, to try and see Captain Murray.
There was a light in his room, and the sound of voices in earnest conversation; and Frank was turning back, to go and sit alone in his despair, when he recognised the doctor’s tones, and he knocked and entered.
The eager conversation stopped on the instant, as the two occupants of the room saw the boy’s anxious, white face looking inquiringly from one to the other.
“Come in and sit down,” said Captain Murray, in a voice which told of his emotion; “sit down, my boy.”
Frank obeyed in silence, trying hard to read the captain’s thoughts.
“You have come from your mother?”
“Yes; she is very ill.”
“She has heard of the disaster, then?”
“Yes. The Princess went and broke it to her as gently as she could.”
“And she told you?”
“Yes; she sent for me as soon as she heard.”
“Poor lady!” said the captain.
“Amen to that,” said the doctor huskily; and he pulled out his snuff-box, and took three pinches in succession, making himself sneeze violently as an excuse for taking out his great red-and-yellow silk handkerchief and using it to a great extent.
“Hah!” he said at last, as he looked across at Frank, with his eyes quite wet; “and poor old Robert Gowan! Rebel, they call him; but we here, Frank, can only look upon him more as brother than friend.”
“But,” cried the boy passionately, “there is hope for him yet. He is not taken, in spite of what my mother said. He would have escaped to the coast, and made again for France.”
“What did your mother say?” asked Captain Murray, looking at the boy fixedly.
“My mother say? That my father would never forsake the men whom he was leading to victory or death.”
“Yes; she was right, Frank, my lad. He would never turn his back on his men to save himself.”
“Of course not, till the day was hopelessly lost.”
“Not when the day was hopelessly lost,” said Captain Murray, so sternly that Frank took alarm.
“Why do you speak to me like that?” he cried, rising from his seat. “His name was not in the despatch. Ah! you have heard. There is something worse behind. Oh, Captain Murray, don’t say that he was killed.”
“I say,” said that officer sadly, “it were better that he had been killed—that he had died leading his men, as a brave officer should die.”
“Then he did not,” cried Frank, with a hoarse sigh of relief.
“No, he escaped that.”
“And to liberty?”
“No, my boy, no,” said the doctor, uttering a groan.
“But I tell you that his name was not in the despatch. He couldn’t have been taken prisoner.”
There was silence in the room, and the candles for want of snuffing were very dim.
“Why don’t you speak to me?” cried Frank passionately. “Am I such a boy that you treat me as a child?”
“My poor lad! You must know the truth,” said Captain Murray gently. “Your father’s and Colonel Forbes’s names are both in the despatch as prisoners.”
“No, no, no!” cried Frank wildly. “The Princess—”
“Kept the worst news back, to try and spare your poor mother pain. It is as I always feared.”
“Then you are right,” moaned Frank; and he uttered a piteous cry. “Yes, it would have been better if he had died.”
For the headsman’s axe seemed to be glimmering in the black darkness ahead, and he shuddered as he recalled once more what he had seen on Temple Bar.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Under the Dark Cloud.
There was no waiting for news now. Despatch succeeded despatch rapidly, and the occupants of the Palace were made familiar with the proceedings in the north; and as Frank heard more and more of the disastrous tidings he was in agony, and at last announced to Captain Murray that he could bear it all no longer.
“I must go and join my father,” he said one day. “It is cruel and cowardly to stay here in the midst of all this luxury and rejoicing, while he is being dragged up to London like a criminal.”
“Have you told Lady Gowan of your intentions?” said the captain quietly.
“Told her? No!” cried Frank excitedly. “Why, in her state it would half kill her.”
“And if you break away from here and go to join your father, it would quite kill her.”
Frank looked at him aghast, and the captain went on:
“We must practise common sense, Frank, and not act madly at a time like this.”
“Is it to act madly to go and help one’s father in his great trouble?”
“No; you must help him, but in the best way.”
“That is the best way,” said the boy hotly.
“No. What would you do?”
“Go straight to him and try and make his lot more bearable. Think how glad he would be to see me.”
“Of course he would, and then he would blame you for leaving your mother’s side when she is sick and suffering.”
“But this is such a terrible time of need. I must go to him; but I wanted to be straightforward and tell you first.”
“Good lad.”
“Think what a terrible position mine is, Captain Murray.”
“I do, boy, constantly; but I must, as your friend and your father’s, look at the position sensibly.”
“Oh, you are so cold and calculating, when my father’s life is at stake.”
“Yes. I don’t want you to do anything that would injure him.”
“I—injure him!”
“Yes, boy.”
“But I only want to be by his side.”
“Well, to do that you would run away from here, for the Prince would not let you go.”
“No, he will not. I asked him.”
“You did?”
“Yes, two days ago.”
“Then if you go without leave, you will make a good friend angry.”
“Perhaps so; but I cannot stay away.”
“You must, boy, for it would be injuring your father; and, look here, if you went, you could not get near the prisoners. Those who have them in charge would not let you pass.”
“But I would get a permission from the King.”
“Rubbish, boy! He would not listen to you. He might as a man be ready to pardon your father; but as King he would feel that he could not. No; I must speak plainly to you: his Majesty will deal sternly with the prisoners, to make an example for his enemies, and show them the folly of attempting to shake his position on the throne.”
“Oh, Captain Murray! Captain Murray!” cried the boy.
“Look here, Frank lad. Your journey to meet the prisoners would be an utter waste of energy, and you would most likely miss them, for to avoid the possibility of attempts at rescue their escort would probably take all kinds of byways and be constantly changing their route.”
“But I should have tried to help my father, even if I failed.”
“Don’t run the risk of failure, boy,” said the captain earnestly. “Our only hopes lie in the Prince and Princess. The Prince would, I feel sure, spare your father’s life if he could, for the sake of his wife’s friend. But he is not king, only a subject like ourselves, and he will be governed by his father and his father’s Ministers. Now you see that you must not alienate our only hope by doing rash things.”
Frank looked at him in despair.
“Now do you see why I oppose you?”
“Yes, yes,” said the boy despondently. “Oh, how I wish I were wise!”
“There is only one way to grow wise, Frank: learn—think and calculate before you make a step. Now, look here, my boy. The Prince has plenty of good points in his character. He likes you; and he shall be appealed to through your mother and the Princess. Now, promise me that you will do nothing rashly, and that you will give up this project.”
“Should I be right in giving it up?”
“Yes,” said the captain emphatically.
“But what will my father think? I shall seem to be forsaking him in his great trouble.”
“He will think you are doing your duty, and are trying hard to save his life. Come, don’t be down-hearted, for we are all at work. There is our regiment to count upon yet—the King’s own Guards, who will, to a man, join in a prayer to his Majesty to spare the life of the most popular officer in the corps.”
“Ah! yes,” cried Frank.
“I don’t want even to hint at mutiny; but the King at a time like this would think twice before refusing the prayer of the best regiment in his service.”
“Oh, Captain Murray!” cried the lad excitedly. “I will promise everything. I will go by your advice.”
“That’s right, my lad; my head is a little older than yours, you know. Now, go back to your duties, and let the Prince see that his page is waiting hopefully and patiently to see how he will help him. Go to your mother, too, all you can, and tell her, to cheer her up, that we are all hard at work, and that no stone shall be left unturned to save Sir Robert’s life.”
Frank caught the captain’s hands in his, and stood holding them for a few moments before hurrying out of the room.
Then more news came of each day’s march, and of the slow approach of the prisoners—the leaders only, the rest being imprisoned in Cheshire and Lancashire to await their fate.
It was hard work, but Frank kept his word, trying to be more energetic than ever over his duties, and finding that he was not passing unnoticed, for every morning the Prince gave him a quiet look of recognition, or a friendly nod, but never once spoke.
The most painful part of his life in those days was in his visits to his mother. These were agony to him, feeling as he did more and more how utterly insignificant and helpless he was; but he had one satisfaction to keep him going and make him look forward longingly for the next meeting—paradoxical as it may sound—so as to suffer more agony and despair, for he could plainly see that his mother clung to him now as her only stay, and that she was happiest when he was with her, and begged and prayed of him to come back to her as soon as he possibly could, now that she was so weak and ill.
“I believe, my darling,” she whispered one evening, “that I should have died if you had not been here.”
“Yes, my lad,” said the Princess’s physician to him as well; “you must be with Lady Gowan as much as you can. Her illness is mental, and you can do more for her now than I can. Ha—ha! I shall have to resign my post to you.”
“Yes,” said the boy to himself, “Captain Murray is quite right;” and he went straight to his friend’s quarters, as he often did, to give him an account of his mother’s state.
“Yes, sir,” he said; “you were quite right: it would have killed her if I had gone away.”
“Come, you are beginning to believe in me, Frank. Now I have some news for you.”
“About Drew Forbes?” cried Frank eagerly.
“No; I have made all the inquiries I can, but I can hear nothing of the poor fellow. His father is with yours; but the lad seems to have dropped out of sight, and I have my fears.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” cried Frank excitedly; “he was so young.”
“Yes,” said the captain grimly; “but in a fight young and old run equal chances, while in the exposure and suffering of forced marches the young and untried fare worse than the old and seasoned. Drew Forbes was a weak, girlish fellow, all brain and no muscle. I am in hopes, though, that he may have broken down, and be lying sick at some cottage or farmhouse.”
“Hopes!” cried Frank.
“Yes, he may get well with rest. Better than being well and strong, and on his way to suffer by the rope or axe.”
Frank shuddered.
“Now then,” cried the captain sharply, to change the conversation; “you found my advice good?”
“Yes, yes,” said Frank.
“Then take some more. Look here, Frank; the doctor and I were talking about you last night, and he is growing very anxious. He said the blade was wearing out the scabbard, and that you were making an old man of yourself.”
“Not a young one yet,” said the boy, smiling sadly.
“Never mind that. You’ll grow old soon enough. He says what I think, that you never go out, and that you will break down.”
“Oh, absurd! I don’t want exercise.”
For answer the captain clapped him on the shoulder, and twisted him round.
“Look at your white face in the glass, my boy. Don’t risk illness. You will want all your strength directly in the fight for life to come. Your father will, in all probability, reach London to-morrow.”
“Ah!” cried Frank excitedly.
“Yes; we had news this morning by the messenger who brought the royal despatches. The colonel had a brief letter. Get leave to go out to-morrow, and come with me.”
“Yes, where?”
“We’ll try and meet the escort, and see your father, even if we cannot speak.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Frank; and, utterly worn out with anxiety and want of proper food, he reeled, a deathly feeling of sickness seized him, and his eyes closed.
When he opened them again he was lying upon the captain’s couch, with his temples and hair wet, and he looked wonderingly in the face of his father’s friend.
“Better?”
“Yes; what is it? Oh my head! the room’s going round.”
“Drink,” said the captain. “That’s better. It will soon go off.”
“But why did I turn like that?”
“From weakness, lad. Shall I send for the doctor?”
“No, no,” cried Frank, struggling up into a sitting position. “I’m better now. How stupid of me!”
“Nature telling you she has been neglected, my lad. You have not eaten much lately?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Nor slept well?”
“Horribly. I could only lie and think.”
“And you have not been outside the walls?”
“No; I have felt ashamed to be seen, and as if people would look at me and say, ‘His father is one of the prisoners.’”
“All signs of weakness, as the doctor would say. Now you want to be strong enough to go with me to-morrow—mounted?”
“Of course.”
“Then try and do something to make yourself fit. I shouldn’t perhaps be able to catch you as I did just now if you fainted on horseback, and in a London crowd; for we should be under the wing of the troops sent to meet the prisoners coming in.”
“I shall be all right, sir,” said the boy firmly.
“Go and have a walk in the fresh air, then, now.”
“Must I?” said Frank dismally.
“If you wish to go with me.”
“Where shall I go, then?”
“Anywhere; go and have a turn in the Park.”
“What, go and walk up and down there, where people may know me!”
“Yes, let them. Don’t take any notice. Try and amuse yourself. Be a boy again, or a man if you like, and do as Charles the Second used to do: go and feed the ducks. Well, what’s the matter? there’s no harm in feeding ducks, is there?”
“Oh no,” said the boy confusedly; “I’ll go;” and he hurried out.