“Oh, my boy!” cried Lady Gowan, “how long you have been without coming to me.”
Frank looked at her in surprise, as she rose from the couch on which she had been lying—dressed.
“Yes, yes, dear, I feel stronger now. Have you any news? Where have you been?”
“Home,” said Frank, watching her intently. “I have seen Drew Forbes.”
“Yes, yes; has he any news?”
“He has seen his father, and says that you are not to lose hope.”
“All words, words!” sighed Lady Gowan, wringing her hands.
“And that it is your duty to go and see my father in prison.”
“As if we needed to be told that,” cried Lady Gowan scornfully. “I am going to him directly I can get permission.”
“You are?” cried Frank excitedly.
“Of course. The Princess has been here to see me, and she has promised that if I am well enough I shall have an order to see your father in his prison to-morrow.”
“Oh!” cried Frank excitedly, “that is good news. I had come to beg you to appeal to the Princess. Mother dearest, the Forbeses are our friends, but you must not speak about them to a soul.”
“I, my boy?” cried Lady Gowan, clinging to him, and speaking passionately; “I can speak of no one—think of no one but your father now.”
“But you must, mother. It is important. They have promised to help my father to escape.”
“Frank!—no, no; it is impossible. Oh, my dear boy, you must not join in any plot. You must not—yes, yes, it is your duty to try and save his life, come what may,” cried Lady Gowan.
“Hush, mother! Pray be calm,” whispered Frank. “Now listen. You will not be asked to do anything but this.”
“Yes, yes. What, dear?” she said, in a sharp whisper. “No: wait a moment.”
She made an effort to regain her composure, and at last succeeded.
“Don’t think ill of me, my boy,” she said. “I wished to be—I have tried to be—loyal to those who have been our truest friends; but your father’s life is at stake, and I can only think now of saving him. Speak out—tell me what they wish.”
“I hardly know, mother; but they only ask this: that you convey an important message from Andrew’s father to mine.”
“Is that all?” sighed Lady Gowan.
“You must drive over to our house when you leave here to-morrow; go in, and you will find Drew waiting there.”
“Drew Forbes waiting at our house?” said Lady Gowan in astonishment.
“Yes; he will have the message from his father for you to bear, and you must not fail, for it may mean the ruining of his hopes.”
“I—I do not understand, my dear,” sighed Lady Gowan; “but I will do anything now. I would die that I might save his life.”
“But will you be able to go, mother? You are so weak.”
“The thought that I shall see him and bear him news that may save his life will give me strength, Frank. Yes, I will go.”
Frank felt astonished at the change which had come over her, and sat answering her questions about his proceedings on the previous night, for, in her thirst to know everything, she made him repeat himself again and again; but he could not help noticing that all the while she was keenly on the alert, listening to every sound, and at last starting up as her attendant entered the room with a letter.
“Hah!” she cried, snatching it from the woman’s hands.
“And the nurse says, my lady, may she come in now?”
“No, no; I cannot see her. Go!” cried Lady Gowan imperiously; and she tore open the letter, as the woman left the room. “Hah! See, see, Frank! It is an order signed by the King himself. With the Princess’s dear love and condolence. Heaven bless her! But oh! Look!”
Frank took the order and read it quickly.
It was for Lady Gowan, alone and unattended, to be admitted to the prisoner’s cell for one hour only on the following day.
“I must write and appeal again, my boy. You must be with me.”
“No, mother,” said Frank sadly. “I was with my father last night. This visit should be for you alone.”
She looked at him half resentfully, and then drew him to her breast.
Before he left her he once more drew from her the promise that she would fulfil the instructions he gave her, and call in Queen Anne Street, go up, see Drew Forbes, and take the message from his father.
“I don’t understand it,” said the lad to himself, as he left his mother’s apartments; “but it must mean something respecting my father’s prospects of escape—some instructions perhaps. Oh, everything must give way now to saving his life.”
Then thinking and thinking till his brain began to swim, he went to his own room, feeling utterly exhausted, but unable to find rest.
In the morning he ran round, and found that the doctor was with his mother; and as the great physician came out he shook hands with the lad.
“Yes?” he said smiling; “you wish to know whether I think Lady Gowan will be able to go and pay that visit this afternoon? Most certainly. Her illness is principally from anxiety, and I have no hesitation in saying that she would be worse if I forbade her leaving her apartments. I will be here to see her in the evening after her return.”
Frank entered his mother’s room to find her wonderfully calm, but there was a peculiarly wild look of excitement in her eyes; and as the lad gazed inquiringly at her, she said softly:
“Have no fear, dear. I shall be strong enough to bear it. You will come, and see me start! The carriage will be here at two.”
“And you will go round home first?” said Frank softly.
“Yes,” she cried, with the excited look in her eyes seeming to grow more intense. “But, my boy, my boy, if I could only have you with me! Frank dear, we must save him. But do you think that these people can and will help him?”
“I feel sure, mother,” replied Frank. “Take the message Drew brings to you, and see what my father says.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I feel that they will help, for these people are staunch to each other. They helped the Pretender to escape.”
“It was not the Pretender, mother,” whispered Frank; “it was Drew’s father. And he has vowed that he will not leave England and seek safety until my father is safe.”
“Then Heaven bless him!” cried Lady Gowan, passionately. “I had my doubts as to whether it would be wise to bear his message to your father, but I am contented now. Leave me, my dearest boy. I want strength to bear the interview this afternoon, and the doctor told me that, unless I rested till the last moment, I should not have enough to carry me through. But you will be here?”
“I will be here,” he said tenderly; and once more they parted, Frank going across to Captain Murray, and telling him of his mother’s visit.
“It is too much for her to bear,” he said sadly. “Surely she has not the strength!”
“You don’t know my mother’s determination,” said the boy proudly. “Oh yes, she will go.”
“Heaven give her the fortitude to bear the shock!” muttered the captain. “Can I do anything—see her there?” he asked.
“No, no,” said Frank hastily. “She must go alone. The carriage will take her and wait. But you; how is the side?”
“Oh, I have no time to think about a little pain, my boy. Frank, we are all trying what we can do by a petition to his Majesty. The colonel will present it when it is ready. He must—he shall show mercy this time; so cheer up, boy. No man in the army has so many friends as your father, and the King will see this by the names attached to our prayer.”
But these words gave little encouragement, and Frank felt that in his heart he had more faith in some bold attempt made by his father’s friends. He thought, moreover, from Drew’s manner, that there must be something more in progress than he divined, and going back to his duties—which he did or left undone without question now—he waited impatiently for the afternoon.
But never had the hours dragged along so slowly, and it seemed a complete day when, at a few minutes before two, he went round to his mother’s apartments, and found one of the private carriages with the servants in plain liveries waiting at the door.
On ascending to his mother’s room, he found her seated there, dressed almost wholly in black, and with a thick veil held in her hand. She was very pale and stern; but her face lit up as the boy crossed to her, and took her cold, damp hands in his.
“There,” she said tenderly, “you see how calm I am.”
“Yes; but if I could only go with you, mother!” he said.
“Yes; if you could only go with me, my boy! But it is impossible. No, not impossible, for you will be with me in spirit all the time. I take your love to your father—and—ah!”
Her eyes closed, and she seemed on the point of fainting, but, struggling desperately against the weakness, she mastered it and rose.
“Take me down to the carriage, Frank,” she said firmly. “It is the waiting which makes me weak. Once in action, I shall go on to the end. You will be here to meet me on my return? It will be more than two hours—perhaps three. There, you see I am firm now.”
He could not speak, and he felt her press heavily upon his arm, as he led her downstairs and handed her into the carriage.
Then for the first time a thought struck him.
“Mother,” he whispered, as he leaned forward into the carriage. “You ought not to go alone. Some lady—”
“Hush! Not a word to weaken me now. I ought to go alone,” she said firmly. “I could not take another there. I could not bear her presence with me. It is better so. Tell the men to drive to Queen Anne Street first.”
The door was closed sharply, he gave the servants their instructions, and then stood watching the carriage as it crossed the courtyard. But as it disappeared he felt that the excitement was more than he could bear, and, in place of going back to the Prince’s antechamber, he hurried out into the Park, to try and cool his heated brain.
The walk in the cool air beneath the trees seemed to have the opposite effect to that intended, for the boy’s head was burning, and his busy imagination kept on forming pictures of what had passed and was passing then. He saw his mother get out of the carriage at their own door, that weak, sorrow-bent form in black, and enter, the carriage waiting for her return. He followed her up the broad staircase into the half-darkened drawing-room, where Drew was waiting to give her the important message from his father.
“Yes,” thought the boy; “it will be a letter of instructions what he is to do, for they have, I feel certain now, made some plan for his escape. But what?”
Then, with everything in his waking dream, he saw his mother descend and leave the house again, enter the carriage, the steps were rattled up, the door closed, and he followed it in imagination along the crowded streets to the dismal front of Newgate, where, with vivid clearness, he saw her enter the gloomy door and disappear.
“I can’t bear it,” he groaned, as he threw himself on the grass; “I can’t bear it. I feel as if I shall go mad.”
At last the hot, beating sensation in his head grew less painful, for the vivid pictures had ceased to form themselves as he mentally saw his mother enter the prison, and in a dull, heavy, despairing fashion he reclined there, waiting until fully two hours should have passed away before he attempted to return to his mother’s apartment to await her return.
The time went slowly now, and he lay thinking of the meeting that must be taking place, till, feeling that if he lay longer there he should excite attention, he rose and walked slowly on, meaning to go right round the Park, carrying out his original intention of trying to grow calm.
He went slowly on, so as to pass the time, for he felt that it would be unbearable to go back to his mother’s room, and perhaps have the nurse and maid fidgeting in and out.
The result was that he almost crept along thinking, but in a different strain, for there were no more vivid pictures, his brain from the reaction seeming drowsy and sluggish. Half unconscious now of the progress of time, he sauntered on till the sight of the back of their house roused the desire to go and see if Drew were still there; and, hurrying now, he made his way round to the front, knocked, heard the chain put up, and as it was opened saw the old housekeeper peering out suspiciously.
The next minute he was in the hall, with the old woman looking at him anxiously.
“Did my mother come?” he said hoarsely.
“Poor dear lady! Yes, my dear, looking so bent and strange she could hardly speak to me; and when she lifted her veil I was shocked to see how thin and pale she was.”
“Yes, yes; but did she go up and see—”
“Mr Friend? Yes, my dear, and stayed talking to him for quite half an hour before she came down. She did not ring first; but I saw her from the window almost tottering, and leaning on the footman’s arm. He had quite to help her into the carriage. Oh, my dear, is all this trouble never to have an end?”
“Don’t talk to me, Berry; but please go down. I am going up to see my friend. He is in the drawing-room, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, my dear. He has been in and out when I have not known, and I heard him talking to himself last night. Poor young man! he seems in trouble too.”
“Yes, yes. Go down now,” said Frank hastily; and as the old woman descended, he sprang up the stairs, and turned the handle of the drawing-room door.
But it was locked.
He knocked sharply.
“Open the door,” he said, with his lips to the keyhole. “It is I—Frank.”
The key was turned, and he stepped in quickly, to stand numbed with surprise; for Lady Gowan, looking ghastly white, stood before him, without bonnet or cloak.
“Well?” she cried; “tell me quick!” and her voice sounded hoarse and strange.
“You here!” stammered Frank. “Oh, I see. Oh, mother, mother, and you have been too ill to go.”
“No, no. Don’t question me,” she said wildly. “I can’t bear it. Only tell me, boy—the truth—the truth!”
“You are ill,” he cried. “Here, let me help you to the couch. Lie down, dear. The doctor must be fetched.”
“Frank!” she cried, “do you wish to drive me mad? Don’t keep it back. I am not ill. Your father! Has he escaped?”
It was some minutes before he could compel his mother to believe that he knew nothing, and grasped from her incoherent explanations that, when she had reached the house two hours before, she had come up to the drawing-room and found Drew impatiently waiting there.
He had then given her his father’s message of hope for his dear friend’s safety, and his assurance that a couple of thousand friends would save him. Moreover, the lad unfolded the plan they had made.
It was simple enough, and possible from its daring, for at the sight of the King’s order the authorities of the prison would be off their guard.
Lady Gowan was to give up dress, bonnet, and cloak, furnish Drew with the royal mandate, leave him to complete the disguise by means of false hair, and thus play the part of the heart-broken, weeping wife.
Thus disguised, he was to go down to the carriage, be helped in, and driven to the prison. There he was to stay the full time, and in the interval to exchange dresses with the prisoner, who, cloaked and veiled, bent with suffering and grief, was to present himself at the door when the steps of the gaolers were heard, and suffer himself to be assisted back to the carriage and driven off.
“Yes, but then—then—” cried Frank wildly. “Oh, it is madness; it could not succeed!”
“Don’t, don’t say that, my boy,” wailed Lady Gowan. “I must, mother, I must,” cried the boy passionately. “Why did he not confide in me? I could have told him what I dared not tell you.”
“Yes, yes, what?” cried Lady Gowan. “Tell me now. I can—I will bear it.”
“My poor father was fettered hand and foot. It was impossible for him to escape.”
There was a painful silence, which was broken at last by Lady Gowan, who laid her hands with a deprecating gesture upon her son’s breast.
“Don’t blame me, Frank,” she whispered. “I was in despair. I snatched at the proposal, thinking it might do some good, when my heart was yearning to be at your father’s side. You cannot think what I suffered.”
“Blame you?” cried Frank. “Oh, how could I, mother? But I must leave you now.”
“Leave me! At a time like this?”
“Yes, you must bear it, mother. I will come back as soon as possible; but Drew—the carriage? Even if he succeeded in deceiving the gaolers and people, what has happened since?”
“Yes, you must go,” said Lady Gowan, as she fought hard to be firm. “Go, get some news, my boy, and come back to me, even if it is to tell me the worst. Remember that I am in an agony of suspense that is killing me.”
Frank hurried out, feeling as if it was all some terrible dream, and on reaching the street he directed his steps east, to make his way to the great prison. But he turned back before he had gone many yards.
“No,” he thought; “everything must be over there, and I could not get any news. They would not listen to me.”
He walked hurriedly along, turning into the Park, and another idea came to him: the royal stables, he would go and see if the carriage had returned. If it had, he could learn from the servants all that had occurred.
He broke into a run, and was three parts of the way back to the stable-yard, seeing nothing before him, when his progress was checked by a strong arm thrown across his chest.
“Don’t stop me!” he shouted.—“You, Captain Murray!”
“Yes, I was in search of you. Have you heard?”
“Heard? Heard what?” panted the boy.
“Your father has escaped.”
Frank turned sharply to dash off; but Captain Murray’s strong hand grasped his arm.
“Stop!” he cried. “I cannot run after you; I’ll walk fast. My side is bad.”
“Don’t stop me,” cried Frank piteously.
“I must, boy. It is madness to be running about like this. Don’t bring suspicion upon you, and get yourself arrested—and separated from your mother when she wants you most.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Frank; and he fell into step with his father’s old comrade.
“I will not ask you where you are going; but I suppose in search of your mother.”
“Yes; she is at home.”
“What? My poor boy! No. The news is now running through the Palace like wildfire. She went to visit your father in Newgate this afternoon, as you know. I don’t wish to ask what complicity you had in the plot.”
“None,” cried Frank excitedly.
“I am glad of it, though anything was excusable for you at such a time. On reaching the prison she was supported in by the servants and gaolers. She stayed there nearly an hour, and, as the people there supposed, she was carried back to the carriage in a chair, half fainting.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Frank, who was trembling in every limb.
“The servants say that the carriage was being driven back quickly by the shortest cuts, so as to avoid the main thoroughfares, when in one of the quiet streets by Soho three horsemen stopped the way, and seized the reins as the coachman drew up to avoid an accident. A carriage which had been following came up, and half a dozen men sprang from it—one from the box, two from behind, and the rest from inside. The footmen were hustled away, and threatened with drawn swords by four of the attacking party, while the others opened the door, as one of them says, to abduct Lady Gowan, but the other declares that it was a man in disguise who sprang out and then into the other carriage, which was driven off, all taking place quickly and before any alarm could be given. The startled men then came on to state what had occurred; but almost at the same time the tidings came from the prison that Lady Gowan remained behind, and that it was Sir Robert whom they had helped away.”
“Oh!” groaned Frank, giddy with excitement. “Come faster, or I must run. She is dying to know. I must go and tell her he is safe.”
“You cannot, you foolish boy,” cried the captain, half angrily. “Do you suppose they would admit you to the prison now?”
“Prison!” cried Frank wildly. “Did I not tell you that she was close here—at our own house.”
“What! When did you see her?”
“Not a quarter of an hour ago.”
Captain Murray uttered a gasp.
“My poor lad!” he groaned. “Poor Rob—poor Lady Gowan! Then it is all a miserable concoction, Frank. He has not escaped.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the lad wildly. “You don’t understand. It was Drew Forbes who went—my mother’s cloak and veil.”
“What! And your mother is safe at home?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Frank. “Don’t you see?”
The captain burst into a wild, strange laugh, and stood with his face white from agony and his hand pressed upon his side.
“Run,” he whispered; “I am crippled. I can go no farther. Tell her at once. They will get him out of the country safely now. Oh, Frank boy, what glorious news!”
Frank hardly heard the last words, but dashed off to where he found his mother kneeling by the couch in the darkened room, her face buried in her hands.
But she heard his step, and sprang up, her face so ghastly that it frightened him as he shouted aloud:
“Safe, mother!—escaped!”
“Ah!” she cried, in a low, deep sigh full of thankfulness; and she fell upon her knees with her hands clasped together and her head bent low upon her breast, just as the clouds that had been hanging heavily all the day opened out; and where the shutters were partly thrown back a broad band of golden light shot into the room and bathed the kneeling figure offering up her prayer of thankfulness for her husband’s life, while Frank knelt there by her side.
It was about an hour later, when mother and son were seated together, calm and pale after the terrible excitement, talking of their future—of what was to happen next, and what would be their punishment and that of the brave, high-spirited lad who was now a prisoner—that Berry tapped softly at the door.
“A letter, my lady,” she said, “for Master Frank;” and as she came timidly forward, the old woman’s eyes looked red and swollen with weeping.
“For me, Berry?” cried Frank wonderingly. “Why, nurse, you’ve been crying.”
“I’m heart-broken, Master Frank, to see all this trouble.”
“Then go and mend it,” cried the lad excitedly. “The trouble’s over. It’s all right now.”
“Ah! and may I bring your ladyship a dish of tay?”
“Yes, and quickly,” said Frank tearing open the letter. “Mother!” he cried excitedly, “it’s from Drew.”
It was badly written, and in a wild strain of forced mirth.
“Just a line, countryman,” he wrote. “This is to be delivered when all’s over, and dear old Sir Robert is safe away. Tell my dear Lady Gowan I’m doing this as I would have done it for my own mother, and did not tell you because you’re such a jealous old chap, and would have wanted to go yourself. I say, don’t tell her this. I don’t believe they’ll do anything to me, because they’ll look upon me as a boy, and I’m reckoning upon its being the grandest piece of fun I ever had. If they do chop me short off, I leave you my curse if you don’t take down my head off the spike they’ll stick it on, at the top of Temple Bar, out of spite because they could not get Sir Robert’s. Good-bye, old usurper worshipper. I can’t help liking you, all the same. Try and get my sword, and wear it for the sake of crack-brained Drew.”
“Poor old Drew!” groaned Frank, in a broken voice. “Oh, mother, I was not to let you see all this.”
“Not see it?” said Lady Gowan softly; and her tears fell fast upon the letter, as she pressed it to her lips. “Yes, Frank, you would have done the same. But no; they will not—they dare not punish him. The whole nation would rise against those who took vengeance upon the brave act of the gallant boy.”
That evening the problem of their future was partly solved by another letter brought by hand from the Palace. It was from the Princess, and very brief:
“I cannot blame you for what you have done, for my heart has been with you through all your trouble. At present you and your son must remain away. Some day I hope we shall meet again.
“Always your friend.”
About a fortnight after the events related in the last chapter a little scene took place on board a fishing lugger, lying swinging to a buoy in one of the rocky coves of the Cornish coast. A small boat hung behind, in which, dimly seen in the gloom of a soft dark night, sat a sturdy-looking man, four others being seated in the lugger, ready to cast off and hoist the two sails, while, quite aft on the little piece of deck, beneath which there was a cabin, stood four figures in cloaks.
“All ready, master,” said one of the men in a singsong tone. “Tide’s just right, and the wind’s springing up. We ought to go.”
“In one minute,” said one of the gentlemen in cloaks; and then he turned to lay his hands upon the shoulders of the figure nearest to him: “Yes, we must get it over, Frank. Good-bye, God bless you, boy! We are thoroughly safe now; but I feel like a coward in escaping.”
“No, Gowan,” said the gentleman behind him. “We can do no more. If they are to be saved, our friends will do everything that can be done. Remember they wish us gone.”
“Yes; but situated as I am it is mad to go. You have your son, thanks to the efforts of the Prince and Princess. I have to leave all behind. Frank boy, will you let me go alone? will you not come with me, even if it is to be a wanderer in some distant land?”
Frank uttered a half-strangled cry, and clung to his father’s hands.
“Yes, father,” he said, in a broken voice; “I cannot leave you. I’ll go with you, and share your lot.”
“God bless you, my boy!” cried the captain, folding him in his arms. “There,” he said the next minute, in decisive tones, “we must be men. No; I only said that to try if you were my own true lad. Go back; your place is at your mother’s side. Your career is marked out. I will not try to drag you from those who are your friends. The happy old days may come for us all again, when this miserable political struggling is at an end. Frank,” he whispered, “who knows what is in the future for us all?” Then quite cheerfully: “Good-bye, lad. I’ll write soon. Get back as quickly as you can. Say good-bye to Colonel Forbes and Drew.”
“Good-bye—good-bye!” cried Frank quickly, as he shook hands, and then was hurried into the little boat, his father leaning over from the lugger to hold his hand till the last.
That last soon came, for the rope was slipped from the ring of the buoy as one of the sails was hoisted, the lugger careened as the canvas caught the wind, and the hands were suddenly snatched apart.
The second sail followed, and the lugger seemed to melt away into the gloom, as the boat softly rose and fell upon the black water fifty yards from the rocky shore.
“Good-bye!” came from out of the darkness, and again, “Good-bye!” in the voices of Colonel Forbes and his son Drew.
Lastly, and very faintly heard, Sir Robert Gowan’s voice floated over the heaving sea: “Au revoir!”
History tells of the stern punishment meted out to the leaders of the rebellion—saving to Lord Nithsdale, who escaped, as Sir Robert had, in women’s clothes—of the disastrous fights in Scotland, and the many condemned to death or sent as little better than slaves to the American colonies. But it does not tell how years after, at the earnest prayer of the gallant young officer in the Prince’s favourite regiment, Sir Robert Gowan was recalled from exile to take his place in the army at a time when the old Pretender’s cause was dead, and Drew Forbes and his father were distinguished officers in the service of the King of France.