“Go and feed the ducks,” said Frank to himself, as he obtained some biscuits, and, in his readiness to obey his elder’s wishes, went slowly toward the water-side; “how little he knows what a deal that means;” and, almost unconsciously, he strolled on down to the side of the canal, thinking of Mr George Selby and Drew, and of the various incidents connected with his walks out there, which, with the duel, seemed in his disturbed state of mind to have taken place years—instead of months—ago, when he was a boy.
He went slowly on, forgetting all about the biscuits, till he noticed that several of the water-fowl were swimming along, a few feet from the bank, and watching him with inquiring eyes.
He stopped short, turned to face the water, which was sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and taking a biscuit out of his capacious “salt-box pocket,” he began to break it in little bits and throw them to the birds.
“Ah, what a deal has happened since we were here doing this that day,” thought the boy; and his mind went back to his first meeting with Drew’s father, the invitation to the dinner, and the scene that evening in the tavern.
“Please give me a bit, good gentleman,” said a whining voice at his elbow. “I’m so hungry, please, sir. Arn’t had nothing since yes’day morning, sir.”
Frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had passed lying apparently asleep on the grass a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. He wore a dismally battered cocked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. His shirt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes.
Frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow’s face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged.
Frank looked at him with sovereign contempt.
“So hungry that you can’t stoop down by the water’s edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?”
“Wash, sir?” said the lad piteously; “what’s the good? Don’t matter for such as me. You don’t know.”
“Miserable wretch!” thought Frank; “what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in.” Then aloud: “Here, which will you have—the biscuit or this?”
He held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other.
“Biscuit, please, gentleman,” whined the lad. “I am so hungry, you don’t know.”
“Take both,” said Frank; and they were snatched from his hands.
“Oh, thank you, gentleman,” whined the lad, as some one passed. “You don’t know what trouble is;” and he began to devour the biscuit ravenously.
“Not know what trouble is!” cried Frank scornfully. “Do you think fine clothes will keep that out? Oh, I don’t know that I wouldn’t change places with you, after all.”
“Poor old laddie!” said the youth, looking at him in a peculiar way, and with his voice seeming changed by the biscuit in his mouth; “and I thought he was enjoying himself, and feeding the ducks, and not caring a bit.”
“What!” exclaimed Frank wildly.
“Don’t you know me, Frank?”
“Drew!”
“Then the disguise is as right as can be. Keep still. Nonsense! Don’t try to shake hands. Stand at a distance. There’s no knowing who may be watching you. Give me another biscuit. I am hungry, really. There, go on feeding the ducks. How useful they are. Sort of co-conspirators, innocent as they look. I’ll sit down behind you as if watching you, and I can talk when there’s no one near.”
Frank obeyed with his face working, and Drew Forbes threw himself on the grass once more.
“Drew, old fellow, you make me feel sick.”
“What, because I look such a dirty wretch?”
“No, no. I’m ill and faint, and it’s horrible to see you like this.”
“Yes; not much of a macaroni now.”
“We—we were afraid you were dead.”
“No; but I had a narrow squeak for my life. I and two more officers escaped and rode for London. I only got here yesterday, dressed like this, hoping to see you; but you did not come out.”
“No; this is the first time I have been here since you left. How is the wound?”
“Oh, pooh! that’s well enough. Bit stiff, that’s all. I say, is it all real?”
“What?”
“Me being here dressed like this.”
“Oh, it’s horrible.”
“Not it. Better than being chopped short, or hung. I am glad you’ve come. I want to talk to you about your father and mine. They’ll be in town to-morrow, I should say.”
“Yes, I know. Tell me, what are you going to do?”
“Do? We’re going to raise the mob, have a big riot, and rescue them. I want to know what you can do to help.”
“We are trying to help in another way,” said Frank excitedly.
“How?”
“Petitioning the King through the Prince.”
“No good,” said Drew shortly. “There’s no mercy to be had. Our way is the best.”
“But tell me: you are in a terrible state—you want money.”
“No. We’ve plenty, and plenty of friends in town here. Don’t think we’re beaten, my good fellow.”
Frank’s supply of biscuit came to an end, and to keep up appearances he began to delude the ducks by throwing in pebbles.
“There’s one of those spy fellows coming, Frank,” said Drew suddenly. “Don’t look round, or take any notice.”
Frank’s heart began to beat, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, for his fingers to come in contact with one little fragment of biscuit passed over before, and, waiting till he heard steps close behind him, he threw the piece out some distance, and stood watching the rush made by the water-fowl, one conveying the bit off in triumph.
Frank searched in vain for more, and he was regretting that he had been so liberal in his use of the provender, and racking his brains for a means of keeping up the conversation without risk to his companion, when about half a biscuit fell at his feet, and he seized it eagerly.
“He’s pretty well out of hearing, Frank; but speak low. I don’t want to be taken. You’d better move on a bit, and stop again. I’ll go off the other way after that spy, and work round and come back. You go and sit down a little way from the bushes yonder, and I’ll creep in behind, and lie there, so as to talk to you. Got a book?”
“No,” said Frank sadly.
“Haven’t you a pocket-book?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, that will do. Take it out after you’ve sat down, and pretend to make a sketch of the trees across the water.”
“Ah, I shouldn’t have thought of that.”
“You would if you had been hunted as I have. There, don’t look round. I’m off.”
“But if we don’t meet again, Drew? I want to do something to help you.”
“Then do as I have told you,” said the lad sharply; and he shuffled away, limping slightly, while, after standing as if watching the water-fowl for about ten minutes, and wondering the while whether he was being watched, Frank strolled on very slowly in the opposite direction, making for a clump of trees and bushes about a couple of hundred yards away, feeling that this must be right, and upon reaching the end, going on about half its length, and then carelessly seating himself on the grass about ten feet from the nearest bush.
After a short time, passed in wondering whether Drew would be able to get hidden behind him unseen, he took out his pocket-book and pencil, and with trembling fingers began to sketch. Fortunately he had taken lessons at the big Hampshire school, and often received help from his mother, who was clever with her pencil, so that to give colour to his position there he went on drawing, a tiny reproduction of the landscape across the water slowly growing up beneath his pencil-point. But it was done almost unconsciously, for he was trembling with dread lest his object there should be divined and result in Andrew being captured, now that a stricter watch than ever was kept about the surroundings of the Palace.
One moment he felt strong in the belief that no one could penetrate his old companion’s disguise; the next he was shuddering in dread of what the consequences would be, and wishing that Drew had not come. At the same time he was touched to the heart at the lad running such a risk when he had escaped to safety among his London friends. For Drew had evidently assumed this pitiful disguise on purpose to come and see him. There could be no other object than that of trying to see his friend. Would he be able to speak to him again?
“I say, they’re keeping a sharp look-out, Franky,” came from behind in a sharp whisper, making him start violently.
“Don’t do that. Go on sketching,” whispered Drew; and Frank devoted himself at once to his book. “That fellow went on, and began talking to another. I saw him, but I don’t think he saw me. I say, I shall have to go soon.”
“Yes, yes; I want you to stay, Drew, but pray, pray escape!”
“Why?”
“Because I wouldn’t for worlds have you taken.”
There was a few moments’ pause, and then Drew spoke huskily.
“Thank ye,” he said. “I was obliged to come and see you again. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I didn’t shake hands with you, Frank.”
“Ah!—I’ll slip back to where you are and shake hands now,” cried the boy excitedly.
“No, no; pray don’t move. It’s too risky; I don’t want to be caught. I must be with those who are going to rescue my father and yours to-morrow.—Think that you are shaking hands with me. Now, there’s my hand, old lad. That’s right. Yes, I can believe we have hold again. Perhaps I shall never see you again, Franky; perhaps I shall be taken. If I am, please think that I always looked upon you as a brother, and upon Lady Gowan as if I were her son.”
“Yes, Drew, yes, Drew,” whispered Frank in a choking voice, as he bent over his open book.
“Give my love to dear Lady Gowan, and tell her how I feel for her in her great trouble.”
“Yes, yes, I will,” whispered Frank, as he shaded away vigorously at his sketch, but making some curious hatchings.
“Tell her that there’ll be a hundred good, true men making an effort to save Sir Robert to-morrow, and we’ll do it. I’d like you to come and help, but you mustn’t. It would be too mad.”
“No. I’ll come,” whispered the boy excitedly.
“No, you will not come,” said Drew. “You can’t, for you don’t know when and where it will be.”
“Then tell me,” whispered Frank, with his face very close to his paper.
“I’d die first, old lad,” came back. “Lady Gowan has suffered enough from what has happened. She shan’t have another trouble through me. I tried to get you away; but I’m sorry now, for her sake. You stop and take care of her. Your father said—”
“Yes, what did he say?”
“He told me it was his only comfort in his troubles to feel that his son was at his mother’s side.”
“Ah!” sighed Frank; and then he uttered a warning, “Hist! Some one coming;” and he gazed across the water and went on sketching, for he had suddenly become aware of some one coming from his left over the grass, and he trembled lest his words should have been heard, for every one now seemed likely to be a spy.
It was hard work to keep from looking up, and to appear engrossed with his task; but he mastered the desire, even when he was conscious of the fresh-comer being close at hand, his shadow cast over the paper, and he knew that he was passing between him and the clump of shrubs.
Then whoever it was paused, and Frank felt that he was looking down at the drawing, while the boy’s heart went on thumping heavily.
“He must have heard me speaking,” he thought; and then he gave a violent start and looked up, for a voice said:
“Well done, young gentleman. Quite an artist, I see.”
The speaker’s face was strange, and he had keen, searching eyes, which seemed as if they were reading the boy’s inmost thoughts as he faltered:
“Oh no, only a little bit of a sketch.”
Then he started again, for there was the sound of a blow delivered by a stick, a sharp cry, a scuffle, and Drew bounded out from the bushes, followed by Frank’s old enemy whom he had trapped at the house. But Drew would have escaped if it had not been for the stranger, who, acting in collusion with Bagot, caught the lad by the arm and held him.
Frank had sprung to his feet, to stand white and trembling, and drew sword ready to interfere on behalf of his old companion, who, however, began to act his part admirably.
“Don’t you hit me,” he whined; “don’t you hit me.”
“You young whelp!” cried Bagot. “What are you doing here?”
“I dunno,” whined Drew. “Must go somewheres. Only came to lie down and have a snooze.”
“A lie, sir, a lie. I’ve had my eye upon you for hours. I saw you here last night.”
“That you didn’t, sir. It was too cold, and I went away ’fore eight o’clock.”
“Lucky for you that you did, or you’d have found yourself in the round house.”
“Don’t you hit me; don’t you hit me,” cried Drew, writhing.
“I’ll cut you to pieces,” snarled Bagot. “I watched him,” he continued to the man who held the lad in a firm grip in spite of his struggles to get away. “He was sneaking up to this young gentleman, begging and trying to pick his pocket.”
“That I wasn’t,” whined Drew. “I was orfle ’ungry, and he was pitching away cake things to the ducks. I only arksed for a bit because I was so ’ungry—didn’t I, sir?”
“Yes,” said Frank hoarsely. “I gave him a biscuit.”
“Then what’s this?” said the man who held him, wrenching open Drew’s hand, in spite of a great show of resistance, and seizing a shilling. “You managed to rob him, then.”
“No, no,” said Frank. “I gave him the money.”
That disarmed suspicion.
“But he’d sneaked round behind you. I watched him, and found him here where he had crawled, and lay pretending to be asleep. I wager you had not seen him.”
“No,” said Frank sharply. “I had not seen him since he came up to beg;” and the boy drew a breath of relief, for he had shivered with the dread that the man was going to ask him if he knew that Drew was there.
“Better take your shilling back, sir,” said the man.
“I? No,” said Frank proudly. “Let the poor, shivering wretch go. He wants it badly enough.”
“Then thank your stars the young gentleman speaks for you,” said Bagot sharply. “Off with you, and don’t you show your face this way again.”
“Don’t you hit me then,” whimpered Drew. “Don’t you hit me;” and he limped off, repeating the words as he went, while Frank stood looking after him, feeling as if he could not stir a step.
“That was a clever trick of yours, young gentleman,” said Bagot, with a broad grin. “But I don’t bear any malice. King’s service, sir. You see, I can take care of you as well as watch.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Frank coldly; and with a sigh of relief he tore the leaf bearing the sketch out of his pocket-book, and then turned cold, for he felt that he had made a false move. The other man was watching him.
“Spoiled my sketch,” he said, with a half laugh. “Made me start so that my pencil went right across it.”
Fortunately this was quite true, and it carried conviction.
“Don’t tear it up, sir,” said the second man respectfully. “I should like to take that home to please my little girl. She’d know the place. She often comes to feed the ducks.”
The man was human, then, after all, even if he was a spy, and Frank’s heart softened to him a little as he gave him the sketch.
“Thank ye, sir,” said the man, who looked pleased; and the lad stopped and listened to him, feeling that it was giving Drew time to get away.
“I can tell her I saw a young gentleman drawing it. She’s quite clever with her pencil, sir; but she can’t, of course, touch this.”
Frank hesitated for a few moments as to which way he should go, inclination drawing him after his friend; but wisdom suggested the other direction, and he strolled off without looking back till he could do so in safety, making the excuse of throwing in the remains of the biscuit Drew had returned to the ducks.
He had been longing intensely to look back before and see if the men were following his friend; but to his great relief he found that they were not very far from where he now stood.
Then he walked quietly back toward the Palace gates with his head beginning to buzz with excitement at the news he had heard.
“They’re going to rescue him to-morrow,” he thought.
“Ought I to tell Captain Murray? No; impossible. He might feel that it was his duty to warn the King. It would be giving him a task to fight against duty and friendship. I dare not even tell my mother, for fear the excitement might do her harm. No, I must keep it to myself, and I shall be there—I shall be there.”
He did not see where he was going, for in his imagination he was on horseback, looking on at a mighty, seething crowd making a bold rush at the cavalry escort round some carriages. But he was brought to himself directly after by a bluff voice saying:
“Don’t run over me, Frank, my lad. But that’s right; the walk has brought some colour into your cheeks.”
The colour deepened, as the speaker went on:
“I’ve arranged for a quiet horse to be ready with mine, my lad, and I have a good hint or two as to where we ought to go so as to be in the route. It will not be till close on dusk, though.”
“Oh, if I could tell exactly the way they will come, and the time, and let Drew know, it might mean saving my father’s life,” thought Frank. “I must tell Captain Murray then.
“No, it would not do,” he mused; “for if I did, he would not move an inch. How to get the news, and go and find Drew! But where? Ah! I might hear of him from some one at the tavern where they have that club.”
“Why, Frank lad, what are you thinking about?” said the captain. “I’ve been talking to you for ever so long, and you don’t answer.”
“Oh, Captain Murray,” said the boy sadly, “you must know.”
“Yes, my lad,” said the captain sadly, “of course I know.”
There was not much sleep for the boy that night, for he was in the horns of a terrible dilemma. What should he do? He turned from side to side of his bed, trying to argue the matter out, till his father’s fate, his duty to the King and Prince, the natural desire to help, his love for his mother, Captain Murray and his duty to the King and friendship for his brother-officer and companion, were jumbled up in an inextricable tangle with Drew Forbes and the attempt at rescue.
“Oh!” he groaned, as day broke and found him still tossing restlessly upon his pillow; “I often used to tell poor Drew that he was going mad. I feel as if I were already gone, for my head won’t work. I can’t think straight, just too when I want to be perfectly clear, and able to make my plans.”
It would have prostrated a cleverer and more calculating brain than Frank’s—one of those wonderful minds which can see an intricate game of chess right forward, the player’s own and his adversary’s moves in attack or defence—to have calmly mapped out the proper course for the lad through the rocks, shoals, and quicksands which beset his path. As it happened, all his mental struggles proved to be in vain; for, as is frequently the case in life, the maze of difficulties shaped themselves into a broad, even path, along which the boy travelled till the exciting times were past.
To begin with, nature knew when the brain would bear no more; and just at sunrise, when Frank had tried to nerve himself for a fresh struggle by plunging face and a good portion of his head into cold water previous to having a good brisk rub, and then lain down to think out his difficulty once more, unconsciously choosing the best attitude for clear thought, a calm and restful sensation stole over him. One moment he was gazing at the bright light stealing in beside his blind; the next he was in profound mental darkness, wrapped in a deep, restful slumber, which lasted till nearly ten o’clock, when he was aroused by a knocking at his door, and leaped out of bed, confused and puzzled, unable for a few moments to collect his thoughts into a focus and grasp what it meant.
“Yes,” he said at last. “What is it?”
“Will you make haste and go across to Lady Gowan’s apartments, sir?” said a voice. “She has been very ill all night, and wishes to see you.”
“Oh!” groaned Frank to himself. Then aloud: “Yes; come over directly.”
He began to dress rapidly, with all the troubles of the night magnified and made worse by the mental lens of reproach through which he was looking at his conduct.
“How can I be such a miserable, thoughtless wretch!” he thought. “How could I neglect everything which might have helped to save my poor father for the sake of grovelling here, and all the time my mother ill, perhaps dying, while I slept, not seeming to care a bit!”
He had a few minutes of hard time beneath the unsparing lashes he mentally applied to himself as he was dressing; and then, ready to sink beneath his load of care, and feeling the while that he ought to have obtained from Captain Murray the route the prisoners would take, and then have found Drew Forbes and told him, so as to render the attempt at rescue easier, he hurried across the first court, and then into the lesser one to his mother’s apartments.
“The doctor’s with her, sir,” whispered the maid.
“How is she now?” asked Frank.
“Dreadfully bad, sir. Pray make haste to her; she asked for you again when the doctor came.”
Frank hurried up, to find the quiet physician who attended her and a nurse in the room, while the patient lay with her eyes looking dim, and two hectic spots in her thin cheeks, gazing anxiously at the door.
A faint smile of recognition came upon her lips, and she raised one hand to her son, and laid it upon his head as he sank upon his knees by the bedside.
“Oh, mother darling!” he whispered, in a choking voice, “forgive me for not coming before.”
She half closed her eyes, and made a movement of the lips for him to kiss her. Then her eyes closed, as she breathed a weary sigh.
Frank turned in horror to the physician, who bent down and whispered to him.
“Don’t be alarmed; it is sleep. She has, I find, been in a terribly excited state, and I have been compelled to administer a strong sedative. She will be calmer when she wakes. Sleep is everything now.”
“You are not deceiving me, sir?” whispered Frank.
“No. That is the simple truth,” replied the physician, very firmly. “Your mother may wake at any time; but I hope many hours will first elapse. I find that she has expressed an intense longing for you to come to her side, and, as you saw, she recognised you.”
“Oh yes, she knew me,” said Frank eagerly. “But pray tell me—she is not dying?”
“Lady Gowan is in a very serious condition,” replied the doctor; “but I hope she will recover, and—”
“Yes, yes; pray speak out to me, sir,” pleaded the boy.
“Her ailment is almost entirely mental; and if the news can be brought to her that the King will show mercy to her husband, I believe that her recovery would be certain.”
“Then you think I ought to go at once and try to save my father?”
“No,” said the physician gravely. “I know all the circumstances of the case. You can do no good by going. Leave that to your friends—those high in position. Your place is here. Whenever Lady Gowan wakes, she must find you at her bedside. There, I will leave you now. Absolute quiet, mind. Sleep is the great thing. I will come in again in about three hours. The nurse knows what to do.”
The physician went out silently, and Frank seated himself by his mother’s pillow, to hold the thin hand which feebly clung to his and watch her, thinking the while of how his difficulties had been solved by these last orders, which bound him there like the endorsement of his father’s commands to stay by and watch over his mother.
He could think clearly now, and see that much of that which he had desired to do was impossible. Even if he had set one duty aside, that to the Prince, his master, and let his love for and desire to save his father carry all before them, he could see plainly enough that it was not likely that he would have found Drew Forbes. A visit to the tavern club would certainly have resulted in finding that the occupants were dispersed and the place watched by spies. Then, even if he had found Drew, wherever he and his friends were hiding, it was not likely that they would have altered their plans for any information which he could give them. Everything would have been fixed as they thought best, and no change would have been made.
Clearer still came the thought that he had no information to give them further than that the prisoners would probably be brought into London that evening, which way Captain Murray might know, but he would never depart from his duty so far as to supply the information that it might be conveyed to the King’s enemies. He was too loyal for that, gladly as he would strive to save his friend.
It was then with a feeling of relief that Frank sat there by his mother’s bed, holding her hand, and thinking that he could do no more, while upon the nurse whispering to him that she would be in the next room if wanted, and leaving him alone, he once more sank upon his knees to rest his head against the bed, and prayed long and fervently in no tutored words, but in those which gushed naturally and simply from his breast, that the lives of those he loved might be spared and the terrible tribulation of the present times might pass away.
Hour after hour passed, and the nurse came in and out softly from time to time, nodding to the watcher and smiling her satisfaction at finding her patient still plunged in a sleep, which, as the day went on, grew more and more profound.
Then when alone Frank’s thoughts went wandering away along the great north road by which the prisoners must be slowly approaching London, to find their fate. And at such times his thoughts were busy about his mother’s friends. What were they doing to try and save his father?
Then his thoughts went like a flash to his meeting with Drew the day before; and his words came full of hope, and sent a feeling of elation through him. The rebels were not beaten, as Drew had said, and there was no doubt about their making a brave effort to rescue the prisoners before they were shut up in gaol.
And in imagination Frank built up what would in all probability be done. Small parties of the Jacobites would form in different places, and with arms hidden gradually converge upon some chosen spot which the prisoners with their escort must pass. Then at a given signal an attack would be made. The escort would be of course very strong; but the Jacobites would be stronger, and in all probability the mob, always ready for a disturbance, would feel sympathy with the unfortunate prisoners, and help the attacking party, or at least join in checking the Guards, resenting their forcing their horses through the crowd which would have gathered; so that the prospects looked very bright in that direction, and the boy felt more and more hopeful.
Twice over the servant came to the door to tell the watcher that first breakfast, and then lunch, was waiting for him in the room below; but he would not leave the bedside, taking from sheer necessity what was brought to him, and then resuming his watch.
The physician came at the end of three hours as he had promised, but stayed only a few minutes.
“Exactly what I wished,” he said. “Go on watching and keeping her quiet, and don’t be alarmed if she sleeps for many hours yet. I will come in again this afternoon.”
Frank resumed his seat by the bed, and then hastily pencilled a few lines to Captain Murray, telling him that it would be impossible to leave the bedside, and sent the note across by the servant, who brought a reply back.
It was very curt and abrupt.
“Of course. I see your position. Sorry, for I should have liked him to see you.”
The note stung Frank to the quick.
“He thinks I am trying to excuse myself, when I would give the world to go with him,” he muttered.
A glance at the pale face upon the pillow took off some of the bitterness, though, and he resumed his watch while the hours glided by.
At four the physician came again.
“Not awake?” he said; and he touched his patient’s pulse lightly, and then softly raised one of Lady Gowan’s eyelids, and examined the pupil.
“Nature is helping us, Mr Gowan,” he said softly. “But she ought to have awoke by now, sir?”
“I expected that she would have done so; but nothing could be better. She is extremely weak, and if she could sleep like this till to-morrow her brain would be rested from the terrible anxiety from which she is suffering. I will look in once more this evening.”
Frank was alone again with his charge, and another hour passed, during which the lad dwelt upon the plans that had been made, and calculated that Captain Murray must be about starting on his mission to meet the escort bringing in the prisoners. And as this idea came to him, Frank sat with his head resting upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, trying hard to master the bitter sense of disappointment that afflicted him.
“And he will be looking from the carriage window to right and left, trying to make out whether I am there!” he groaned. “Oh, it seems cruel—cruel! and he will not know why I have not come.”
But one gleam of hope came here. Captain Murray might find an opportunity to speak with the prisoner, and he would tell him that his son was watching by his suffering mother.
“He will know why I have not come then,” Frank said softly; and after an impatient glance at the clock, he began again to think of Drew and his plans for the rescue.
But now, in the face of the precautions which would be taken, this seemed to be a wildly chimerical scheme, one which was not likely to succeed, and he shook his head sadly as a feeling of despair began to close him in like a dark cloud.
He was at his worst, feeling more and more hopeless, as he sat there, with his face buried in his fingers, when a hand was lightly placed upon his head, and starting up it was to find that his mother was awake, and gazing wistfully at him.
He bent over her, and her arms clasped his neck.
“My boy! my boy!” she said faintly; and she drew him to her breast, to hold him there for some moments before saying quickly:
“Have I slept long, dear?”
“Yes, ever since morning, mother.”
“What time is it?”
“About half-past five.”
“All that time?” she said excitedly. “He must be near now. Frank, my boy, the prisoners were to reach London soon after dark.”
“Yes, mother, I know,” he said, looking at her wistfully, as he held her hand now to his cheek.
“Is there any news?”
“No, mother, none.”
“Oh,” she moaned, “this terrible suspense! Frank, my darling, you must not stay here. Have you been with me all the time I have been asleep?”
“Yes, mother, all. You asked for me.”
“Yes, my darling, in my selfishness; but you ought to go and get the latest tidings. Frank, it is your duty to be there when your father reaches this weary city. He ought not to be looking in vain for one of those he loves. You must go at once. Do you hear me? It is your duty.”
“The doctor said it was my duty to watch by you,” said Frank, with his heart beating fast, as he wondered whether Captain Murray had gone.
“With me? Oh, what am I, if your being where he could see you, if only for a moment, would give him comfort in his sore distress!”
“I was going, mother,” whispered the boy excitedly. “Captain Murray was going to let me be with him, and he as an officer would have been able to take me right up to the escort.”
“Then why are you here? Oh, go—go at once!”
“I was to stay with you, mother, so that you might see me when you awoke,” he said huskily, the intense longing to go struggling with the desire to stay.
“Yes, yes, and I have seen you; but I am nothing if we can contrive to give him rest. Go, then, at once.”
“But you are not fit to be left.”
“I shall not be left,” she said firmly. “Quick, Frank. You are increasing my agony every moment that you stay. Oh, my boy, pray, pray go, and then come back and tell me that you have seen him. Go. Take no refusal; fight for a position near him if you cannot get there by praying, and tell him how we are suffering for his sake—how we love him, and are striving to save him. Oh, and I keep you while I am talking, and he must be very near! Quick! Kiss me once and go, and I will lie here and pray that you may succeed.”
“You wish it—you command me to go, mother?” he panted.
“Yes, yes, my boy,” she cried eagerly; and he bent down over her, pressed his lips to hers, and darted to the door.
“Nurse, nurse!” he said hoarsely, “come and stay with my mother.” Then to himself as he rushed down the stairs: “Too late—too late! He must have gone.”
The heavy, leaden feeling of despair and disappointment increased as Frank Gowan ran across the courtyard, feeling that it was useless to expect to find Captain Murray, but making for his quarters in the faint hope that he might have been detained, and cudgelling his brains as he ran, to try and find a means of learning the route that the escort would take, so that he might even then try and intercept the prisoners’ carriages.
But no idea, not the faintest gleam of a way out of his difficulty helped him; and he felt ready to fling himself down in his misery and despair, as he reached the officers’ quarters.
It was like a mockery to him in his agony to see the sentry, who recognised him, draw himself up, and present arms to his old captain’s son, and it checked the question he would have asked the man as to when Captain Murray had passed, for he could not speak.
“I must see if he is here,” he thought, as he ran up the stairs to the room which had been his prison; and turning the handle of the door, he rushed in and uttered a groan, for the room was, as he had anticipated, empty. But the bedroom door was closed, and he darted to that and flung it open.
“Gone! gone! gone!” he groaned. “What shall I do? Will they take him to the Tower?”
He knew that there was no saying what might be the destination of the prisoners; but he rushed back to the staircase, meaning to go straight to the Tower by some means, and then he stopped short and uttered a half hysterical cry, for there was Captain Murray ascending the stairs.
“Not gone?” he cried.
“No; but I am just off. I wish you could have gone with me, Frank. It would have done your poor father good.”
“I am going. She wishes it, and sends me.”
“Hah! Quick, then. Back to your room.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” cried the boy.
“Nonsense! We are going to ride. Your boots and sword, boy. I’ll lend you a military cloak.”
“But it will be losing time,” panted Frank.
“It will be gaining it, my boy. You cannot go through a London mob like that. You are going to ride with soldiers, and you must not look like a page at a levee. Quick!”
“You will wait for me?”
“Of course.”
Frank ran to his rooms, drew on his high horseman’s boots, buckled on his sword, which had been returned to him, and ran back to where Captain Murray was waiting for him with a cloak over his arm.
“No spurs?” he said. “Never mind. You will have a well-trained horse. I have got passes for two, Frank; and, as it happens, I know the officer of the Horse Guards who is in command of the detachment going to meet the escort, so that we can get close up to the prisoners. Let’s see: you do ride?”
“Oh yes; my father taught me long ago, anything—bare-backed often enough.”
“Good. I am glad, boy. It was sorry work going without you. But I know why it was. Walk quickly; no time to lose.”
He hurried his companion to the stables of the Horse Guards, where a couple of the men were waiting, and a horse was ready saddled.
“Quick!” he said to the men. “I shall want the second charger, after all.”
It was rapidly growing dark, and one man lit a lanthorn, while the other clapped the bit between the teeth of a handsome black horse, turned the docile creature in its stall, and then slipped on a heavy military saddle with its high-peak holsters and curb-bit.
Five minutes after they were mounted and making for Charing Cross.
“Which way are we going?” asked Frank, whose excitement increased to a feeling of wild exhilaration, as he felt the beautifully elastic creature between his knees, with a sensation of participating in its strength, and being where he would have a hundred times the chance of getting to speak to his father.
“Up north,” said the captain abruptly.
“North? Why not east? They will take him to the Tower.”
“No. Steady horse. Walk, walk! Hold yours in, boy. We must go at a slow pace till we get to the top of the lane.”
The horses settled down to their walk, almost keeping pace for pace, as the captain said quietly:
“I have got all the information I required. No, they will not take the prisoners to the Tower, but to Newgate.”
“Newgate?” cried Frank; “why, that is where the thieves and murderers go.”
“Yes,” said the captain abruptly. “Look here, Frank. They are not to reach the prison till nine, so we have plenty of time to get some distance out. They will come in by the north road, and I don’t think we can miss them.”
“Why risk passing them?” said Frank.
“Because, if we intercept the escort on the great north road somewhere beyond Highgate, you will be able to ride back near the carriage in which your father is, and, even if you cannot speak to him, you will see him, and be seen.”
“But it will be horrible; I shall look like one of the soldiers guarding him to his cell.”
“Never mind what you look like, so long as your father sees that he is not forgotten by those who love him.”
The captain ceased speaking, and their horses picked their way over the stones, their hoofs clattering loudly, and making the people they passed turn to stare after the two military-looking cavaliers in cocked hat and horseman’s cloak, and with the lower parts of their scabbards seen below to show that they were well armed.
Saint Martin’s Church clock pointed to seven as they rode by; and then, well acquainted with the way, the captain made for the north-east, breaking into a trot as they reached the open street where the traffic was small, Frank’s well-trained horse keeping step with its stable companion; and by the shortest cuts that could be made they reached Islington without seeing a sign of any unusual excitement, so well had the secret been kept of the coming of the prisoners that night.
“Not much sign of a crowd to meet them, Frank,” said the captain, as they went now at a steady trot along the upper road. “Pretty good proof that we are in time.”
“Why, what is a good sign?” asked Frank.
“So few people about. If the prisoners and their escort had passed, half Islington would have been out gossiping at their doors.”
“Suppose they have come some other way?”
“Not likely. This was to be their route, and at half-past eight two troops of Horse Guards will march up the road to meet the escort at Islington. That will bring out the crowd.”
Frank winced as if he had suddenly felt the prick of a knife, so sharp was the spasm which ran through him. For the moment he had quite forgotten the prospect of an attempt at rescue; now the mention of the soldiery coming to meet the unhappy prisoners and strengthen the escort brought all back, and with it the questioning thought:
“Would Drew’s friends make the venture when so strong a force would be there?”
“No—yes—no—yes,” his heart seemed to beat; then the rattle of the horses’ hoofs took it up—no, yes, no, yes; and now it seemed to be the time to tell Captain Murray of the attempt that was to be made, or rather that was planned.
“And if I tell him he will feel that it is his duty as a soldier to warn the officer in command of the escort, and he will take them at a sharp trot round by some other way. Oh, I can’t tell him! It would be like robbing my father of his last chance.”
Frank felt more and more that his lips were sealed; and as to the danger which Murray would incur—well, he was a soldier well mounted, and he must run the risk.
“As I shall,” thought Frank. “It will be no worse for him than for me. It is not as if I were going to try and save myself. I’ll stand by him, weak boy as I am. Or no; shall I not be escaping with my father?”
He shook his head the next moment, and felt that he could not be of the rescuing party. He must still be the Prince’s page, and return to the Palace to bear his mother the news of the escape.
“For he will—he must escape,” thought the boy. “Drew’s friends will be out in force to-night, and I shall be able to go back and tell her that he is safe.”
As they rode on through the pleasant dark night Frank thought more of the peril into which his companion was going, and hesitated about telling him, so that he might be warned; but again he shrank from speaking, for fear that it might mean disaster to Drew’s projects.
“And he has his father to save as well as mine. I can’t warn him,” he concluded. “I run the risk as well as he.”
He felt better satisfied the next minute, as he glanced sidewise at the bold, manly bearing of the captain, mounted on the splendid, well-trained charger.
“Captain Murray can take care of himself,” he thought; and the feelings which were shut within his breast grew into a sensation of excitement that was almost pleasurable.
“Quite countrified out here, Frank,” said the captain suddenly, as the road began to ascend; and after passing Highbury the houses grew scarce, being for the most part citizens’ mansions. “Don’t be down-hearted, my lad. The law is very curious. It is a strong castle for our defence, but full of loopholes by which a man may escape.”
“Escape?” cried Frank excitedly. “You think he may escape?”
“I hope so, and I’d give something now if my oaths were not taken, and I could do something in the way of striking a blow for your father’s liberty.”
For a few minutes the boy felt eagerly ready to confess all he knew; but the words which had raised the desire served also to check it. “If my oaths were not taken,” Captain Murray had said; and he was the very soul of honour, and would not break his allegiance to his King.
“My father did,” thought the boy sadly. Then he brightened. “No,” he thought, “the King broke it, and set him free by banishing him from his service.”
“How do you get on with your horse, lad?—Walk.” The horses changed their pace at the word. The hill was getting steep.
“Oh, I get on capitally. It’s like sitting in an easy-chair. I haven’t been on a horse for a year.”
“Then you learned to ride well, Frank. Find the advantage of having your boots, though. Fancy a ride like this in silk stockings and shoes!—You ought to go into the cavalry some day.”
Frank sighed.
“Bah! Don’t look at the future as being all black, boy. Stick to Hope, the lady who carries the anchor. One never knows what may turn up.”
“No, one never knows what may turn up,” cried the boy excitedly; and then he checked himself in dread lest his companion should read his thoughts respecting the rescue. But the captain’s next words set him at rest.
“That’s right, my lad. Try and keep a stout heart. Steep hill this. Do you know where we are?”
“Only that we are on the great north road.”
“Yes. When we are on the top of this hill, we shall be in the village of Highgate; and if it was daylight, we could see all London if we looked back, and the country right away if we looked forward. I propose to stop at the top of the hill and wait.”
“Yes,” said Frank eagerly.
“Perhaps go on for a quarter of a mile, so as to be where we are not observed.”
The horses were kept at a walking pace till the village was reached, and here a gate was stretched across, and a man came out to take the toll, Frank noticing that he examined them keenly by the light of a lanthorn.
“Any one passed lately—horsemen and carriages?” said the captain quietly.
The man chuckled.
“Yes, a couple of your kidney,” said the man. “You’re too late.”
A pang shot through Frank, and he leaned forward.
“Too late? What do you mean, sir?” cried the captain sharply; and, as he spoke, he threw back his horseman’s cloak, showing his uniform slightly.
“Oh, I beg your worships’ pardon. I took you for gentlemen of the road.”
“What, highwaymen?”
“Yes, sir. A couple of them went by not ten minutes ago. But I don’t suppose they’ll try to stop you. They don’t like catching Tartars. Be as well to have your pistols handy, though.”
“Thank you for the hint,” said the captain, and they rode on.
“What do you say, Frank?” said the captain. “Shall we go any farther? It would be an awkward experience for you if we were stopped by highwaymen. Shall we stop?”
“Oh, we cannot stop to think about men like that,” said Frank excitedly.
“Not afraid, then?”
“I’m afraid we shall not meet the prisoners,” said the boy sadly.
“Forward, then. But unfasten the cover of your holsters. You will find loaded pistols there, and can take one out if we are stopped—I mean if any one tries to stop us. But,” he added grimly, “I don’t think any one will.”
At another time it would have set the boy trembling with excitement; but his mind was too full of the object of their expedition, and as the horses paced on the warning about the gentlemen who infested the main roads in those days was forgotten, so that a few minutes later it came as a surprise to the boy when a couple of horsemen suddenly appeared from beneath a clump of trees by the roadside, came into the middle of the road, and barred their way.
“Realm?” said one of the men sharply.
“Keep off, or I fire,” cried Captain Murray.
The two mounted men reined back on the instant, and, pistol in hand, the captain and Frank went on at a walk.
“I don’t think—nay, I’m sure—that those men are not on the road, Frank,” said the captain quietly. “That was a password. Realm. Can they be friends of the prisoners sent forward as scouts?”
“Do you think so?” said Frank.
“Yes,” replied the captain thoughtfully; “and if they are, we are quite right. The prisoners have not passed, and I should not wonder if there were an attempt made to rescue them before they reach town.”
Frank’s head began to buzz, and he nipped his horse so tightly that the animal broke into a trot.
“Steady! Walk,” cried the captain; and the next minute he drew rein, to sit peering forward into the darkness, listening for the tramp of horses, which ought to have been heard for a mile or two upon so still a night.
“Can’t hear them,” he said in a disappointed tone. “But we will not go any farther.”
At that moment Frank’s horse uttered a loud challenging neigh, which was answered from about a hundred yards off, and this was followed by another, and another farther away still.
“There they are,” said the captain, “halting for a rest to the horses before trotting down. Forward!”
They advanced again; but had not gone far before figures were dimly seen in the road, and directly after a stern voice bade them halt.
The captain replied with a few brief words, and they rode forward, to find themselves facing a vedette of dragoons, a couple of whom escorted them to where, upon an open space, in the middle of which was a pond, a strong body of cavalry was halted, the greater part of the men dismounted; but about twenty men were mounted, and sat with drawn swords, surrounding a couple of carriages, each with four horses—artillery teams—and the drivers in their places ready to start at a moment’s notice.