It was a bright morning; but now it seemed to Frank Gowan that the world
had suddenly turned back. Andrew Forbes met him in the most friendly
way after breakfast. He was almost affectionate in his greeting.
"Didn't dream about the traitors' heads on Temple Bar, did you?"
"No," said Frank coldly. "I lay awake and thought about them."
"Ugh!" ejaculated Andrew, with a shudder. "What gruesome things to take
to bed with you. I didn't; I was so tired that I went off directly and
slept like a top."
Frank looked at him in disgust.
"Hallo! what's the matter?" cried his fellow-page. "Not well?"
"I was wondering whether you had any conscience."
"I say, hark at the serious old man!" cried Andrew merrily. "Whatever
made you ask that?"
"Because it seemed impossible you could have one, to treat it all so
lightly after taking me there last night."
"I don't see how you can call it that. You were invited, and you went
with me."
"That's a contemptible piece of shuffling," cried Frank.
Andrew flushed up and frowned.
"Pooh!" he said, laughing it off. "You are tired and cross this
morning. What a fellow you are for wanting to quarrel! But we can't do
that, now we're brethren."
"No, we are not," said Frank hotly. "I'll have nothing to do with the
miserable business."
"Colt kicking on first feeling his harness," said Andrew merrily.
"Never mind, Frank; you'll soon get used to it."
"Never."
"And it's a grand harness to wear. I say, what's the good of making a
fuss about it? You'll thank me one of these days."
"Then you have no conscience," cried Frank sternly.
"Why, Frank, old boy, you make me feel quite young beside you. What a
serious old man you've grown into! But if you will have it out about
conscience," he continued warmly, after a glance at each of the doors
opening out of the room in which they were, "I'll tell you this: my
conscience would not let me, any more than would the consciences of
thousands more, settle down to being ruled over by a German prince,
invited here by a party of scheming politicians, to the exclusion of the
rightful heir to the throne. What do you say to that?"
"Only this," said Frank: "that you and I have nothing to do with such
things as who ought to be king or who ought not. We're the Prince's
servants, and we are bound to do our duty to him and his father. If we
go on as you propose, we become conspirators and traitors."
"Oh, I say, what a sermon; what a lot about nothing! People don't study
these things in war and politics. I'm for the simple right or wrong of
things. I say it's wrong for King George the First to be on the throne,
so I shall not stick at trifles in fighting for the right."
"Well, if you talk like that in a place where they say that walls have
ears, you'll soon save me the trouble and pain of speaking."
"There was no one to hear but you, and you're safe," said Andrew,
laughing. "Brothers don't betray brothers, for one thing; and you know
what I told you last night. If you were to betray us, your life would
not be safe for a day."
"Pish!"
"Oh, you take it that way, do you? You think you are safe because you
are here in the Palace, surrounded by guards. Now, I'll tell you
something that you don't know. You believe that I am the only one here
who is ready to throw up his hat and draw his sword for the King."
"Yes, and I'm right."
"Only ignorant, Frank, my boy. Now listen. We Jacobites have people
everywhere ready to strike when the time comes. Here in this Palace we
have ladies and gentlemen forced to keep silence for the present, but
who will be in ecstasies as soon as they know the good news Mr Selby
gave me last night. Why, the King's and Prince's households contain
some of our staunchest people; and if you like to go lower, there are
plenty of us even among the Royal Guards. Now, what do you say to
that?"
"It can't be true."
"Very well; I shan't quarrel with your ignorance. But look here, Frank;
take my advice: Don't you do anything foolish, for so sure as you betray
any secret you possess there will be hundreds of hands against you--yes,
boy as you are, and unimportant as you think yourself. If you breathe a
word, it is not merely against me, but against the safety of scores
here; and to save themselves one or the other will send his sword
through you at the first opportunity, wipe it, put it back in its
sheath, and walk away. No one would be the wiser, and poor Frank Gowan,
of whom his mother and father are so proud, would lie dead, while I
should have lost the friend for whom I care more than for any one I ever
met."
"You don't; it isn't true," cried Frank. "If it were, you would not
have led me into this scrape."
"Yes, I should. I tell you that you will thank me some day."
"For making me a traitor?"
"Nonsense! Who can be a traitor who fights for his rightful king?
There, let's leave it now. You have been brought into the right way,
and you are ready to fight against it because you don't see the truth
yet; but it will all come out, and--very soon."
"What?" cried Frank, for there was a meaning look to accompany the
latter words.
"I'm not going to repeat what I said; but you will soon see."
"Then I must speak out at once. I shrank from it for fear of troubling
my mother; but now you force me to."
"Don't, Frank. I shouldn't like to see you hurt."
"Whether I'm hurt or whether I'm not is nothing to you."
"Yes, it is. I have told you why. I couldn't bear to see you struck
down."
"I don't believe that I should be."
"I do, and I don't want you to risk it, for one thing. For the other, I
don't want to be arrested, and to have my head chopped off, for you
couldn't speak without getting me into trouble."
Frank stared at him with his purpose beginning to waver.
"I might get off easily, being what they would call a mere boy. But I
don't know; perhaps they would think that, as I was in a particular
position in the Palace, they ought to make an example of me."
He laughed lightly as he threw himself into a seat by the window.
"I've no one to care about me except the dad, and a little more trouble
wouldn't hurt him very much. Perhaps he'd be proud because I died for
the King. I say, would you like to know why I am such a steady follower
of him across the water?"
Frank didn't speak, but his eyes said yes.
"Because I found how my poor father was wrong-treated. He's free, but
he's little better than a prisoner. He's looked upon as a traitor, and
I'm kept here principally as a sort of hostage to make him keep quiet.
That's it, and they'll shorten me for certain if they find anything out.
Poor old dad, though; I dare say he'll be sorry, for he likes me in his
way."
The trampling of horses was heard in the distance, and Andrew turned
sharply.
"Here they come again. How bright and gay they look this morning! Ah!
I should have liked to live and be an officer in a regiment like that,
ready to fight for my king; but I suppose I am not to be tall enough,"
he added, with a mocking laugh. "Wonder whether they'll stick my head
on Temple Bar. Now, Frank, here's your chance; come and shout to the
nearest officer--`Stop and arrest a traitor!' Well, why don't you? He
will hear you if you holloa well."
Frank made no reply.
"Oh," cried Andrew, "you are letting your chance go by. Well, perhaps
it's better, and it will give me time to send a message to warn the dear
old dad. No, that wouldn't do, because he would at once settle that it
was your doing, and then--well, I should have signed your death-warrant,
Franky. It would be all over with us both, and pretty soon. You first,
though, for our people wouldn't stop for a trial. I say: feel afraid?
Somehow I don't. Perhaps that will come later on. Sure to, I suppose;
for it must be very horrible to have to die when one is so young, and
with so many things to do. Going?"
"Yes," said Frank gravely, as he turned away.
"Good-bye, then. Perhaps we shan't see each other again."
A peculiar thrill ran through Frank, and his heart gave one great throb.
But he did not turn round. He went out of the room, to go somewhere to
be alone--to try to think quietly out what he ought to do, and to solve
the problem which would have been a hard one for a much older head,
though at that moment it seemed to the boy as if he had suddenly grown
very old, and that the present was separated from his happy boyish days
by a tremendous space.