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."