CHAPTER FOUR.
FRANK'S EYES BEGIN TO OPEN.
Everything else seemed to the boy to cease at the same time, till hebecame conscious of feeling cold and wet, and heard a voice speaking:
"And him quite a boy too. I wonder what his mother would say.--Here,drink this, my dear; and don't you never go amongst the crazy,quarrelsome wretches again. I don't know what we're coming to withtheir fighting in the streets. It isn't safe to go out, that it isn't.Drink it all, my dear; you'll feel better then. I always feel faintmyself if I get in a crowd."
Frank had heard every word, with a peculiar dreamy feeling that he oughtto listen and know who the boy was so addressed. Then he becameconscious that it was he who was drinking from a mug of water held tohis lips; and, opening his eyes, he looked up into a pleasant, homelyface bending over him in an open doorway, upon whose step he wassitting, half leaning against the doorpost, half against the woman whowas kneeling at his side.
"Ah, that's better," said the woman. "Now you take my advice; you gostraight home. You're not a man yet, and don't want to mix yourself upwith people fighting about who ought to be king. Just as if it mattersto such as us. As I often tell my husband, he'd a deal better attend togetting his living, and not go listening to people argifying whetherit's to be the king on the other side of the water or on this. I say,give me peace and--You feel better, don't you?"
"Yes, thank you," said Frank, making an effort to rise; but the momenthe tried the ground seemed to heave up beneath him.
"You're not quite right yet, my dear; sit still a little longer. Andyou too with a sword by your side, just as if you wanted to fight. Icall it shocking, that I do."
"But I am much better," said Frank, ignoring the woman's remarks. "Ican walk now. But did you see my friend?"
"Your friend? Was it one of those rough-looking fellows who camerunning down with you between 'em, and half a dozen more hunting them,and they pushed you in here and ran on?"
"Oh no. My friend is a--Ah! there he is. Drew! Drew!"
Looking white and strange, Andrew Forbes was coming hurriedly down thenarrow lane, when he heard his name pronounced, and looking round hecaught sight of his companion, and hurried to his side.
"Oh, here you are!" he panted. "I've been looking for you everywhere.I was afraid they had taken you to the watch-house. I couldn't keep byyou; I was regularly dragged away."
"Were you hurt?" cried Frank excitedly.
"Felt as if my ribs were all crushed in. But what about you?"
"I suppose I turned faint," said Frank. "I didn't know anything till Ifound myself here, and this lady giving me water."
"Oh, I'm not a lady, my dear," said the woman, smiling,--"only alaundress as does for some of the gentlemen in the Temple. There now,you both go home; for I can see that you don't belong to this part ofthe town. I dare say, if the truth was known, he brought you here."
Frank was silent, but he glanced up at Andrew, who was carefullyrearranging his dress and brushing his cocked hat.
"I thought as much," said the woman. "He's bigger, and he ought to haveknown better than to get into such a shameful disturbance.--What'sthat?--Lor' bless me, no, my dear! Why should I take a mark for a mugof cold water? Put it in your pocket, my dear; you'll want it to buycakes and apples. I don't want to be paid for doing a Christian act."
"Then thank you very much," said Frank warmly, offering his hand.
"Oh! if you will," said the woman, "I don't mind. It isn't the firsttime I've shook hands with a gentleman."
The woman turned, smiling with pleasure, as if to repeat the performancewith Andrew Forbes; but as she caught sight of his frowning countenanceher hand fell to her side, and she dropped the youth a formal curtsey.
"Thank you for helping my friend," he said.
"You're quite welkum, young man," said the woman tartly. "And if you'lltake my advice, you won't bring him into these parts again, wherethey're doing nothing else but swash-buckling from morning to night.The broken heads I've seen this year is quite awful, and--"
Andrew Forbes did not wait to hear the rest, but passed his arm throughthat of Frank, and walked with him swiftly down the narrow lane towardthe water-side.
"You're not much hurt, are you?"
"Oh no. It was the heat and being squeezed so."
"Don't say you were frightened, lad!" cried Andrew.
"I was at first; but when I saw the people being knocked about so, Ifelt as if I wanted to help."
"That's right. You've got the right stuff in you. But wasn't itglorious?"
"Glorious?"
"Yes!" cried Andrew excitedly. "It was brave and gallant to a degree.The cowardly brutes were three times as many as the others."
"Oh no; the other side was the stronger, and they ought to havewhipped."
"Nonsense! You don't know what you are talking about," said Andrewwarmly. "The miserable brutes were five or six times as strong, and thebrave fellows drove them like a flock of sheep right out of the court,and scattered them in the street like chaff. Oh, it made up foreverything!"
Frank put his hand to his head.
"I don't quite understand it," he said. "My head feels swimming andqueer yet. I thought the people in the house were the weaker--I meanthose who dashed out shouting, `Down with the Dutchmen!'"
"Of course," cried Andrew; "that's what I'm saying. It was veryhorrible to be situated as we were."
"Yes, horrible," said Frank quietly.
"Not able to so much as draw one's sword."
"Too much squeezed together."
"Yes," said Andrew, with his face flushed warmly. "I did cry out andshout to them to come on; but one was so helpless and mixed-up-like thatpeople could hardly tell which side they belonged to."
"No," said Frank drily; "it was hard."
He looked meaningly at his companion as he spoke; but Andrew's eyes weregazing straight before him, and he was seeing right into the future.
"Did you see your friend you wanted to speak to?" said Frank, as theyreached the river-side.
"See him? Yes, fighting like a hero; but I couldn't get near him.Never mind; another time will do. I little thought I should come to thecity to-day to see such a victory. It all shows how things areworking."
"Going to ride back by boat?" said Frank, as if to change theconversation.
"Oh yes; we can't go along Fleet Street and the Strand. The streetswill be full of constables, and soldiers out too I dare say. They'rebusy making arrests I know; and if we were to go along there, as likelyas not there'd be some spy or one of the beaten side ready to point usout as having been in it."
They reached the stairs, took their place in a wherry, and as theyleaned back and the waterman tugged at his oars, against tide now, Franksaid thoughtfully:
"I say, what would have happened if somebody had pointed us out?"
"We should have been locked up of course, and been taken before themagistrate to-morrow. Then it would all have come out about our beingthere, and--ha--ha--ha!--the Prince would have had vacancies for twomore pages.--I shouldn't have cared."
"I should," said Frank quickly, as he saw in imagination the painedfaces of father and mother.
"Well, of course, so should I. Don't take any notice of what I said.Besides, we can be so useful as we are."
"How?" said Frank thoughtfully. "It always seems to me that we are buta couple of ornaments, and of no use at all."
"Ah! wait," said Andrew quietly. Then, as if feeling that he had beenin his excitement letting his tongue run far too fast, he turned to hiscompanion, and said gently:
"You are the son of a gallant officer and a beautiful lady, and I knowyou would not say a word that would injure a friend."
"I hope not," said Frank, rather huskily.
"I'm sure you would not, or I should not have spoken out as I have. Butdon't take any notice; you see, a man can't help talking politics at atime like this. Well, when will you come to the city again?"
> "Never, if I can help it," said Frank shortly; and that night in bed helay sleepless for hours, thinking of his companion's words, and graspingpretty clearly that King George the First had a personage in his palacewho was utterly unworthy of trust.
"And it's such a pity," said the boy, with a sigh. "I like AndrewForbes, though he is a bit conceited and a dandy; but it seems as if Iought to speak to somebody about what I know. My father--my mother?There is no one else I should like to trust with such a secret. But hehas left it to my honour, and I feel pulled both ways. What ought I todo?"
He fell asleep at last with that question unanswered, and when he awokethe next morning the thought repeated itself with stronger force thanbefore, "Why, he must be at heart a traitor to the King!" and once morein dire perplexity Frank Gowan asked himself that question, "What shallI do?"
In Honour's Cause: A Tale of the Days of George the First Page 4