There was a pause.
“Father said that a well-intentioned boy would have no secrets from his father and mother, and that they should be always looked upon as his best friends. But it isn’t mine altogether,” argued Fred, after another very long pause; “and I’ve no business to tell Scar’s secret to any one till he has told it to his own father and mother; and, besides, as it’s a private place, they would not like any one to know about it, and—”
“Yes, Forrester, we may throw away all compunction now,” said a loud, firm voice; and Fred rose from his seat as his father entered in company with a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose grizzled, slightly curly hair was cut very close to his head, and whose eyes seemed to pierce the boy, as he gave him a sternly searching look. He had a stiff, military bearing, and he did not walk down the long low room, but seemed to march rather awkwardly, as if he had been riding a great deal.
He nodded familiarly to Mistress Forrester, who looked at him in rather a troubled way, as he marched straight to Fred, slapped him sharply on the shoulder, and gripped it so hard as to give him acute pain. But the boy did not flinch, only set his teeth hard, knit his brow, and gazed resentfully in the visitor’s dark eyes, which seemed full of malice and enjoyment in the pain he was giving.
“So this is Fred, is it?” he said in a harsh voice, which sounded as if he was ordering Colonel Forrester to answer.
“Yes, sir,” said Mistress Forrester, with dignity, “this is our son;” and she looked wonderfully like her boy in the resentful glance she darted at her guest, for she could read Fred’s suffering.
“Hah! made of the right stuff, like his father, Mistress Forrester. Did that hurt you, my boy?”
“Of course it did,” said Fred, sharply.
“Then why didn’t you cry out or flinch, eh?”
This was accompanied by a tighter grip, which seemed as if the stranger’s fingers were made of iron.