Frank followed the maid to the little room, and stood waiting, for he could not sit down in his anxiety. He felt hot and cold, and as if he would have given anything to have hurried away, but there was nothing for it but to screw up his courage and face the matter.
“She’ll be half an hour yet,” he muttered, “and that will give me time to grow cool; then I can talk to her.”
He was wrong; for at the end of five minutes there was the rustling of garments, and Lady Gowan entered, in a loose morning gown, looking startled at being woke up by such a message.
“Why, Frank, my darling boy, what is it?” she cried, as the boy shrank from her eyes when she embraced him affectionately. “You are ill! No; in trouble! I can see it in your eyes. Look up at me, my boy, and be in nature what you are by name. You were right to come to me. There, sit down by my side, and let it be always so—boy or man, let me always be your confidante, and I will forgive you and advise you if I can.”
Frank was silent, but he clung to her, trembling.
“Speak to me, dear,” she said, drawing him to her and kissing his forehead; “it cannot be anything very dreadful—only some escapade.”
His lips parted, but no words would come, and he shivered at the thought of undeceiving her.
“Come, come, dear,” she whispered, “there is no one to hear you but I; and am I not your mother?”
“Yes, but—”
That was all. He could say no more.