“No, Frank,” he said gravely. “I should not now. It is too late.”
“But it would mean bringing you back, father.”
“I am not a clever man, Frank lad,” said Sir Robert. “I am fair as a soldier, and I know my duties pretty well; but when we get into the maze of politics and social matters, I am afraid that I am very stupid. Here, however, I seem to see in a dim sort of way that such a thing as you propose would be only weak and romantic. It sounds very nice, but it would only be raising your hopes and— Stop. Does your mother know that you think of doing this?”
“Oh no, father; the doctor only just suggested it—now that Steinberg has recovered.”
“Very good of the doctor, and I am deeply in his debt for saving that wretched German baron’s life. Not pleasant to have known that you had killed a man in a quarrel, Frank.”
“Horrible, father!” said the boy emphatically.
“Yes, horrible, lad. But the doctor is a better man at wounds than he is at giving counsel. No, Frank, under any circumstances it would not have done. King George is too hard and matter-of-fact a man of the world to be stirred by my boy’s appeal. His German folk would look upon it as weakness, and would be offended. He cannot afford to offend the German people, for he has no real English friends, and between the two stools he’d be afraid of coming to the ground. No, you shall not humble yourself to do this; and,” he said firmly, “it is too late.”
There was something so commanding in the way these last words were said that Frank drew a deep sigh of regret, and the hopeful vision faded away behind the cloud his father drew over it. But the minutes were precious, and he could not afford time to regret the dashing of his hopes, when he had him for whose benefit they were designed sitting there holding his hand.
“Then you are going to stay here now, father?” he said.
“Here? No, Frank. It is only a temporary hiding-place. I shall be off to-morrow.”