For it was true, then—the charge was correct. Andrew Forbes’s words had not been an insult, the Prince had told the simple fact.
“Oh, the shame of it!” panted the boy, as he read and re-read the words couched in the most affectionate strain, telling him not to think ill of the father who loved him dearly, and begged of him to remember that father’s position, hopeless of being able to return from his exile, knowing that his life was forfeit, treated as if he were an enemy. So that in despair he had yielded to the pressure put upon him by old friends, and joined them in the bold attempt to place the crown upon the head of the rightful heir.
“Whatever happens, my boy, I leave your mother to you as your care.”
Frank’s hands were cold and his forehead wet as he read these last words, and the affectionate, loving way in which his father concluded his letter, the last information being that he was in England, and had gone north to join friends who would shortly be marching on London.
“Burn this, the last letter I shall be able to leave for you, unless we triumph. Then we shall meet again.”
“‘Burn this,’” said Frank, in a strange, husky whisper. “Yes, I meant to burn this;” and in a curious, unemotional way, looking white and wan the while, he dropped the letter in the fire, and stood watching it as it blazed up till the flame drew near the great red wax seal bearing his father’s crest. This melted till the crest was blurred out, the wax ran and blazed, and in a few moments there was only a black, crumpled patch of tinder, over and about which a host of tiny sparks seemed to be chasing each other till all was soft and grey.
“I needn’t have burned it,” said the boy, in a low, pained voice. “What does it matter now?”
He stood looking old and strange as he spoke. It did not seem a boy’s face turned to the fire, but that of an effeminate young man in some great suffering, as he said again, in a voice which startled him and made him shiver:
“What does it matter now?”
He turned his head and listened then, before stooping to take up the poker and scatter the grey patch of ashes that still showed letters and words; for he appeared to have suddenly awakened to the fact that the thundering of the knocker was still going on and the bell pealing.