Chapter Forty Three.
A Meeting between Friends.
“‘Be at your father’s house at four this afternoon, holding the door ajar till I slip in,’” said Frank, repeating his old companion’s words, trembling with excitement the while, as he watched till the figure had disappeared, when a feeling of resentment sent the hot blood to his temples. “No. I will not go. It only means more trouble. Oh, how much of it all is due to him!”
“No,” he said a few minutes later. “That is unjust. He must have been with the people who attempted the rescue last night. I will go. He is brave and true, after all. Yes, it is to help again to save my father, and I will be there.”
It was like a fillip to him, and a few minutes after he rose, and went back to the Palace, passing several officials whom he knew, all saluting him in a kindly way, as if full of sympathy, but not attempting to speak.
His goal was his mother’s room, and to his surprise he found her evidently anxiously expecting him, but very calm and resigned in her manner.
“Frank dear,” she said gently, “I feel as if it is almost heartless of me to seem so, but I am better. I will not despair, my own boy, for I feel so restful. It is as if something told me that our prayers would be heard.”
“And with him lying in irons in that dreadful gaol,” thought Frank, with a momentary feeling of resentment—momentary, for it passed away, and he sat with her, telling her, at her urgent prayer, of all the proceedings of the past night, as well as of his ill-success that morning.
He had prayed of her not to press him, but she insisted, and it was to find that, in place of sending her into a fit of despondent weeping, she spoke afterwards quite calmly.