Chapter 70
"Yes; we had news this morning by the messenger who brought the royal despatches. The colonel had a brief letter. Get leave to go out to-morrow, and come with me."
"Yes, where?"
"We'll try and meet the escort, and see your father, even if we cannot speak."
"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Frank; and, utterly worn out with anxiety and want of proper food, he reeled, a deathly feeling of sickness seized him, and his eyes closed.
When he opened them again he was lying upon the captain's couch, with his temples and hair wet, and he looked wonderingly in the face of his father's friend.
"Better?"
"Yes; what is it? Oh my head! the room's going round."
"Drink," said the captain. "That's better. It will soon go off."
"But why did I turn like that?"
"From weakness, lad. Shall I send for the doctor?"
"No, no," cried Frank, struggling up into a sitting position. "I'm better now. How stupid of me!"
"Nature telling you she has been neglected, my lad. You have not eaten much lately?"
"I couldn't."
"Nor slept well?"
"Horribly. I could only lie and think."
"And you have not been outside the walls?"
"No; I have felt ashamed to be seen, and as if people would look at me and say, 'His father is one of the prisoners.'"
"All signs of weakness, as the doctor would say. Now you want to be strong enough to go with me to-morrow--mounted?"
"Of course."
"Then try and do something to make yourself fit. I shouldn't perhaps be able to catch you as I did just now if you fainted on horseback, and in a London crowd; for we should be under the wing of the troops sent to meet the prisoners coming in."
"I shall be all right, sir," said the boy firmly.
"Go and have a walk in the fresh air, then, now."
"Must I?" said Frank dismally.
"If you wish to go with me."
"Where shall I go, then?"
"Anywhere; go and have a turn in the Park."
"What, go and walk up and down there, where people may know me!"
"Yes, let them. Don't take any notice. Try and amuse yourself. Be a boy again, or a man if you like, and do as Charles the Second used to do: go and feed the ducks. Well, what's the matter? there's no harm in feeding ducks, is there?"
"Oh no," said the boy confusedly;
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
FEEDING THE DUCKS AGAIN.
"Go and feed the ducks," said Frank to himself, as he obtained some biscuits, and, in his readiness to obey his elder's wishes, went slowly toward the water-side; "how little he knows what a deal that means;"
and, almost unconsciously, he strolled on down to the side of the ca.n.a.l, thinking of Mr George Selby and Drew, and of the various incidents connected with his walks out there, which, with the duel, seemed in his disturbed state of mind to have taken place years--instead of months-- ago, when he was a boy.
He went slowly on, forgetting all about the biscuits, till he noticed that several of the water-fowl were swimming along, a few feet from the bank, and watching him with inquiring eyes.
He stopped short, turned to face the water, which was sparkling brightly in the suns.h.i.+ne, and taking a biscuit out of his capacious "salt-box pocket," he began to break it in little bits and throw them to the birds.
"Ah, what a deal has happened since we were here doing this that day,"
thought the boy; and his mind went back to his first meeting with Drew's father, the invitation to the dinner, and the scene that evening in the tavern.
"Please give me a bit, good gentleman," said a whining voice at his elbow. "I'm so hungry, please, sir. Arn't had nothing since yes'day morning, sir."
Frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had pa.s.sed lying apparently asleep on the gra.s.s a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. He wore a dismally battered c.o.c.ked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. His s.h.i.+rt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes.
Frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow's face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged.
Frank looked at him with sovereign contempt.
"So hungry that you can't stoop down by the water's edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?"
"Wash, sir?" said the lad piteously; "what's the good? Don't matter for such as me. You don't know."
"Miserable wretch!" thought Frank; "what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in." Then aloud: "Here, which will you have--the biscuit or this?"
He held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other.
"Biscuit, please, gentleman," whined the lad. "I am so hungry, you don't know."
"Take both," said Frank; and they were s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hands.
"Oh, thank you, gentleman," whined the lad, as some one pa.s.sed. "You don't know what trouble is;" and he began to devour the biscuit ravenously.
"Not know what trouble is!" cried Frank scornfully. "Do you think fine clothes will keep that out? Oh, I don't know that I wouldn't change places with you, after all."
"Poor old laddie!" said the youth, looking at him in a peculiar way, and with his voice seeming changed by the biscuit in his mouth; "and I thought he was enjoying himself, and feeding the ducks, and not caring a bit."