Part 27 (1/2)

To his great surprise, as he entered the house, he found that supper was not begun.

”Been waiting for me, mother?” he cried to the calm, sweet-faced lady seated working by the light of rather a dim candle.

”No, Fred,” she said, smiling gravely, as she drew him down and kissed his brow.

”Because I had mine with Scar. Where's father?”

”In the library. He has a gentleman with him.”

”Gentleman?”

”Yes; he has come from Bristol to see your father on business.”

”Oh!” said Fred, carelessly; and he sat down and rested his head upon his hand.

”Does your head ache, my boy?” asked his mother.

”Head? No, mother. I was only thinking,” said the boy, as his mother's words brought him back from wandering in the water-floored pa.s.sage.

”Thinking of your studies?”

Fred started a little, for his studies had been rather neglected of late.

”No, mother, only of a hunt Scar and I had in the Hall woods to-day.”

It was in the boy's heart to tell his mother all that had pa.s.sed, and their discovery from beginning to end, but he argued, ”If I do, it will not be a secret any longer.”

There was a pause.

”Father said that a well-intentioned boy would have no secrets from his father and mother, and that they should be always looked upon as his best friends. But it isn't mine altogether,” argued Fred, after another very long pause; ”and I've no business to tell Scar's secret to any one till he has told it to his own father and mother; and, besides, as it's a private place, they would not like any one to know about it, and--”

”Yes, Forrester, we may throw away all compunction now,” said a loud, firm voice; and Fred rose from his seat as his father entered in company with a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose grizzled, slightly curly hair was cut very close to his head, and whose eyes seemed to pierce the boy, as he gave him a sternly searching look. He had a stiff, military bearing, and he did not walk down the long low room, but seemed to march rather awkwardly, as if he had been riding a great deal.

He nodded familiarly to Mistress Forrester, who looked at him in rather a troubled way, as he marched straight to Fred, slapped him sharply on the shoulder, and gripped it so hard as to give him acute pain. But the boy did not flinch, only set his teeth hard, knit his brow, and gazed resentfully in the visitor's dark eyes, which seemed full of malice and enjoyment in the pain he was giving.

”So this is Fred, is it?” he said in a harsh voice, which sounded as if he was ordering Colonel Forrester to answer.

”Yes, sir,” said Mistress Forrester, with dignity, ”this is our son;”

and she looked wonderfully like her boy in the resentful glance she darted at her guest, for she could read Fred's suffering.

”Hah! made of the right stuff, like his father, Mistress Forrester. Did that hurt you, my boy?”

”Of course it did,” said Fred, sharply.

”Then why didn't you cry out or flinch, eh?”

This was accompanied by a tighter grip, which seemed as if the stranger's fingers were made of iron.

The grip was but momentary, and the boy stood like a rock.