The American Boy

The American Boy by Andrew Taylor Read Free Book Online Page A

Book: The American Boy by Andrew Taylor Read Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Taylor
Master Charles to step this way,” he told the footman.
    The footman strode away. The butler took me into a small and square apartment, furnished as a book-room. Henry Frant was seated at a bureau, pen in hand, and did not look up. The shutters were up and candles burned in sconces above the fireplace and in a candelabrum on a table by the window.
    The nib scratched on the paper. The candlelight glinted on Frant’s signet ring and the touches of silver in his hair. At length he sat back, re-read what he had written, sanded the paper, and folded it. As he opened one of the drawers of the bureau, I noticed that he was missing the top joints of the forefinger on his left hand, a blemish on his perfection which pleased me. At least, I thought, I have something that you have not. He slipped the paper in the drawer.
    â€œOpen the cupboard on the left of the fireplace,” he said without looking at me. “Below the shelves. You will find a stick in the right-hand corner.”
    I obeyed him. It was a walking-stick, a stout malacca cane with a silver handle and a brass-shod point.
    â€œTwelve good hard strokes, I think,” Mr Frant observed. He indicated a low stool with his pen. “Mount him over that, with his face towards me.”
    â€œSir, the stick is too heavy for the purpose.”
    â€œYou will find it answers admirably. Use it with the full force of your arm. I desire to teach the boy a lesson.”
    â€œTwo older boys set on him at school,” I said. “That is why he ran away.”
    â€œHe ran away because he is weak. I do not say he is a coward, not yet; but he might become one if indulged. Pray make it clear to Mr Bransby that I do not expect the school to indulge his weaknesses any more than I do.” There was a knock on the door. He raised his voice. “Come in.”
    The butler opened the door. The boy edged into the room.
    â€œSir,” he began in a small, high voice. “I hope I find you in good health, and –”
    â€œBe silent,” Frant said. “Wait until you are spoken to.”
    The butler stood in the doorway, as if waiting for orders. In the hall behind were the footman and the little Negro pageboy. I glimpsed Mrs Kerridge on the stairs.
    Frant looked beyond his son and saw the servants. “Well?” he snapped. “What are you gaping at? Do you not have work to do? Be off with you.”
    At that moment the doorbell rang. The servants jerked towards it, as though attached to the sound by a set of strings. There was another ring, followed immediately by knocking. The footman glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who looked at Mr Frant, who squeezed his lips together in a tight, horizontal line and nodded. The footman scurried to the front door.
    Mrs Frant slipped into the hall before the door was more than a foot or two ajar. A maid followed her in. Mrs Frant’s colour was high as if she had been running, and she clutched her cloak to her throat. She darted across the squares of marble to the door of the book-room, where she stopped suddenly on the threshold, as though confronted by an invisible barrier. For a moment nobody spoke. Mrs Frant’s grey travelling cloak slipped from her shoulders to the floor.
    â€œMadam,” Frant said, standing up and bowing. “I’m rejoiced to see you.”
    Mrs Frant looked up at her husband but said nothing. He was a tall, broad man and beside him she looked as defenceless as a child.
    â€œAllow me to name Mr Shield, one of Mr Bransby’s under-masters.”
    I bowed; she inclined her head.
    Frant said, “You are come from Albemarle-street? I hope I should not infer from this unexpected visit that Mr Wavenhoe has taken a turn for the worse?”
    She glanced wildly at him. “No – that is to say, yes, in that he is no worse and may even be slightly better.”
    â€œWhat gratifying intelligence. Now, Mrs Frant, I do not know whether you are aware that your

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