Paul the Courageous Part 5

Everything could be set right, and nothing need ever be known.

And if, he told himself, he got off this time, he would be a good boy for ever after. If he could only get his boots now from their hiding-place and put them where Muggridge would be sure to find them in the morning, all would be right. No sooner had the idea entered his head than he felt he _must_ carry it out. It was his one and only chance--but there were difficulties. He got out of bed and crept to the window. The moon was giving a fair light, and would be brighter later. He thought if he could only get free of the house he could make his way to the clump of furze though, of course, it would be difficult, for he would not be able to get out of the garden as he had before, the door being always locked at night, and the walls too high to climb. And to try to find one particular furze bush unless one approached it from the same point would be no easy task.

He determined, however, to make the attempt, and began at once to drag on some garments. Then he bethought him that he must not make the attempt just yet, for the household might not have fallen asleep, and he lay down again to wait with what patience he could. But at last he thought he might venture, and raising the latch of his door softly, he popped out his head, first an inch or two, then further and further, and listened for any sound of voices from his father's and mother's room. They were talking, and they went on doing so for what seemed to Paul an endless time--he little guessed that it was his behaviour which was keeping them awake and sleepless--but at last, to his great relief, other sounds reached him; he heard his father snoring gently, and determined to put his fortunes at once to the test.

His depression had gone now, and for the moment he felt only the excitement of the adventure. Stuffing a piece of candle and a box of matches into his pocket, he crept downstairs more quietly than he had ever moved in his life before, and through the stone pa.s.sage to the kitchen, for the front door, when opened, grated on the stone floor, and made a noise which could not fail to rouse the whole household. Everything, looked strange and uncanny in the dim light, but Paul was too anxious and eager to feel fear, and of ordinary pluck and spirit he had plenty; it was moral courage, which is, after all, the true courage, that he lacked.

His spirit was dashed, though, when he reached the back door and saw the huge bolts by which it was secured. It was locked too, and the key taken away. "I must try a window," he thought, rallying from his disappointment. Shutters were fastened over the kitchen window, and he had had to light his candle to see anything. But the shutters were easily unfastened, and the window opened, and with very little trouble Paul clambered through and reached the ground. His stockinged feet made no sound on the paved yard, and all was easy now for him if he could but find the right bush. But when he got away from the house, and found himself, to all appearances, alone on the great empty moor with its hushed, mysterious noises, its strange shadows, its rises and dips, here and there a gleaming pool, and here and there a strangely shaped form, all looking to him odd and uncanny in the dim, weird light, a great awe fell on him.

He thought of the wild animals wandering about there, the treacherous ground, the people who had been lost there, and never heard of again, and it seemed to him that a white mysterious light moved about over some of the hollows. His heart beat fast and heavily, his throat felt dry and stiff, but he did not dare hesitate. He felt only one great longing to have his errand done, and be safely back in the house again. How snug, and safe, and comfortable his little bedroom seemed now! How he envied those who were able to lie in their beds with clean consciences, and no unconfessed sins to haunt them! How silly, and worse than silly--how bad had been the act which had brought all this trouble on him! And he felt no pride in himself now.

It seemed to him he would never reach the spot he wanted; the distance around the house to it seemed far, far greater than he had thought, and all looked so different and strange, approached from this point. He began to fear he would never find the particular bush he sought; it seemed such a hopeless task to embark on in the dark, and alone. In order to make it more easy, he made his way to the door in the wall, and tried to retrace his steps of yesterday, as nearly as possible, but even that was more difficult than he had imagined. He thought the bush was straight ahead, and not very far off, but when he acted on this idea he found himself on the edge of a pool, into which he nearly fell. He did not know that when one walks in the dark, one instinctively bears away to the left all the time, and that, consequently, he was going straight away from the poor boots.

Then a cloud came over the moon, and Paul almost despaired. He was shaking with excitement and cold, for the wind blew fresh across that spot all the year round, and Paul was very slightly dressed. At last he lit his candle, after a great deal of trouble, and holding it carefully in the hollow of his hands, managed to keep it alight; and finally, more by good luck than anything else, found himself close to the very bush he was looking for. In another moment he was on his knees, and diving his arm cautiously under it. Joy! there were his boots, his poor old boots, the source of all his trouble. He grabbed them delightedly, and rose.

At the same instant his candle went out, and his heart almost stood still with terror, for, close by him he heard the sound of stealthy footsteps, and the clank of a chain.

CHAPTER IX.

THE OPEN WINDOW.

"A convict escaped!" was the thought which flashed into his brain, paralysing his limbs with fear. For the moment he was too frightened to move, and as for looking around,--he could not have made himself do it at that moment for all the wealth the world could offer. Then, fearing he knew not what, he turned with a sudden swift impulse, and rushed madly, as though the furies were after him and any moment might lay a hand on him, back to where he could just see the white road gleaming in the distance.

His heart thumped so he thought it would choke him, his head swam, a numbness seemed to be gripping his limbs, blackness creeping over his sight. Before he reached the road he staggered, stumbled, fell--and for a few moments lay, a small unconscious heap, on the damp gra.s.s.

When his senses returned to him he sat up, wondering vaguely at first what had happened, and where he was. He only knew he was trembling, aching, and feeling miserably ill. Then memory returned, and a sickening fear mingled with his shame of his own terror. In his shame he made himself look all about him, he made himself stay quietly where he was and try to fathom the mystery. And as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, he could distinguish a mysterious form moving stealthily from bush to bush.

In another second Paul was on his feet and flying as though for his life along the road towards home. His first idea and aim was to get back through the window again, and bar himself in from all danger, but the banging of his boots as he ran, reminded him that he had not yet fulfilled his object, and another terror was added to his burthen. When at last he got back out of sight of the lonely moor, and within the shelter of the farm, some of his courage returned, and greatly though he dreaded it, he made his way to the boot-house instead of scuttling into the house, and into safety at once. Strangely enough the window of the boot-house was open and he had soon dropped his boots inside, in the hope that they would appear in the morning with the others, all black, shiny, and innocent looking; and crept away back to the open window whence he had escaped.

It was not as easy to get back as it had been to get out; the window was higher from the ground on the outside, and Paul barked both his knees badly before he succeeded. Then, gently dropping to the floor, he crept softly upstairs and into his bed. The sight of the cosy room, the safety, warmth, and comfort of it all, helped him to forget all his woes, his smarting knees, the thorns in his feet, and his shivering, aching body.

"I wouldn't mind a bit," he thought, "if I'd only got something to eat; but what a tale it'll be to tell the other fellows when I get back to school." And so comforting himself he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was with a feeling that he had overslept himself, and that the morning was well advanced. This feeling grew stronger, too, when, on turning and stretching, he heard his mother's voice: "Paul, Paul, awake at last? Why, what a sleepy boy you are! Have you had a disturbed night, dear?"

He opened his eyes with a puzzled stare. "Is it late, mother? Have you had breakfast? What's the time?"

"Eleven o'clock. Yes, we had breakfast hours ago, but when we found we could not rouse you, we let you sleep on. Were you disturbed in the night, dear?"

He opened his still drowsy eyes again. "Disturbed!" he said stupidly.

He really did not remember at once all that had happened. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"We think someone broke into the house last night. At least, one of the kitchen windows and the shutter were found open, and there were footmarks on the window-sill, and about the floor. The strange thing is that nothing has been moved or taken away, but Mrs. Minards is greatly frightened, so are the maids; the foolish girls seem to have lost their heads entirely."

Long before she had finished speaking, Paul had remembered that he had left the window and the shutters open, and that he must have left footmarks where he trod. He felt thoroughly despicable as he lay there, listening to his mother's story, knowing that he could explain all, and so save every one much alarm and trouble. "I should not have told Stella and Michael," she went on, "lest they should be nervous another time, but they had heard it all from the maids before I could prevent it."

But Paul did not hear what she was saying; he had suddenly thought of his clothes, those he wore last night, and his tell-tale stockings. If his mother noticed them now, the whole affair would be shown up. And at that moment Mrs. Anketell did catch sight of the stockings, lying inside out and rolled up anyhow, on the floor, and instinctively she picked one up and began to straighten it, while Paul watched her actions with feelings such as an animal must suffer when caught in a trap.

"Why, Paul," she exclaimed, as she thrust her hand into the foot of it, "your stockings are quite wet, and--oh, look, my dear child, what have you done to them?" She held up the foot on her hand for him to see.

The bottom of it was riddled with holes!

He had never thought of their wearing out like that, and he leaned up, gazing at the stocking in sheer astonishment. His mother mistook the look on his face for another kind of surprise. "How can they have got into such a state? They were quite sound when I bandaged your ankle.

Were they sound when you took them off last night?"

"They were all right when I came to bed," stammered Paul.

"But they have thorns and bits of gra.s.s stuck in them," she cried, examining them closely. "Some one must have walked about in them on gra.s.s, and wet gra.s.s too." She put down the stocking, and picked up the knickerbockers which were lying on a chair. "My dear child, these are all muddy too!" And as she held them up Paul saw on them the clear marks of his fall, and his attempts to scale the window.

"Can't you tell me anything about it, dear?" she asked, puzzled and amazed; "can't you give me any explanation?"

"No," said Paul faintly. And his mother, never for a moment suspecting that he could wilfully deceive her, or that such a thing as had really happened could be possible, began to look elsewhere for the explanation.

"Do you know if any of you walk in your sleep?" she asked, with a sudden thought.

"I never saw the others do it," said Paul quickly, delighted at the possibility of a new way out of his dilemma, "and of course I shouldn't know if I did myself, should I?"

"Perhaps not, unless something happened to wake you. But don't worry, or frighten yourself. Of course no one is to blame if it is a case of sleep-walking,--only it will be a great anxiety for the future.

You had better get up now and dress. I will take these things down; they may help to explain what is such a puzzle to us all, and to relieve their minds."

As soon as his mother had gone, Paul quickly began to bestir himself; he was not particularly anxious to face people and all the questions which would probably be levelled at him, but never could he lie still and think of the deception he had practised on his mother. When he came to move, the stiffness and pain in his sc.r.a.ped knees almost made him cry out, and when he put his feet on the floor, he quickly sat back on the bed again, for the bottoms of his feet were full of tiny p.r.i.c.kles, and the pain, when he pressed on them, was almost unbearable.

CHAPTER X.

RUMOUR AND APPREHENSION.

In the excitement and talk which the events of the night called forth, Paul's boots escaped notice, and Paul himself many times wished he could have done the same. But he was the most interesting person in the house just then, and was questioned, cross-questioned, pitied, talked at, until he was heartily sick of everything, and longed to run away, back to school, or anywhere, to escape it all; for he could not answer a question without involving himself in deeper deceit, and he did honestly long to be able to throw it off, and stand with a clear conscience again.

Another part of his punishment was the attention he came in for. He was cossetted for a cold they felt sure he must have caught, his knees were bandaged with ointment, his feet were prodded and poulticed to get out the p.r.i.c.kles; and, worst of all, there was talk of putting him to sleep in his father's dressing-room, which opened out of his parents' bedroom, that he might be heard and checked if he attempted again to take any more midnight strolls. For the matter a.s.sumed a very serious aspect as the day wore on, and they began to think less lightly of Master Paul's habit of undoing bolts and windows, and leaving the house open to any one all the night through.

Farmer Minards came home to tea looking grave and troubled. "Here's a pretty business!" he exclaimed as he came in. "Two convicts got away from the prison yesterday morning early, and haven't been caught yet. One of 'em broke into Perry's farm last night, and stole a whole 'eap of Farmer Perry's clothes; 'tother one they've lost sight of altogether, but 'tis thought he made for this direction. And they say they are two of the most desperate villains they've ever had within the walls."

Paul's heart almost ceased beating with the sudden fear that filled it.

"It be'oves us to keep the place well barred up," went on the old man, "and not be leaving windows open all night," nodding knowingly at Paul.

"They're not nice chaps to meet, they there convicts, and they don't stop at much when they're trying to get off."

Every vestige of colour had left Paul's face as he realised what his danger had been the night before. That must have been the convict he had heard. He longed to tell the farmer how close the danger was, that he might take extra precautions to guard the house.

"Do they--haven't they got on handcuffs, and--and chains on their ankles?"

he asked.

"Yes, but they pretty soon gets rid of they, you may be sure," answered the old man. "Why, what do you know about 'em, young sur?"

It seemed to Paul that he was looking at him almost suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing--only--I've--I've been told--I know a fellow who stayed near Princetown once, and he told me a heap about them," he stammered, and Farmer Minards seemed satisfied and rose to go back to his work.

"Don't you young folk wander far for a few days," he said, turning round as he was going out at the door; "they're nasty chaps to meet on a lonely spot. There's one thing, _you_ won't be able to go out and get into any mischief for a day or two, I reckon. 'Tisn't a bad thing to have 'ee tied by the leg for a bit, it'll give your mother a bit of peace of mind," he said to Paul, and he laughed in a way which made Paul flush with mortification.

But he was mistaken as to the length of time Master Paul would be tied by the leg. No schoolboy of fourteen would consent to spend a second perfect summer day in the house, for the sake of a pair of scarred knees, if he could possibly manage to use them.