Paul the Courageous Part 7

But Stella wanted so much to undo her precious parcel and look at her book that she pleaded to be left behind, and Mr. Anketell and Michael left her at the cottage. But she soon found that that did not suit her; there were too many people about, and she was shy under the glances of so many eyes; so she strolled into the garden, but that was close to the village street, and a girl who was working there dropped her work to stare at the stranger.

Stella began to feel quite cross, and she looked around to see if there was no secluded spot in all that place. Then her eye fell on the little church hidden away amongst trees at the bottom of the village, and her heart leaped. She turned to the girl who was picking fruit and watching her at the same time. "I am going down to the churchyard to sit in the shade," she said. "I will be back again by the time tea is ready," and before the girl could reply she had hurried away.

The top of the village seemed to be the favourite spot at Windycross for the villagers to congregate; most of the houses were up there, too, while the lower end where the church stood was as deserted as the other end was sought after; to Stella's great joy she did not see a single person, and as she clambered over the stone stile which led into it, and wandered along the overgrown paths, she felt as though she was as safe from intrusion as though she had been in the middle of the moor. The fact was, the yard had long ceased to be used as a burying-ground, and the church itself was as nearly deserted by the present generation of villagers, for a clergyman came only once a month to hold service there, and while the old building gradually became a ruin, a flourishing chapel sprang up to satisfy the needs of the neglected people.

But Stella knew and thought nothing of this; she was only bent on finding a comfortable, secluded seat, where she sat and unwrapped her parcel.

She thought of Paul's surprise, and how pleased he would be, she dipped into the pages here and there and read a few lines, admired the covers, and enjoyed the delightful smell new books so often have, and at last, half reluctantly, she wrapped her treasure up in its paper again, trying to make it look as neat as when the shopman had handed it to her.

That done she got up to explore further. It was a weird, neglected spot she had got into. Numbers of tombstones lay about as they had fallen, others were leaning over looking as though another gale would lay them flat too. The shrubs which had been planted on the graves had grown to be great, unkempt bushes, spreading over many other graves than the one they had been planted on; tiny saplings had become big trees, forcing out tombstones and curbs, and everywhere the rank gra.s.s grew high up into the bushes. But greatest of all dilapidations was that of the church itself; many of the windows had been broken, and were left unrepaired; here and there a great piece of stonework had fallen away; the outer gates of the porch hung loose on one hinge. Stella entered the porch and sat for a moment on one of the stone benches.

Then, scarcely knowing why she did it, she raised the latch of the church door. To her great surprise the door opened, and without a thought she entered. She had never been in so tumbledown and neglected a place in her life; the pew-doors were either hanging or gone altogether, some of the pews were too rotten to use, the plaster and paint hung off in scales, and a large hole in the roof showed that the risk of attending service there was no slight one.

But Stella did not heed the danger; she was too much charmed to find herself alone and exploring. A sense of importance filled her, and a good deal of curiosity. She looked at the names in some of the mouldy hymn books lying in the pews, and mounted the pulpit to see how the church looked from there. Then she went into the vestry, and coming out of it she found herself at the entrance to a low dark place which she thought must be a family vault. It was so low and dark she could at first see nothing within, and instinctively she drew herself up sharply on the threshold, doubtful, but of what she did not know. But, somehow, she did not like to enter, a sudden nervousness came over her, a desire to get away from the place and be out in the open again.

And then, with a terrified scream, she saw close to her, gleaming out of the darkness, a wild looking, savage face; two eyes full of desperation, and hunger, and despair, were fixed on hers; and in another moment she recognised the hiding convict. The fear in his face lightened when he found that the footsteps he had listened to for what seemed so long were only those of a little girl.

"Are you alone?" he asked, in a low, gruff voice.

With the shock, and the fright, and her fear of the man, a sudden panic seized Stella; she could not answer, and with another terrified cry she turned and ran. But she did not know her way, and in her hurry she tripped over a step, and before she could recover herself the man was at her side. But instead of killing her, as she really thought he would, he lifted her up, not roughly, and put her on her feet, then picked up her parcel and after carefully feeling it, handed it to her, though he kept a tight grip of her hand.

"Missy," he said in a low voice, so hoa.r.s.e she could hardly make out what he said--"Missy, I ain't goin' to hurt you. I give 'ee my word I won't harm you if you'll only promise not to breathe a word about my being here."

A sound outside, probably only a bird fluttering in the ivy, made him start nervously, and Stella saw that he shook, and that the perspiration stood out on his face. He drew her quickly back to the entrance to the vault. "Swear you won't ever breathe a word to anybody that you have seen me. Swear it! Do you hear?"

He looked so ferocious, that Stella began to cry. "I won't tell, of course not," she said, earnestly. "I am not a sneak, and we wanted you to escape; we all hoped you were far away by this time. Paul and I thought you must be."

He gave a sort of snarl. "There's no getting away from this place, unless anybody's got friends outside to help 'em. They are too sharp, and there are too many of 'em. But I've gone free longer than any before me, and that's something. Who is Paul?" he asked suddenly. "And where do you live?"

"We live at Moor Farm. Paul is my brother, the one you shot."

The man looked at her sharply, "Did I--did I hurt him much?"

"The bullet went through his arm. He didn't die."

"I'm glad of that," said the man, and he spoke as though he really meant it. "I'm starving," he said a second later. "I haven't had a mouthful since the day before yesterday, and I can't hold out much longer.

Have you got any food about you?"

Stella shook her head. "No, I haven't. I am so sorry," she said wistfully, and the man's hard face grew soft as her blue eyes looked pityingly up at him. "I _wish_ I could help you," she said earnestly; then with sudden recollection, "I have three shillings, if that would be of any use to you."

"Thank you, Missy, it might be," he said gratefully; "but I wish you'd got a bit of bread."

She took out her little purse, and counted out the money into his rough hand. "Thank you, Missy," he said again. "I shall never forget you, if I gets away, or if I'm took I shall always be humbly grateful to you, and think of you as one of the pluckiest little ladies that ever lived."

"Thank you," she said politely, "but I think I must be going now, or someone may come to look for me."

The man's face again was filled with a desperate fear, and he shrank back further into the gloom of the vault, "Before you go you must swear you won't give me away. Swear!--do you hear, on your solemn oath!"

"I don't know how to swear," said Stella simply, "but I promise solemnly not to tell anyone who would do you any harm."

"That won't do. You must not tell anyone at all, unless you hear I'm-- took--or killed," with a bitter laugh.

"Very well," said Stella. "I don't like keeping it from mother, but I _will_ keep the secret, for your sake. I hope you will soon get some food. Good-bye," and she held out her hand to shake hands with him.

The man took it, but did not speak, and Stella, drawing her hand away, ran down the aisle and through the church as fast as she could. Not until she was outside did she realise how her limbs were trembling, and she wondered how she should ever get back to the cottage and escape notice and questioning. But in her great desire to shield the man she made such efforts to laugh and talk and be like her usual self, and Michael had so much to say too, that nothing unusual was observed in her look or manner.

And if, during the next few days, any of them thought her unusually quiet and thoughtful, it was all put down to the shock the burglar had given her that night, no one dreaming that she had had a long and solitary interview with that same desperate creature, and had come out of it unhurt.

But only for a week did her silence last, for at the end of that time the poor, wretched convict was captured, miles from Windycross, just as he was making his way to a train which would have borne him, probably, to safety.

As usual, all sympathy was with the captured man, but to Stella his arrest was a real and lasting grief, and when amidst many bitter tears she told the story of her adventure at Windycross, her one hope was that he did not think she was in any way concerned in his capture.

CHAPTER XIII.

PAUL CONFESSES.

But though Stella recovered so well, and so much more quickly than they had dared to hope, from the shock she had received that night, Paul remained ill and low in spirits and in strength. Of course at first he was very weak from loss of blood and shock, and no one wondered; but, as time went on, and in spite of all that was done for him, he did not pick op health as they expected him to. They fed him, and physicked him, and tried to cheer him, but nothing seemed to do him any good, until at last the doctor, the same who had pulled him out of the mora.s.s, and carried Stella home, began to be puzzled about him. "Has he anything on his mind that can be troubling him?" he asked Mr. Anketell, one day. "Something is keeping him back; he is spiritless and depressed. It must be his mind; his body is sound enough, and the wound is healing nicely. I wonder if he has been up to any other escapade, and is uneasy about it? It is probably quite a trifling thing, but I feel sure something is preying on the boy's mind."

After the doctor had gone, Mr. Anketell wandered about the moor, thinking deeply. The doctor's words had impressed him very much, and even while he had been speaking the memory of the sleep-walking night, and Paul's odd behaviour of the day previous to that, came back to him. Could Paul have deceived them all as to the events of that night? Had something happened then which he had not liked to confess?

He went slowly back to the farm, his heart heavy, his face stern.

But before he sought his son, he went to his own room, and prayed to G.o.d to help him in his guidance of this boy of his.

Paul was alone, lying on a couch in his own room, to which he had been carried after he had been shot. The sun had set, and a soft twilight was filling the room, but the light which still came in at the window fell full on Paul. Mr. Anketell, entering softly, saw the expression on the boy's face, the look in his eyes, and his heart ached, and all his sternness vanished. "My boy," he said, oh, so tenderly, "tell me what it is that is troubling you; tell me all about it, I know there is something.

Can't you bring yourself to trust me not to be hard on you?"

No one knew what transpired at that meeting. No one but Mrs. Anketell in fact ever knew it had taken place. It was to remain for ever a confidence between them, and it was a confidence which bound father and son more closely together all their lives after. They had a long, long talk; much was confessed, much help given, much strength and courage. Paul never forgot that evening and that talk in the twilight, or his first realisation of the greatness of his father's love for him. No shyness, no self-consciousness was left, no fear of meeting his father's eyes, no more secrets lay between them. To Paul, though he but dimly realised it then, and could not have explained it, that hour was a turning-point in his life, and in all his after-life he thanked G.o.d for that one evening's talk. But after the confession and the forgiveness was over, and all had been told, they sat so long talking that presently the supper-bell rang, and then came a light, slow step upon the stair. It was Stella's, they knew. "Will you tell her?" whispered Paul, and though his heart was sore with shame he did not falter.

"No," whispered back his father. "I shall tell no one. I want the children to feel nothing but affection and respect for you, to look up to you. Nothing must smirch Stella's beautiful love for you, Paul.

It is something you cannot prize too highly, and will some day know the true value of."

"I will try not to let anything," said Paul gravely, and there came a tap at the door. "Is daddy here?" asked Stella's voice, and then, opening the door, "Oh, you are in the dark. Poor Paul, weren't you frightened?"

"Oh, no," said Paul simply, "father is here."

And then a happy little procession went down the stairs to supper--Paul in his father's arms, Stella running in front to open doors. Exclamations of joy greeted them as they appeared, for this was Paul's first appearance below stairs. And his mother, who at the first glance saw that it was her old, happy Paul who had come back to them, and that all the shadow which had come between them had been cleared away, felt happier than she had for many a long day. For one wilful mischievous boy can not only make himself thoroughly unhappy, but everyone about him becomes unhappy too.

A week or two later they left Moor Farm for home, their holiday ended.

"Well," said Mr. Anketell, drawing a deep breath as he took his seat beside them in the train, "it seems to me we lost nothing in the way of excitement by not going to Norway. Dartmoor was able to give us as much as we could manage with."

"I have never regretted the change," said Mrs. Anketell heartily, "have you children?"

"Oh, no," cried Michael, excitedly. "We had adventures all the time, and shooting, and everything."

"Yes," said Paul, laughing ruefully, "and I provided most of them."