Bedtime at last, and as Dexter bade the doctor and his daughter
"good-night," it seemed to him that they had never spoken so kindly to
him, and the place had never appeared to be so pleasant and homelike
before.
His heart sank as he went up to his room, and he felt as if he could not
go away. The lessons Mr Limpney had given him to write out were not
done; but he had better stop and face him, and every other trouble,
including the window he had broken, and never owned to yet.
It was impossible to go away and leave everybody who was so kind. A
harsh word would have kept him to the point; but now he wavered as he
sat down on the edge of his bed, with his mind in a whirl.
Then, as he sat there, he pictured in his own mind the figure of Bob
Dimsted, waiting for him, laden with articles of outfit necessary for
their voyage, and behind Bob loomed up bright sunny scenes by sea and
land; and with his imagination once more excited by all that the boy had
suggested, Dexter blinded himself to everything but the object he had in
view.
He had planned in his own mind what he would take with him, but now it
had come to the point he felt a strange compunction. Everything he
possessed seemed to him as if it belonged to the doctor, and, finally,
he resolved to take nothing with him but the clothes in which he stood.
He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the
various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the
first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing
Mrs Millett's infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness;
and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead
of a glass, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance.
He could not help smiling as he took up the cup and smelt it, seeing at
the same time the old dame's pleasant earnest face--a face that suddenly
seemed to have become very loving, now he was to see it no more.
He set down the cup, and shook his head, and then, as if nerving himself
for the task, he went to the drawers, took out a key from his pocket,
and then, from the place where it lay, hidden beneath his clean linen,
brought forth the old clothes-line twisted and knotted together--the
line which had done duty in the loft as a swing.
He listened as he crossed to the door, but all was still downstairs, and
it was not likely that any one would come near his room that night; but
still he moved about cautiously, and taking the line with his hands,
about two feet apart, snapped it again and again with all his might, to
try if it was likely to give way now beneath his weight.
It seemed firm as ever, but he could not help a shiver as he laid it by
the window, and thought of a boy being found in the shrubbery beneath,
with a broken leg, or, worse still, neck.
Then as he waited for the time to glide by, so that all might be in bed
before he made his escape, a sudden chill ran through him.
He had remembered everything, as he thought; and yet there was one
thing, perhaps the simplest of all, forgotten. He was going to take no
bundle, no money, nothing which the doctor had in his kindness provided
for him; but he could not go without a cap, and that was hanging in the
hall, close to the drawing-room door.
The question arose whether he should venture down to get it now, or
after the doctor had gone to bed.
It took him some time to make up his mind; but when he had come to a
decision he opened his door softly, listened, and stole out on to the
landing.
All was very still as he looked over the balustrade to where the lamp
shed its yellow rays all round, and to his mind more strangely upon the
object he wanted to obtain than elsewhere.
It was a very simple thing to do, and yet it required a great deal of
nerve, for if the drawing-room door were opened just as he reached the
hat-stand, and the doctor came out, what should he say?
Then there was the risk of being heard, for there were, he knew, two of
the old oaken stairs which always gave a loud crack when any one passed
down, and if they cracked now, some one would be sure to come out to see
what it meant.
Taking a long catching breath he went quickly to the top of the stairs,
and was about to descend in a desperate determination to go through with
his task, when an idea struck him, and bending over the balustrade he
spread his hands, balanced himself carefully, and then slid down the
mahogany rail, round curve after curve as silently as could be, and
reaching the curl at the bottom dropped upon the mat.
Only five or six yards now to the hat-stand, and going on tiptoe past
the entrance to the drawing-room, he was in the act of taking down the
cap, when the handle rattled, the door was thrown open, and the hall
grew more light.
In his desperation Dexter snatched down the cap, and stood there trying
to think of what he should say in answer to the question that would be
asked in a moment--
"What are you doing there!"
It was Helen, chamber-candlestick in hand, and she was in the act of
stepping out, when her step was arrested by words which seemed to pierce
into the listener's brain:--
"Oh, about Dexter!"
"Yes, papa," said Helen, turning.
"What do you think about--"
Dexter heard no more. Taking advantage of Helen's back being turned as
she bent over towards the speaker, the boy stepped quickly to the
staircase, ran up, and had reached the first landing before Helen came
out into the hall, while before she had closed the door he was up
another flight, and gliding softly toward his own room, where he stood
panting as he closed the door, just as if he had been running a distance
which had taken away his breath.
It was a narrow escape, and he was safe; but his ears tingled still, and
he longed to know what the doctor had said about him.
As he stood listening, cap in hand, he heard Helen pass his door singing
softly one of the ballads he had heard that evening; and once more a
curious dull sensation of misery came over him, as he seemed to feel
that he would never hear her sing again, never feel the touch of her
soft caressing hand; and somehow there was a vague confused sense of
longing to go to one who had treated him with an affectionate interest
he had never known before, even now hardly understood, but it seemed to
him such gentleness and love as might have come from a mother.
For a moment or two he felt that he must open the door, call to her,
throw himself upon his knees before her, and confess everything, but at
that moment the laughing, mocking face of Bob Dimsted seemed to rise
between them, and his words buzzed in his ear--words that he had often
said when listening to some account of Dexter's troubles--
"Bother the old lessons, and all on 'em! I wouldn't stand it if I was
you. They've no right to order you about, and scold you as they do."
The weak moments passed, and just then there was the doctor's cough
heard, and the closing of his door, while directly after came the
chiming of the church clock--a quarter past eleven.
Half an hour to wait and think, and then good-bye to all his troubles,
and the beginning of a new life of freedom!
All the freedom and the future seemed to be behind a black cloud; but in
the fond belief that all would soon grow clear Dexter waited.
Half-past eleven, and he wondered that he did not feel sleepy.
It was time to begin though now, and he took the line and laid it out in
a serpentine fashion upon the carpet, so that there should be no kinks
in the way; and then the next thing was to fasten one end tightly so
that he could safely slide down.
He had well thought out his plans, and, taking one end of the line, he
knotted it securely to the most substantial place he could find in the
room, passing it behind two of the bars of the grate. Then cautiously
opening his window, a little bit at a time, he thrust it higher and
higher, every faint creak sending a chill through him, while, when he
looked out upon the dark starlight night, it seemed as if he would have
to descend into a black gulf, where something blacker was waiting to
seize him.
But he knew that the black things below were only great shrubs, and
lowering the rope softly down he at last had the satisfaction of hearing
it rustle among the leaves.
Then he waited, and after a glance round to see that everything was
straight, and the letter laid ready upon the table, he put out the
candle.
"For the last time!" he said to himself, and a great sigh came unbidden
from his breast.
A quarter to twelve.
Dexter waited till the last stroke on the bell was thrilling in the air
before setting his cap on tightly, and passing one leg over the sill.
He sat astride for a few moments, hesitating for the last time, and then
passed the other leg, and lowered himself down till he hung by his
hands, then twisted his legs about the rope, seized it with first one
hand then the other, and hung by it with his whole weight, in the
precarious position of one trusting to an old doubled clothes-line,
suspended from a second-floor window.
It was hard work that descent, for he could not slide on account of the
knots; and, to make his position more awkward, the rope began to
untwist--one line from the other,--and, in consequence, as the boy
descended slowly, he bore no small resemblance to a leg of mutton
turning before a fire.
That was the only mishap which occurred to him then, for after resting
for a few moments upon the first-floor sill he continued his journey,
and reached the bottom in the midst of a great laurel, which rustled
loudly as he tried to get out, and then tripped over a horizontal
branch, and fell flat.
He was up again in an instant, and, trembling and panting, made a couple
of bounds which took him over the gravel walk and on to the lawn, where
he stood panting and listening.
There was a light in the doctor's room, and one in Helen's; and just
then the doctor's shadow, looking horribly threatening, was thrown upon
the blind.
He must be coming, Dexter thought, and, turning quickly, he sped down
the lawn, avoiding the flower-beds by instinct, and the next minute had
reached the kitchen-garden, down whose winding green walk he rapidly
made his way.