AN INNOCENT BURGLAR.
HOW long Gus had slept, he could not have told, when he was awakened
by the sound of voices in the room. For a moment he imagined, with a
thrill of fear, that Lucas and Jack were at hand, ready to execute the
violent threats with which they had driven him into the house. But the
voices, one high and thin, the other low and sweet, could not well be
mistaken for those of men. Hot and half-suffocated in the narrow space
in which he lay, Gus gradually remembered how he came to be in such a
position, and knew that the voices he heard were those of Miss Durrant
and her niece.
"I feel convinced now, Edith, that it was only a cat."
"That is very likely, aunt."
"You have looked under the bed, Edith?"
"Yes, and there is certainly no cat there."
"No; there is really nothing to be alarmed at. I am not at all nervous,
still, I am glad that Mr. Thornton has allowed his man to sleep below
to-night. It is well to have a man on the premises."
"Yes, in case the cat should create another disturbance."
"Or cook be ridiculous again."
"Martha seemed in more danger of such an attack when they went to bed;
but in either case the eloquence of Mr. Thornton's valet would be of
service."
"It is a strange thing," said Miss Durrant thoughtfully, without
heeding her niece's words. "I should much like to know what it really
was that jumped out of the window and fell into the cistern."
At that moment a curious muffled sound came from the back of the
bedstead. A sudden sense of the absurdity of the situation had smitten
Gus, and a laugh escaped him almost unawares.
"What is that?" exclaimed Miss Durrant, with a start. "Edith, did you
hear it?"
"I noticed nothing, aunt. What sort of noise did you hear? I daresay it
was only a mouse."
"A mouse! How can you name such a thing to me, Edith? You know I should
faint if I saw a mouse."
"Would you, aunt—you, with all your self-control! Is a mouse so much
worse than a cat?"
"Don't laugh at me, Edith. I am not nervous of ordinary things, but I
cannot endure a mouse. There! What was that?"
"It was only the bedstead that creaked; old furniture will creak
sometimes, you know," Edith replied.
"Well, I have been thinking that in case there should be any
disturbance to-night, it would be nice—don't you think so?—for us to
be together. It is not that I am nervous; but you have a cold, and you
would be warmer here than in your own room, so I think you had better
come and sleep with me."
"Very well, aunt, if you wish it; but I really do not think you need
fear another disturbance. However, if you feel nervous—"
"I am not nervous, Edith; you mistake me quite, if you think that. It
was only that I thought you, with your cold, would be better here."
"Oh, my cold is almost gone, so if that is all, I would rather sleep in
my own room. Good-night, aunt. There is nothing to be afraid of now."
"I am aware of that, thank you. Good-night, Edith," said her aunt, in
rather severe accents.
She followed her niece to the door, which she closed after her, and
secured both by lock and bolt. Then casting a nervous glance round her,
she began to take off her dress.
Whilst aunt and niece had been talking, Gus had been wriggling about
in search of some loophole that would afford him a view into the room.
None such presenting itself, he drew himself to the edge of the bed,
and cautiously thrust out his head. Even so it was not easy to see, and
his position was perilous in the extreme, as he tried to turn his head
so as to get a look into the room.
By the time he had succeeded in so poising himself that he could see
what was going on, the lady stood at her dressing-table, engaged in
brushing her hair. In her young days, her abundant brown tresses
had been much admired. They were no longer abundant, and their hue
had faded, but their possessor, scarce conscious of the change Time
had wrought, took pride in them still. She stood before her mirror
regarding complacently the reflection it presented whilst she slowly
brushed her hair. Every now and then she paused for a few moments of
breathless listening; but no sound broke the stillness of the house,
and gradually the fears that haunted her grew less insistent. At last,
with a sigh, she laid down the brush, rolled her hair into a neat
little knob at the back of her head, and then moved to the fireside to
warm her feet before going to bed.
And now Gus became seriously uneasy. He was tired of lying in that
close, cramped position; he could not remain there all night. Besides,
he had grave misgivings as to how his position would be affected by the
lady's getting into bed. Would her head rest less easily because he lay
there behind the bolster? Would she be likely to discover his presence?
It seemed to Gus that his position would be improved if he could manage
to slip noiselessly out of the bed, and hide himself beneath it for the
rest of the night. So he edged himself further and further out of the
bed, till quite half his body was exposed to view behind the curtain,
and his hands firmly rested on the floor. But how to draw out his legs
and drop down and out of sight without making any noise was a difficult
problem.
[Illustration]
And just as he became aware of the exceeding difficulty of his
position, Miss Durrant rose, and moved towards the bed. Gus tried to
wriggle back into his lair, but that was not to be done in a moment.
The lady was conscious of a strange movement behind the curtain. She
drew it aside, then, arrested by terror, stood for a moment staring
into the eyes that met hers; the next she shrieked wildly, and ran for
the door. She struggled desperately with lock and bolt; she tore the
door open; she rushed into the passage, screaming at the top of her
voice:
"Murder, murder!"
A second or two of silence, and then a sudden rush and stir through the
house. Doors opened, voices, steps made themselves heard. Edith was the
first to appear in response to those wild screams. She came running
from her room, white and trembling from the shock of alarm; but she was
brave.
"A man in my room! A man in my bed!" shrieked her aunt, like one
distracted. "In my very bed—waiting to murder me! Don't go in, Edith;
don't go near! He'll kill you! Oh, where is that man-servant?"
The individual demanded appeared at that moment. He was armed with the
poker, but he looked white and dazed.
"Where is he?" he asked, his teeth chattering as he spoke.
"Don't go in, Mr. Simpkins—don't, now!" cried Martha imploringly, from
over the banisters. "He's a ferocious burglar, and he'll brain you—for
a dead certainty he will. Go and fetch a policeman, but don't go in
yourself."
Mr. Simpkins did not like the prospect of being brained, and the advice
struck him as excellent.
"Well, I am only one man," he admitted, as though it were possible he
had been mistaken for half a dozen; "so perhaps it would be best to
make fast the door, and go in search of a policeman."
"You must not leave us, Mr. Simpkins; we cannot be left!" cried a
chorus of female voices, and Miss Durrant sobbed out that they might
all be murdered before he came back.
"We'll lock the door, any way," said Simpkins, with reviving spirits.
"Where's the key?"
The key was of course on the other side of the door. Miss Durrant had
slammed the door behind her as she rushed from the room.
Simpkins looked at the door, and hesitated. Edith, whose wits were not
paralysed by fright, had observed that all this while no sound came
from the room. Neither window nor door had been opened. She began to
feel incredulous concerning her aunt's burglar.
"I'll get the key," she said; "I'm not afraid to open the door. I
daresay it is only another cat."
"A cat, Edith!" cried her aunt indignantly. "Why, I saw the man's
eyes—such fierce eyes—gleaming at me, and his hair all tangled over his
face. Oh, Edith!"
For Edith at that moment opened the door, and peeped cautiously round
it. She saw the burglar at once. He had emerged from his hiding-place,
feeling further concealment useless, and now stood on the hearth-rug in
his ragged, clinging garments, with his fair hair falling disordered
over his face, which expressed the utmost confusion and shame.
"Why, it's a boy!" said Edith, and she advanced into the room.
Gus came forward to meet her, his hands outstretched imploringly. "Oh,
teacher, I'm so sorry!" he said. "I would not have come, but I couldn't
help it. Lucas brought me; he made me come into the house."
"You young scoundrel!" cried Simpkins, valiant once more, as he came
forward and seized the lad roughly. "I'll teach you to find your way
into people's houses; I'll give you up to the police! Now, tell me,
what have you taken?"
"I have touched nothing," said Gus. "Lucas told me to take the watches
and things; but I would not do it. I would rather die!"
"A likely story that!" said the valet, with a sneer.
"I believe him," said Edith. "I know this boy; he was in my class one
Sunday, and he came here the other day. Now, Gus, tell me all about it."
Encouraged by her kindness, Gus simply and without hesitation told the
whole story of his acquaintance with Lucas, and how Lucas had first
brought him to the house to make inquiries, and to-night had tried
to make a tool of him, in order to gain possession of the ladies'
valuables.
Miss Durrant had fled to the top of the house when Edith opened the
door of her bedroom, but presently she found courage to return, and
when she saw the diminutive proportions of the burglar, her dignity
also revived.
"You will remember, Edith," she said, "that I told you how dangerous it
was to encourage such a young scamp."
"You did, aunt," said her niece quietly; "but I cannot believe that
this boy came here with an evil purpose."
"He's told you a parcel of lies, that's what he's a-done," said
Simpkins. "I'll take him right away to the police-station; it ain't too
late."
"Yes, take him; take him by all means," said Miss Durrant; and Edith in
vain remonstrated.
But for the faithful Martha, who protested that it was not safe for Mr.
Simpkins to go alone, since some of the gang might be lurking at hand
ready to rescue the boy at the cost of Mr. Simpkins' life, Gus would
have soon been consigned into the hands of the guardians of the peace.
"Let's lock him in the cellar for the night," suggested the humane
Martha; "he can't do no harm there, and he can't possibly get out."
"But the cold, Martha," said Edith; "the cellar will be miserably cold."
"Oh, I'll warm him, the young scoundrel!" said Simpkins, giving Gus a
premonitory shake.
"Stay, Simpkins, I cannot have him ill-treated," said Edith firmly.
"You must make him a warm bed in the cellar, if you put him there for
the night. And, Martha, see that he has something warm to put on in
the place of these damp clothes. I rely on you to attend to my wishes.
To-morrow morning grandpapa will return, and he will decide what shall
be done with the poor little prisoner."
Miss Edith was a favourite with her grandfather's servants, and Martha
would not lightly disregard her wishes. Simpkins held the boy by one
arm, and Martha grasped the other, and they marched him off between
them.