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 grass.
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 grass stuck in them," she cried,
examining them closely. "Some one must have walked about in them on
grass, and wet grass 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 scraped 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 prickles, and the pain, when
he pressed on them, was almost unbearable.