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
prickles; 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 assumed 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.
Paul found it almost unbearable to be in as long as he was, and especially
to be the object of as much notice as he was, so the second day he
declared himself quite fit to go out and stroll around, and Mrs. Anketell
was glad for him to be out in the sunshine and air again, he was so pale,
and his spirits seemed so low.
On one point Mrs. Anketell had been most imperative--not a word as
to the escaped convicts was to be mentioned before Stella and Michael.
They had had so much to excite and alarm them lately, she was most anxious
to keep this last terror from them. Mike, she knew, had a childish dread
of the prison and its occupants, and Stella, who was not strong yet after
her illness, had also been nervous of being in the near neighbourhood of
the prison. So the two younger ones ran out and played about with light
hearts, full of pleasure that Paul was with them again, and anxious only
to make him laugh and romp about, and tease them as he used to do.
But Paul, though he was out in the sunshine once more, and though he had
escaped the detection of his wickedness, could not laugh, or joke, or take
any interest in the others' amusement, for a great weight lay on his heart
and his conscience, and he wondered if he should ever be a happy,
light-hearted boy again.
It was such a lovely day, that first day he was out, so warm, and bright,
and perfect, that Mrs. Anketell promised them they should have all their
meals in the orchard, for there she felt they would be safe from harm,
and Farmer Minards sent out for one of the shepherd's dogs to be with them
too. So they had their mid-day dinner under the apple-trees, and played
there contentedly enough, the children unconscious of any danger, their
mother feeling for the time safe, and trying to put all fear from her,
Paul in constant dread of he scarcely knew what.
In the afternoon Mr. Anketell had to leave them, as a telegram had come
calling him to London at once. He was very vexed about it, for he felt
peculiarly loath to leave them just then, he too being filled with a
foreboding of fear, for which he could not account except by telling
himself that Paul's extraordinary night adventure, and the narrow escape
from the morass, had upset his nerves, and made him unusually fearful.
When the car came round to take him to the station, he called Paul aside,
and spoke to him very gravely.
"Paul, my son," he said kindly, "I have to leave you all, though I am more
than unwilling to do so, but I am going to leave your mother and the
children in your charge. Keep the little ones in your sight, guard them
all carefully. Cease to be a thoughtless child for the time, and try to
be a man, with a man's grave sense of responsibility. Take care of them
and of yourself, and remember a great trust rests on you."
"I will, father," said Paul earnestly, and his lips quivered as his father
leaned affectionately on his shoulder. Confession trembled on his lips,
but there was no time for it, though he felt that here was a chance to
expiate his wickedness and deceit of the past. But if he could not
confess, he could at any rate live down that past and wipe it out by his
future conduct, and he would, he vowed he would. "I will take care of
them, father, I promise you," he repeated earnestly.
The spirits of all flagged a good deal after Mr. Anketell's departure, and
it was quite a sober little party that gathered round the tea-table in the
orchard, and after tea they were quite content to sit and read instead of
indulging in their old lively games.
At seven o'clock Mrs. Anketell rose and went in with Mike to give him his
glass of milk before putting him to bed. "I think you had all better come
in now," she said. "Can you bring in the rugs and things between you?"
The elder ones followed her in a few moments with their first load, and
laid the things down in the passage. Mrs. Anketell was outside calling to
the maids, "I can't think where they are," she said anxiously, as the
children passed her on their way out. "Mrs. Minards, I know, has gone out
in the car which took father; she had some shopping to do, but she left
Laura and Ann in charge. It is very wrong of them to leave the house like
this."
Paul went outside and shouted the girls' names at the top of his voice,
but he and Stella were bringing their last load before he saw them coming
in at the yard gate. They had been down to the hind's cottage, gossiping
with his wife.
About nine o'clock Mrs. Minards came back in the car, driven by her
husband, and soon after all the household retired to bed.