THE BOYS' ESCAPE.
LORD BEAUCOURT arrived at Kelmersdale somewhat too early for dinner,
and, having been duly informed by Mrs. Rayburn that she was in
difficulties about the two children, he desired her to come to his
study and tell him all about it.
"Now, Mrs. Thompson—no, Rayburn, by the way—what's wrong with you?"
"My lord, that unlucky young man, my stepson, not content with ruining
himself and me, speculating and getting dismissed, has got into worse
trouble in America. To the best of my belief, he's at this present time
in prison for some offence or other—cheating people, I believe. He
wrote for his wife, and she brought the boys to me and went off, and
not a line have I had from her since. And the boys are—well, indeed,
my lord, they are in mischief from morning to night, and I am worn out
running after them. Since the shock I got about their father, my health
is not at all good."
Being further questioned, she described the affair of that morning, and
I am sorry to say that Lord Beaucourt, who was a nobleman of a merry
turn of mind, laughed heartily.
"The little pickles!" he exclaimed. "They deserved a rod, no doubt."
"They might have burned down the Castle, my lord."
"Best thing that could happen to it, Mrs. Rayburn. It is nothing but
an expense. But stone walls four feet thick do not burn easily. Well,
I will think about it. I know several institutions that might answer;
it would be easier, of course, if they were orphans. But, never mind,
we'll find a school for them somewhere. I will talk to you again about
it."
He had to talk to her again, much sooner than he either wished or
expected. As soon as dinner was fairly served, Mrs. Rayburn, who had
been assisting the somewhat inexperienced cook, went to look for Fred,
whom she expected to find in the little turret bedroom, as she had
done on similar occasions more than once. For Fred had quite a genius
for disappearing when most wanted to answer for some choice piece of
mischief. Not finding him there, she said to herself:
"He's hiding in my sitting-room, to be near Frank."
She searched the sitting-room, but, as we know, Fred was not there, nor
was Frank in the closet.
"Those boys," said Mrs. Rayburn, in a loud voice, "will live to be
hanged, as sure as my name is Lydia Rayburn. There's no use going on
like this, boys," she went on, seating herself in her easy-chair.
"You're hiding, I know, but you may as well come out. My lord will not
get you punished as you deserve, and I shall say no more about it. I
forgive you both this once."
She lay back, pretending to doze, but really watching the first
movement of curtain or tablecloth, to pounce upon the sinners. The
sinners, however, were not there to be pounced upon.
After a few moments Mrs. Rayburn's pretended doze turned into a real
one, and she filled the cosy room with portentous snores. She woke up
suddenly in a fright.
"Bother those boys!" she exclaimed. "Where on earth are they hid?" And,
getting up, she began a systematic search. They were not in her rooms,
she soon discovered, so she went out into the hall and began poking
about behind the suits of armour that stood like ghostly sentinels
round the walls. She was thus engaged when Jacob drove up to the porch.
The hall being lighted, though but dimly, he saw the housekeeper at her
queer employment.
"I had to wait some time, mum, for the parcel was sent by goods train.
Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Rayburn, mum?"
"Looking for those two young pests, if you must know. I locked Frank
up—the young one escaped me—just to keep them out of mischief while I
was busy, and now, lo and behold! They're both gone."
"When did you lock the boy up, mum?"
"At once; just after the fire was put out."
"Well, then," said Jacob, excitedly, "the boys got out somehow, for I
overtook them halfway to the north gate. I bid them run back, and I
made sure they would, but they did not, I suppose. The big fish-ponds
are close to the approach, just a bit to the left, and if the boys went
near the ponds, they're both drowned long ago. 'Tis a dangerous place
for children; keeper's two were drowned there two years ago. Well,
these two were pretty boys; 'tis a pity of them."
Jacob kept on talking in this disjointed way, because he did not want
to be questioned and have to say that he had given the boys a lift. In
a simple, cunning way, he thought that if he frightened Mrs. Rayburn
sufficiently, she would not be able to question him effectually.
He succeeded, but, like many another, perhaps he wished he had not
succeeded quite so well, for Mrs. Rayburn flopped down upon a hard
and narrow hall bench with such reckless speed that she tumbled off
at the other side, and knocked down one of the ghostly sentinels,
whereupon the armour all fell apart with a tremendous clatter, and Mrs.
Rayburn set up a doleful screaming which echoed through the old hall,
and brought people running from every direction. Even Lord Beaucourt
sent to inquire what was the matter, and received for reply a message
stating that Jacob had brought word that the two little Rayburns had
been drowned in the fish-ponds. On this the earl abandoned his dessert
and came himself to the hall, where his presence produced silence,
except for Mrs. Rayburn's cries.
"Where is this man Jacob?" said Lord Beaucourt. "Oh—well, Jacob, it is
too dark for you to have seen into the ponds. What makes you so sure
that the boys fell in?"
Jacob repeated his story, and, in the alarm produced by being
questioned by "my lord," he began that pawing movement which was his
way of showing embarrassment.
"You saw the boys near the ponds, and desired them to return to the
Castle. It does not seem to me that you have any valid reason for
thinking that they went to the ponds at all. Mrs. Rayburn, go to your
rooms, and I will send out the few men we have here to look for your
little grandsons."
When Mrs. Rayburn, still wailing in a terrified manner, had been
removed by the women-servants, Lord Beaucourt turned to Jacob.
"Look here, my man. You are not telling the whole truth about this
matter. You met the boys near the ponds; where did you part from them?"
"Oh, my lord, it was on the north avenue, and they got into the spring
cart and came on a bit, and then I bid them run home."
"Stand still, if you please." Jacob ceased to paw. "Had you any reason
for concealing this from Mrs. Rayburn?"
"Only, my lord, I thought she'd be angry, seeing the boys had run off
without her knowledge."
"Another time I should advise you to avoid foolish concealments. If
anything has happened to these boys, whom you were the last person to
see, and about whom you tell their grandmother half the truth, adding a
perfectly gratuitous suggestion that the children are drowned, you may
find yourself in a very awkward position. Mansfield, bring me my hat
and coat, and send some one to the keeper's lodge, desiring him to meet
me at the ponds at once."
Jacob volunteered to carry the message, and as Lord Beaucourt had very
little suspicion that he had put the boys into the pond, he allowed him
to go. I may mention that Jacob was not in the least alarmed, being
quite too stupid to understand Lord Beaucourt's meaning.
The ponds were searched. They were clear and shallow, save for one deep
hole where there was a spring; this was searched with long poles tipped
with hooks. Nothing was found. The park, shrubberies, and gardens
were thoroughly searched, and as no trace of the boys was found, next
morning the search was continued outside the estate. It was found that
two boys answering to the description had been seen by some workmen
going towards the bridge over the Kelmer, which crossed the road after
leaving Kelmersdale Park. Near the bridge the searchers found a bag
containing a brush and comb and some underclothing, marked F. R. The
bag was red, with the word "Janet" worked on it in white, and Mrs.
Rayburn recognized it as the boys' property.
Beyond the fact that this proved that the children intended to run
away, it was a useless find, and, in spite of a most diligent search,
the boys were not heard of. After a time, people generally believed
that they had been tempted to clamber down to the water, and had
fallen in. The Kelmer is full of deep holes, and is known as a river
that seldom gives up a victim. Jacob, when he heard this conclusion
spoken of, remarked that he had always said that the boys were drowned.
Mansfield, Lord Beaucourt's man, who was present, replied—
"It is well for you that the old woman at the lodge declared that the
boys were not with you when you passed the gate."
"Why?" asked Jacob, after a pause for meditation.
"Well, as they were seen alive on the road, and did not go out with
you, don't you see that there can be no suspicion that you made away
with them, though you were so queer about them that first night?"
Jacob considered this gravely, and then said, "Any man that says that I
would do the like, I shall be obliged to see whether his fist or mine
is the heaviest. They were pretty boys, and Frank had a lot of pluck.
But I always said they were drowned," he concluded defiantly.
Mansfield shrugged his shoulders and said no more.
Where were the boys all this time? Not drowned in the Kelmer, at all
events. The poor little couple had wandered on all that day, very happy
in the freedom they had gained so easily. The bread they bought at a
tiny village seemed to them the sweetest they had tasted since they
left "muddie." They reached Rugeley, to which this hilly and devious
old road led in a roundabout fashion, peculiar to old roads, about an
hour after Jacob left the station with the cart. As they drew near,
meaning to ask the first man they met to send them back to Liverpool,
they heard a loud, rough voice from a room in the station call out,
"Here's another parcel for Kelmersdale. Is that man Jacob gone yet?"
Not waiting for the reply, the boys fled as fast as tired out little
legs would go. In their fright they passed the gate by which they had
entered, running on all the way down the long platform until they
reached the end of it. It was a raised platform ending abruptly, and in
the twilight they very nearly fell off, stopping but just in time. They
looked round and saw—or fancied they saw—a man coming after them. At a
siding stood a couple of vans, waiting there to be joined to the goods
train from the north presently; one door was open.
"In here, Fred," cried Frank, quickly.
In they clambered, sat down on some sacks of wool behind the door, and
listened. Yes, a man came and put a big box in through the door, which
he then shut. The boys were in utter darkness, but the sacks were soft;
that is, the wool was, and they were tired. So very soon they were
fast asleep. Fred lying along the sacks with his head on Frank's knee,
Frank's arms round him, and Frank's voice murmuring in his sleep—
"Don't be afraid, Fred. We're quite safe, and to-morrow we—will—search
for muddie."
During the night, the train was coupled on to that expected from the
north, and before the boys awoke, they were stationary in another town,
far enough from Rugeley. They had a glimmer of light now, but for a few
minutes they could not imagine where they were. Then they remembered
their escape, and how they had crept in here to hide; but that the van
had moved since they entered it they did not in the least suspect.
"Oh, Fwank, I'm so hungry!" said Fred.
"Here's some bread I kept for you, because I know you're such a hungry
boy. Eat it up."
Fred required no pressing; the bread disappeared.
"Where's your bread, Fwank?"
"I'm not hungry yet. When we get out we'll buy some more."
"When s'all we get out?"
"When they open the door."
After some time, Fred got so hungry, and said so with such increasing
emphasis, that at last Frank was driven to call out; but no one heard
him. The vans were again on a siding waiting for a train to take them
to their destination further south. The greater part of the train had
gone on to London.
Hungry and frightened, the forlorn pair sat side by side, tightly
clasped in each other's arms. They fell asleep at last, and when they
awoke the train was moving.
"Oh, Fwank, they're wunning away with us!"
"But I suppose they are going to Liverpool," answered Frank; "and won't
that be nice?"
"Yes, but I'm so hungry!"
"So am I," admitted poor Frank; "but, then, fancy if we find we're safe
in Liverpool!"
As he spoke the train slackened its pace, and finally stopped.
Presently a man opened the door of the van, and pulled out the big box
thrust in at Rugeley. He went off with it without seeing the boys, who
were behind the door. Poor little souls! They rejoiced at this escape,
yet surely it would have been well had they been discovered and sent
back to Rugeley. The man left the door open, and Frank peeped out.
There were several men about, but they were all busy, and the boys got
out of the van unperceived.
They looked very unlike poor Janet's neatly dressed and spotlessly
clean little boys. Frank had got dusty in his prison closet; they had
both trudged the dusty road for hours, and had finally slept in a
railway van on a sack of wool. Of each and all these adventures they
bore visible traces; their natty little sailor suits were all awry,
their curly hair full of bits of wool. They really looked like what
they wished to pass for—two little beggars. As they looked about,
hoping to see some one who would tell them where they were, though they
felt sure they were in Liverpool, the station-master spied them.
"Off the platform, you little ragamuffins," he shouted. "We've had
quite enough of pickpockets here already."
Utterly unused to unkindness, except from grandma, Frank restrained his
brother, who would have fled, and, taking his hand, walked up to the
station-master, and said—
"Please, sir, is not this Liverpool?"
The man stared. All he saw, however, was a dirty little pair of
children, who plainly had no right to be on his platform. The baby
beauty of dark-eyed Fred, the sweet confiding smile of poor pale Frank
had no effect whatever on him.
"Liverpool! Is the boy an idiot? Get out of this at once, or I'll take
a stick to you."
As he spoke, a whistle sounded, and, behold! The train was moving on.
Frank felt as if his last friend was deserting him. A moment more, and
he was driven off the platform, Fred clinging to him in great terror,
and the station-master rattling a thick stick against the iron railings
that separated the railway from the road.
"Oh, Fwank, what shall we do now?"
"Don't cry, Fred. I'll take care of you, and God loves us just the same
as if we were at home with muddie. But I wish I had not left my bag in
the van."
A little way from the station they came to a shop, where they bought
some bread; a drinking-fountain in the street gave them a drink of
water. They consulted each other on the propriety of washing, but Frank
thought that people might object. Then a woman came along the pathway,
and Frank ventured to address her—
"Please, ma'am, isn't this Liverpool?"
"Liverpool! Did you ever hear the like? Why, child, Liverpool's a long
way off. I never saw it in my life. Why do you ask?"
"Because we are going there, ma'am."
"What! You two babies? Who are you going with?"
"No one, ma'am. We must walk."
"Nonsense, child—walk indeed!"
"Oh, we can walk very well," Frank said, adding with a sigh, "We're
beggars, you know."
The woman was kind-hearted, but stupid, and, moreover, in a hurry. She
looked round for a policeman, intending to call his attention to the
children; but there was no policeman to be seen, so she compromised the
matter with her conscience by saying—
"I don't know any way of getting to Liverpool except by train, and that
costs a lot of money. Go home now, like good children. Here's a penny
for you, and I'm in a great hurry."
"Thank you, ma'am," Frank said gratefully. And then, as she sped away,
he turned to Fred, saying, "By train—that's what she said. Then, Fred,
as long as we keep near the train we're on the right road to Liverpool."
Fred, refreshed by sound sleep and a big hunch of bread, set forth
gaily, skipping along beside the weary, gentle-looking elder brother,
for whom, alas! Sleep had brought little refreshment, and who had
stinted his breakfast that he might have bread in his pocket for Fred.
Thus they left the town, the name of which they never knew, but I think
it must have been Cirencester.
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