Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.Secret Preparations.Waller’s appetite was gone. The girl seemed to have taken it out of the room with her, and the boy thrust his hands into his pockets and sat thinking for some time about his plans, and ended by rising from his hardly touched meal to cross to the bell. But a fresh idea occurred to him, and, going back to the table, he took his untouched cup, carried it carefully to the open window, and emptied it upon a flower-bed; then, returning the cup, he rang the bell, waited till he heard Bella’s step in the hall, and then began to parade in a sort of “sentry go” up and down in front of the partly open bookcase, while the maid, after a glance at the boy’s averted countenance and frowning face, not daring to catch his eye for fear of bursting out into a fresh fit of laughter, began to clear the table.Neither spoke till the task was pretty well finished, and then the girl looked up at Waller, next at the table, and lastly about the room.“Well,” she exclaimed, “if I couldn’t declare that I brought two more plates!”Waller paid no apparent heed to the remark, but continued his “sentry go,” breathing rather hard the while, till Bella left the room, when he uttered a low sigh of relief.But the boy’s thoughts had not been idle during this time, and as soon as he was free to carry out his plans he opened the door, listened to the murmur of voices in the kitchen, and then ran to the bookcase, took out his supply of provender, had another listen, and then ran with the two plates upstairs, past the main set of bedrooms, and then up the next flight to a room in the front which was devoted to his pursuits.Here he had books, tools, stuffed birds, fishing-tackle, a wonderfully untidy lot of specimen birds’ nests and their eggs arranged on shelves; in short, in addition to a pallet bedstead and bed that were very rarely used, a most glorious muddle of the odds and ends and collections dear to the heart of a country lad, all of which were under an interdict not to be touched by the brush, broom, or duster of the maids.Waller’s actions gave the key to his thoughts.The cereal and carnal cakes were thrust into a closet, and the boy proceeded then to turn down and feel the bed, over which he frowned and seemed in doubt; but the next minute he had rushed out of the room and downstairs to his own chamber, to strip a couple of blankets from the bed, smooth it over again, and make it rougher than it was before, a fact which he grasped and puzzled over for a moment, before exclaiming, “Bother!” and, after listening at the head of the stairs, he rushed up into his work-room with the blankets.That seemed to him to be all that he could do, till it occurred to him that the room felt hot and stuffy, so he threw open the window, fastening back the casement, and stood gazing out at a great rugged old Scotch fir not many feet away, one apparently of great age, and which cut off a part of the view over the undulating greenery of the forest.Quite satisfied now, and with a sigh of relief, the boy went out to the landing, carefully locked the door and pocketed the key.“Let ’em think,” he muttered with a grim smile upon his lips, “it’s a curiosity I found in the woods.”By this time he was down in the gallery and passing his own chamber, where he stopped short, bringing himself up with the ejaculation—“Oh! Bella will be at me about the blankets! Bother! What shall I say? Tell her to mind her own business,” he cried half-savagely; and as if to get away from his thoughts he ran down into the hall, snatched his cap from the stand, and then hurried away for the woods.But it was not in his ordinary free and careless fashion, for his thoughts haunted him, and every now and then he kept turning round as if fancying that he was followed. Now his eyes were directed back at the old ivy-covered house, where he expected to see the maid watching him from one of the windows. Soon after, when the Manor was hidden by the clustering oaks that were scattered park-like among the fields, he was looking over his left shoulder to see if that was the fat village constable in the distance bending down so as to creep along unobserved, and not one of his father’s mouse-coloured cows.Hurrying on, and right into the forest, his next fancy was that he heard a distant shout, one that was answered, though it might have been an echo, and his heart beat a little faster as he set both sounds down to soldiers searching among the trees and hallooing to one another so as to keep in touch.“Oh, I say,” he muttered to himself, as he proceeded, keeping to the densest portions of the forest, and doubling the labour in threading his way, “who could have thought that it would make one feel so queer? I haven’t done anything—at least, nothing much—to mind, and here am I feeling as if I had been guilty of nobody knows what. No wonder that poor chap felt so bad and pulled out the pistol. What did he say his name was? Boyne? Let’s see—Battle of the Boyne—where was that? Oh, I know—King James, and he was a Stuart. Nonsense! That couldn’t have had anything to do with his name. Let’s see; I had better wait till it gets dusk, and then—oh, I’ll risk it. I’ll smuggle him up to the house and upstairs. But what about Joe Hanson? Mustn’t run against him. He’s always pottering about outside the house towards evening, just as if he thought I wanted to go down the garden and help myself to apples and pears. Like his impudence, with his ‘my garden’ and ‘my fruit,’ and all the rest of it; and father said that I was to take what I liked, and that he should be proud to leave it to my discretion. It will come to a row one of these days, for I shall hit out at Master Joe, and then he will go and complain. Bother Joe Hanson! I want to think about that poor chap lying out there amongst the bracken. What a miserable, haggard scarecrow he did look, just like some poor beggarly tramp. But one could feel that he was a gentleman as soon as he began to speak. There; best way will be to take him boldly up to the front door and right up the stairs, and chance it. One never tries to play the sneak and get anywhere unseen without running bang up against somebody.”These and similar thoughts so took up the boy’s attention that it was like a surprise to him when, close upon sunset, and when the shadows were deepening in the forest, he found himself close to the spot where he had left the fugitive; and there he stopped short, listening and then, feeling that he must not seem to be peering about, he took out his knife, cut down a nice straight rod of hazel, and began to whittle and trim it, apparently intent upon his task, but with his ears twitching and his lowered eyes peering to right and left in every direction, as he seemed to be unconsciously changing his position.“Wish I were as clever as Bunny Wrigg,” he muttered. “He’s just like a fox for hiding, throwing anyone off the scent. He’d have got here without anybody seeing him, while, for aught I know, I may have been watched all the time—by soldiers, perhaps. That must have been some of them I heard shouting. Oh, it is so queer,” he muttered passionately, as he hacked off the twigs of the stout sapling. “Only this morning I was as happy as I could be, and now my head’s all of a buzz with worry. Wish I’d gone and found Bunny Wrigg and told him all; he’d have helped me and enjoyed the job. I don’t know, though. There’s that hundred pounds reward. I am glad, after all, I didn’t trust him. This is one of the things like father talked to me about where one has no business to trust anybody but oneself. Here, I mustn’t go straight up to the hiding-place, in case I am watched. Oh, how suspicious I do feel!”Turning short round, he began to retrace his steps, acting as if he had fulfilled his purpose and come expressly for that hazel-rod, which he went on trimming, humming a tune the while, which unconsciously merged into one of the Scottish ditties about “Charley over the water.”He sauntered on for some distance, till, coming to what he considered a suitable spot, he glanced furtively to right and left without turning his head, and then, having pretty well trimmed his rod, he began to treat it as if it were a javelin, darting it right away before him, and running after it to catch it up and aim it with a good throw at a tree some yards away. He went through this performance four or five times over before aiming for a dense clump of the abundant bracken, into the midst of which he darted his mock spear, dashed in after it, and did not appear again, for the hazel-rod was left where it fell, and the boy was crawling rapidly on hands and knees beneath the great bracken fronds, keeping well out of sight till, judging by the towering beeches which he took for his bearings, he stopped at last, hot and panting with his exertions, close to where he had left the young spy.

Waller’s appetite was gone. The girl seemed to have taken it out of the room with her, and the boy thrust his hands into his pockets and sat thinking for some time about his plans, and ended by rising from his hardly touched meal to cross to the bell. But a fresh idea occurred to him, and, going back to the table, he took his untouched cup, carried it carefully to the open window, and emptied it upon a flower-bed; then, returning the cup, he rang the bell, waited till he heard Bella’s step in the hall, and then began to parade in a sort of “sentry go” up and down in front of the partly open bookcase, while the maid, after a glance at the boy’s averted countenance and frowning face, not daring to catch his eye for fear of bursting out into a fresh fit of laughter, began to clear the table.

Neither spoke till the task was pretty well finished, and then the girl looked up at Waller, next at the table, and lastly about the room.

“Well,” she exclaimed, “if I couldn’t declare that I brought two more plates!”

Waller paid no apparent heed to the remark, but continued his “sentry go,” breathing rather hard the while, till Bella left the room, when he uttered a low sigh of relief.

But the boy’s thoughts had not been idle during this time, and as soon as he was free to carry out his plans he opened the door, listened to the murmur of voices in the kitchen, and then ran to the bookcase, took out his supply of provender, had another listen, and then ran with the two plates upstairs, past the main set of bedrooms, and then up the next flight to a room in the front which was devoted to his pursuits.

Here he had books, tools, stuffed birds, fishing-tackle, a wonderfully untidy lot of specimen birds’ nests and their eggs arranged on shelves; in short, in addition to a pallet bedstead and bed that were very rarely used, a most glorious muddle of the odds and ends and collections dear to the heart of a country lad, all of which were under an interdict not to be touched by the brush, broom, or duster of the maids.

Waller’s actions gave the key to his thoughts.

The cereal and carnal cakes were thrust into a closet, and the boy proceeded then to turn down and feel the bed, over which he frowned and seemed in doubt; but the next minute he had rushed out of the room and downstairs to his own chamber, to strip a couple of blankets from the bed, smooth it over again, and make it rougher than it was before, a fact which he grasped and puzzled over for a moment, before exclaiming, “Bother!” and, after listening at the head of the stairs, he rushed up into his work-room with the blankets.

That seemed to him to be all that he could do, till it occurred to him that the room felt hot and stuffy, so he threw open the window, fastening back the casement, and stood gazing out at a great rugged old Scotch fir not many feet away, one apparently of great age, and which cut off a part of the view over the undulating greenery of the forest.

Quite satisfied now, and with a sigh of relief, the boy went out to the landing, carefully locked the door and pocketed the key.

“Let ’em think,” he muttered with a grim smile upon his lips, “it’s a curiosity I found in the woods.”

By this time he was down in the gallery and passing his own chamber, where he stopped short, bringing himself up with the ejaculation—

“Oh! Bella will be at me about the blankets! Bother! What shall I say? Tell her to mind her own business,” he cried half-savagely; and as if to get away from his thoughts he ran down into the hall, snatched his cap from the stand, and then hurried away for the woods.

But it was not in his ordinary free and careless fashion, for his thoughts haunted him, and every now and then he kept turning round as if fancying that he was followed. Now his eyes were directed back at the old ivy-covered house, where he expected to see the maid watching him from one of the windows. Soon after, when the Manor was hidden by the clustering oaks that were scattered park-like among the fields, he was looking over his left shoulder to see if that was the fat village constable in the distance bending down so as to creep along unobserved, and not one of his father’s mouse-coloured cows.

Hurrying on, and right into the forest, his next fancy was that he heard a distant shout, one that was answered, though it might have been an echo, and his heart beat a little faster as he set both sounds down to soldiers searching among the trees and hallooing to one another so as to keep in touch.

“Oh, I say,” he muttered to himself, as he proceeded, keeping to the densest portions of the forest, and doubling the labour in threading his way, “who could have thought that it would make one feel so queer? I haven’t done anything—at least, nothing much—to mind, and here am I feeling as if I had been guilty of nobody knows what. No wonder that poor chap felt so bad and pulled out the pistol. What did he say his name was? Boyne? Let’s see—Battle of the Boyne—where was that? Oh, I know—King James, and he was a Stuart. Nonsense! That couldn’t have had anything to do with his name. Let’s see; I had better wait till it gets dusk, and then—oh, I’ll risk it. I’ll smuggle him up to the house and upstairs. But what about Joe Hanson? Mustn’t run against him. He’s always pottering about outside the house towards evening, just as if he thought I wanted to go down the garden and help myself to apples and pears. Like his impudence, with his ‘my garden’ and ‘my fruit,’ and all the rest of it; and father said that I was to take what I liked, and that he should be proud to leave it to my discretion. It will come to a row one of these days, for I shall hit out at Master Joe, and then he will go and complain. Bother Joe Hanson! I want to think about that poor chap lying out there amongst the bracken. What a miserable, haggard scarecrow he did look, just like some poor beggarly tramp. But one could feel that he was a gentleman as soon as he began to speak. There; best way will be to take him boldly up to the front door and right up the stairs, and chance it. One never tries to play the sneak and get anywhere unseen without running bang up against somebody.”

These and similar thoughts so took up the boy’s attention that it was like a surprise to him when, close upon sunset, and when the shadows were deepening in the forest, he found himself close to the spot where he had left the fugitive; and there he stopped short, listening and then, feeling that he must not seem to be peering about, he took out his knife, cut down a nice straight rod of hazel, and began to whittle and trim it, apparently intent upon his task, but with his ears twitching and his lowered eyes peering to right and left in every direction, as he seemed to be unconsciously changing his position.

“Wish I were as clever as Bunny Wrigg,” he muttered. “He’s just like a fox for hiding, throwing anyone off the scent. He’d have got here without anybody seeing him, while, for aught I know, I may have been watched all the time—by soldiers, perhaps. That must have been some of them I heard shouting. Oh, it is so queer,” he muttered passionately, as he hacked off the twigs of the stout sapling. “Only this morning I was as happy as I could be, and now my head’s all of a buzz with worry. Wish I’d gone and found Bunny Wrigg and told him all; he’d have helped me and enjoyed the job. I don’t know, though. There’s that hundred pounds reward. I am glad, after all, I didn’t trust him. This is one of the things like father talked to me about where one has no business to trust anybody but oneself. Here, I mustn’t go straight up to the hiding-place, in case I am watched. Oh, how suspicious I do feel!”

Turning short round, he began to retrace his steps, acting as if he had fulfilled his purpose and come expressly for that hazel-rod, which he went on trimming, humming a tune the while, which unconsciously merged into one of the Scottish ditties about “Charley over the water.”

He sauntered on for some distance, till, coming to what he considered a suitable spot, he glanced furtively to right and left without turning his head, and then, having pretty well trimmed his rod, he began to treat it as if it were a javelin, darting it right away before him, and running after it to catch it up and aim it with a good throw at a tree some yards away. He went through this performance four or five times over before aiming for a dense clump of the abundant bracken, into the midst of which he darted his mock spear, dashed in after it, and did not appear again, for the hazel-rod was left where it fell, and the boy was crawling rapidly on hands and knees beneath the great bracken fronds, keeping well out of sight till, judging by the towering beeches which he took for his bearings, he stopped at last, hot and panting with his exertions, close to where he had left the young spy.

Chapter Eight.Helping the Fugitive.Waller had managed so well that he had only a few yards to go; in fact, if the task had been undertaken by the tall gipsy-like woodland dweller, to whom he had referred as Bunny—a nickname, by the way, bestowed upon him by the boy from his rabbit-like habits, though they were more foxy, as Waller felt, but he liked him too well to brand him with such a name—it could not have been done better.The next minute, with a vivid recollection of the pistol which had been thrust into the fugitive’s breast, the boy was creeping forward and listening, till, as he came nearer, he became aware of a deep stertorous breathing, almost a snore, and, closing up, he bent over, to lay one hand on the hidden pistol, so as to be well on his defence, while with the other he gently shook the deep sleeper.Waller expected that the poor fellow would start up in wild affright, but his touch only resulted in a dull, incoherent muttering, and the shake had to be repeated two or three times before the fugitive slowly sat up and gazed at him vacantly, laying one hand upon his burning forehead the while.“Yes,” he said slowly, “What is it?”“I have come back,” said Waller. “Don’t you know me? Why, you are not half awake yet. It will be dark soon, quite dark by the time we get home, and I am going to take you there.”The poor fellow passed his hand two or three times across his forehead, as if to clear away some mist that hindered his perceptions.“I say, you have had a splendid sleep,” continued Waller. “Feel better now?”“Sleep? Better? I don’t know—don’t know. Yes, I do. You came and brought me something to eat, and I have been to sleep and dreaming about—Oh!” he groaned, and, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands, he began to rock himself to and fro as if the mental agony from which he suffered was too hard to bear.Waller looked on in silence for a few moments, before reaching forward and laying his hand upon the poor fellow’s shoulder, when the touch acted like magic. His hands were caught in those of the fugitive, who rose painfully to his feet and spoke in a low, quick, hurried way.“Yes,” he said, “I am ready. Take me where you said; but,” he added, glancing sharply round with a wild and fevered look in his eyes, “did the soldiers come, or did I dream it?”“Dreamt it,” said Waller emphatically.“Ah!” was sighed. “Am I speaking properly? I—I don’t quite know what I say. It’s my head, I suppose—my head.”“You are not quite awake,” said Waller encouragingly. “There, come down to the river and bathe your face. It’s getting beautifully cool now; and then we will go gently home through the woods.”The poor fellow nodded quickly, obeying his companion to the letter, and seeming to trust himself entirely in his hands.He seemed a little clearer after lying down and bathing his face; but as they walked slowly towards the Manor there were moments when he began to turn dizzy and reeled. But they reached the old Elizabethan house at last, quite in the dusk of evening, and, following out his settled plans, Waller led his companion in through the porch, across the hall, and upstairs, quite unseen, and rather breathless himself, while his companion seemed to have grown calmer. He unlocked the door of his den, threw it open, and closed it upon them with a sigh of relief, as he said,—“There, sit down in that old chair—gently, for the bottom’s broken. This is my own room.” Then, as the poor fellow sank back heavily in the very ancient chair, one that Waller had rescued from the lumber-room for his own particular use, he said, “I say: I won’t be above a minute. Don’t you stir. I am going downstairs to get a light.”There was no reply, and, hurriedly descending, Waller fetched candle and stick, to return and find the “something” that he had brought in from the forest fast asleep once more.“Now we shall be all right,” he said. “I have got some supper for you. What, asleep again?” he continued, more gently. “Well, you had better lie down. Here, I say, have a nap on the bed. Get up, and I’ll help you. You had better undress.”The poor fellow grasped a portion of his wishes, and rose mechanically, reeled to the bed, and fell across it with his legs trailing upon the floor; but a few minutes after, with his young host’s help, he was properly installed outside, dressed as he was, to sink at once into a deep, feverish sleep.There was no suppering that night for the stranger, who slept on, muttering quickly at intervals, and was still sleeping when Waller stole up to his side again and again at intervals during what seemed to be an interminably long night; for though he pretended to go to bed, the boy could not sleep for more than an hour at a time, and when he did it was only to start up from some troubled dream connected with the incidents of the past day, for he was suffering badly from a new complaint—fugitive on the brain.

Waller had managed so well that he had only a few yards to go; in fact, if the task had been undertaken by the tall gipsy-like woodland dweller, to whom he had referred as Bunny—a nickname, by the way, bestowed upon him by the boy from his rabbit-like habits, though they were more foxy, as Waller felt, but he liked him too well to brand him with such a name—it could not have been done better.

The next minute, with a vivid recollection of the pistol which had been thrust into the fugitive’s breast, the boy was creeping forward and listening, till, as he came nearer, he became aware of a deep stertorous breathing, almost a snore, and, closing up, he bent over, to lay one hand on the hidden pistol, so as to be well on his defence, while with the other he gently shook the deep sleeper.

Waller expected that the poor fellow would start up in wild affright, but his touch only resulted in a dull, incoherent muttering, and the shake had to be repeated two or three times before the fugitive slowly sat up and gazed at him vacantly, laying one hand upon his burning forehead the while.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “What is it?”

“I have come back,” said Waller. “Don’t you know me? Why, you are not half awake yet. It will be dark soon, quite dark by the time we get home, and I am going to take you there.”

The poor fellow passed his hand two or three times across his forehead, as if to clear away some mist that hindered his perceptions.

“I say, you have had a splendid sleep,” continued Waller. “Feel better now?”

“Sleep? Better? I don’t know—don’t know. Yes, I do. You came and brought me something to eat, and I have been to sleep and dreaming about—Oh!” he groaned, and, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands, he began to rock himself to and fro as if the mental agony from which he suffered was too hard to bear.

Waller looked on in silence for a few moments, before reaching forward and laying his hand upon the poor fellow’s shoulder, when the touch acted like magic. His hands were caught in those of the fugitive, who rose painfully to his feet and spoke in a low, quick, hurried way.

“Yes,” he said, “I am ready. Take me where you said; but,” he added, glancing sharply round with a wild and fevered look in his eyes, “did the soldiers come, or did I dream it?”

“Dreamt it,” said Waller emphatically.

“Ah!” was sighed. “Am I speaking properly? I—I don’t quite know what I say. It’s my head, I suppose—my head.”

“You are not quite awake,” said Waller encouragingly. “There, come down to the river and bathe your face. It’s getting beautifully cool now; and then we will go gently home through the woods.”

The poor fellow nodded quickly, obeying his companion to the letter, and seeming to trust himself entirely in his hands.

He seemed a little clearer after lying down and bathing his face; but as they walked slowly towards the Manor there were moments when he began to turn dizzy and reeled. But they reached the old Elizabethan house at last, quite in the dusk of evening, and, following out his settled plans, Waller led his companion in through the porch, across the hall, and upstairs, quite unseen, and rather breathless himself, while his companion seemed to have grown calmer. He unlocked the door of his den, threw it open, and closed it upon them with a sigh of relief, as he said,—

“There, sit down in that old chair—gently, for the bottom’s broken. This is my own room.” Then, as the poor fellow sank back heavily in the very ancient chair, one that Waller had rescued from the lumber-room for his own particular use, he said, “I say: I won’t be above a minute. Don’t you stir. I am going downstairs to get a light.”

There was no reply, and, hurriedly descending, Waller fetched candle and stick, to return and find the “something” that he had brought in from the forest fast asleep once more.

“Now we shall be all right,” he said. “I have got some supper for you. What, asleep again?” he continued, more gently. “Well, you had better lie down. Here, I say, have a nap on the bed. Get up, and I’ll help you. You had better undress.”

The poor fellow grasped a portion of his wishes, and rose mechanically, reeled to the bed, and fell across it with his legs trailing upon the floor; but a few minutes after, with his young host’s help, he was properly installed outside, dressed as he was, to sink at once into a deep, feverish sleep.

There was no suppering that night for the stranger, who slept on, muttering quickly at intervals, and was still sleeping when Waller stole up to his side again and again at intervals during what seemed to be an interminably long night; for though he pretended to go to bed, the boy could not sleep for more than an hour at a time, and when he did it was only to start up from some troubled dream connected with the incidents of the past day, for he was suffering badly from a new complaint—fugitive on the brain.

Chapter Nine.In Hiding.“What’s he doing now?” said Martha. “Isn’t going to be ill, is he?”“Ill?” said Bella, contemptuously. “Not he!”“But he’s shut up in that attic, isn’t he?”“Yes, I told you so. Got another of those whim-whams in his head, and making a litter of some kind—skinning snakes or something that he’s caught in the woods.”“Ugh!” ejaculated cook. “If there’s anything I can’t abear it’s them nasty scrawmy things. Did you tell him his dinner was ready?”“Yes, and he nearly snapped my head off.”“What does he want to be skinning snakes for?” said the cook.“Oh, I don’t know—horrid things! He’s got about half a dozen up there as he did last year; peels all the skins off, same as you do with the eels, and then turns them inside out again, fills them full of sand, and then twists them up and leaves them to dry.”“And what then?” said cook.“Pours all the sand out again.”“But, I say, has he got them up there alive before he skins them?”“I don’t know as he has got any at all,” said Bella shortly.“Then why did you say he had?”“I didn’t. I only said I supposed he had, because he’s always skinning something or another. He’s got owls, and stoats, and all sorts of things that he gets in the forest, or that nasty fellow Bunny Wrigg brings for him.”“Oh!” said the cook. “Because I am not going to sleep upstairs if he’s got live snakes to come crawling out of his room at all times in the night.”But though guilty of many such acts as the maid charged him with, Waller was not engaged with any taxidermic preparations, for his time during the past two days had been taken up in attendance upon the young fugitive.For the first day the latter ate nothing, but passed the full twenty-four hours in a feverish sleep. Then he seemed to throw off the fever, and, thanks to his host, who was eager to supply him, gradually transformed himself from the miserable, ragged, famished object into such a specimen of humanity as made Waller smile with satisfaction.“Why,” he said, “if the soldiers did come they wouldn’t know you again.”“Again?” replied the lad. “They’ve never seen me.”“Well, I mean they wouldn’t take you for a—for a—”“There, say it,” cried the lad sadly, “For a spy.”“I didn’t mean spy,” said Waller. “I meant fugitive.”“But they would. If I were questioned, what account could I give of myself? I have tried to do the work for which I came—for which we came—and I have failed. I am not going to tell a lie.”“No, of course not,” said Waller hotly; “but you might hold your tongue, or tell any impudent beggar who dared to ask you questions, to mind his own business, if he didn’t want to be kicked.”“Should you speak to the soldiers like that?” said Boyne, with a smile.“Of course,” cried Waller. “What do I care for the soldiers?”“Ah!” sighed the lad. “But never mind that. I am so grateful to you for all you have done.”“Oh, nonsense!” cried Waller, flushing. “People are always hospitable in the country.”“So I have heard,” said the other; “but, if I had been your own brother you could not have done more for me. You have saved my life.”“Oh, nonsense! I tell you. You make too much of it. I never had a brother, but fellows whom I have known at Winchester who have—they are not so very fond of doing things for one another. They generally like fighting and knocking one another about. I suppose they oughtn’t to, but they quarrel more with their brothers than they do with anyone else. But you mustn’t touch their brothers, for if you do—oh my! You have them on to you at once. Here, I say, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”“Well, I will not. I don’t want to go away and leave you, but I must. I can think of nothing else.”“But why?”“Because I am shut up here alone so much, a prisoner.”“Yes, but it’s only until it’s safe for you to go away. You must see that you ought to be patient. There, I’ll bring you up books to read, to amuse you.”“I can’t read them. They wouldn’t amuse me with my mind in this state.”“Well; then, have a look at some of my things,” cried Waller, pulling out the drawer of a big press. “These are all traps and springs with which I catch birds and animals in the forest. Bunny Wrigg taught me how to make them and how to use them. I wish you knew him. He’s a capital fellow, and knows the forest ten times better than I do.”“Oh, I don’t want to know the forest—nor, your friend,” said the lad wearily. “I want to be free to come and go—as free as the birds and those little animals, the squirrels, that I see out of the window.”“Yes, of course you do, and so you shall be soon,” cried Waller. “But you haven’t quite recovered yet from that feverishness and all you went through. I say, have a look in this drawer.”Waller thrust the open one in and pulled out another. “Look here, these are my old nets with which we drag the hammer pond, and catch the carp and tench; great golden fellows they are, some of them; but the worst of it is the pond’s so deep that the fish dive under the net and escape.”“And those which do not,” said the lad sadly, “you take in that net and make prisoners of them. Poor things! And what good are they to you when you have caught them?”“Good? Good to eat! I say, what a fellow you are to talk of the fish one catches as prisoners! Carp and tench are not human beings.”“No, they are not human beings,” said the lad, smiling sadly; “but they are prisoners, the same as I am.”“Oh, I say, what stuff! To call yourself a prisoner, when you are only a visitor here, and could come and go just as you like—at least, not quite, for it wouldn’t be safe; but it will be soon.”“What’s that coil of new rope for?”“That?” cried Waller. “Oh, that’s a new rope for my drag-net. The old one was quite worn out. You shall help me to fit this on if you like.”“Thank you. I’ll help you if you wish.”“Well, I do wish, when you get well; but I don’t care to see you in the dumps like this. Of course I know what it is: it’s being shut up in this room for so long. A few good walks in the forest would make you as right as could be.”“Yes,” said the lad wearily. “I feel as if I should like to be out again, for I often think when I am shut up here that it’s like being a bird in a cage.”“Ah, you won’t feel that long,” said Waller.It was the very next day when, after taking his new friend a selection of what he considered interesting books, Waller announced that he should not come upstairs again till the evening, for he had several things to do, and among others to write a letter to his father in London, and then take it to the village post-office for despatch.“I don’t think that either of the maids is likely to come up,” said Waller, at parting; “but if they should try the door, all you have got to do is to keep quite still. Of course, you will lock yourself in as soon as I am gone. Shall I bring you anything else to eat before I go?”“No,” said the lad, with a weary look of disgust. “You bring me too much as it is; more than I care to have. Don’t bring me any more till I ask.”“I shall,” said Waller, with a laugh. “I am not going to have you starve yourself to death up in my room. There, jump up and come and shut the door, and then have a good long read. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, and then we will have a good game at draughts or chess. But I mustn’t be up here too much, or it will make the girls suspicious. There, good-bye for the present.”Waller went down and busied himself at once over the letter to his father, telling him of some of the things that were going on, but carefully—though strongly tempted—omitting all allusion to the fugitive.It was rather a slow and laborious task for the boy, clever as he was at most things, though none too able in the use of a quill pen. But he got his letter finished at last, the big post-paper carefully folded and sealed, and then went off to the post-bag at the little village shop, before hurrying back home to partake of his tea, which was waiting.It was a lonely meal, and the boy sighed as he stirred the sugar, and wished he could have Godfrey Boyne down, as companion for himself, and to cheer the poor fellow up.It was quite dark by the time he had done, and with the full intention of suggesting that they should wait till the girls had gone to bed, and then steal down together for a walk in the forest, the boy rose to go and make an observation or two as to the position of the servants, before stealing up to join his friend.Waller rose, went across to the bell, the pull of which he had taken in his hand, when he was startled by a distant scream, followed by half a dozen more, and the trampling of feet somewhere above, while, as he rushed out into the hall, he was just in time to hear a door bang and quick steps hurrying along the kitchen passage.

“What’s he doing now?” said Martha. “Isn’t going to be ill, is he?”

“Ill?” said Bella, contemptuously. “Not he!”

“But he’s shut up in that attic, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I told you so. Got another of those whim-whams in his head, and making a litter of some kind—skinning snakes or something that he’s caught in the woods.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated cook. “If there’s anything I can’t abear it’s them nasty scrawmy things. Did you tell him his dinner was ready?”

“Yes, and he nearly snapped my head off.”

“What does he want to be skinning snakes for?” said the cook.

“Oh, I don’t know—horrid things! He’s got about half a dozen up there as he did last year; peels all the skins off, same as you do with the eels, and then turns them inside out again, fills them full of sand, and then twists them up and leaves them to dry.”

“And what then?” said cook.

“Pours all the sand out again.”

“But, I say, has he got them up there alive before he skins them?”

“I don’t know as he has got any at all,” said Bella shortly.

“Then why did you say he had?”

“I didn’t. I only said I supposed he had, because he’s always skinning something or another. He’s got owls, and stoats, and all sorts of things that he gets in the forest, or that nasty fellow Bunny Wrigg brings for him.”

“Oh!” said the cook. “Because I am not going to sleep upstairs if he’s got live snakes to come crawling out of his room at all times in the night.”

But though guilty of many such acts as the maid charged him with, Waller was not engaged with any taxidermic preparations, for his time during the past two days had been taken up in attendance upon the young fugitive.

For the first day the latter ate nothing, but passed the full twenty-four hours in a feverish sleep. Then he seemed to throw off the fever, and, thanks to his host, who was eager to supply him, gradually transformed himself from the miserable, ragged, famished object into such a specimen of humanity as made Waller smile with satisfaction.

“Why,” he said, “if the soldiers did come they wouldn’t know you again.”

“Again?” replied the lad. “They’ve never seen me.”

“Well, I mean they wouldn’t take you for a—for a—”

“There, say it,” cried the lad sadly, “For a spy.”

“I didn’t mean spy,” said Waller. “I meant fugitive.”

“But they would. If I were questioned, what account could I give of myself? I have tried to do the work for which I came—for which we came—and I have failed. I am not going to tell a lie.”

“No, of course not,” said Waller hotly; “but you might hold your tongue, or tell any impudent beggar who dared to ask you questions, to mind his own business, if he didn’t want to be kicked.”

“Should you speak to the soldiers like that?” said Boyne, with a smile.

“Of course,” cried Waller. “What do I care for the soldiers?”

“Ah!” sighed the lad. “But never mind that. I am so grateful to you for all you have done.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Waller, flushing. “People are always hospitable in the country.”

“So I have heard,” said the other; “but, if I had been your own brother you could not have done more for me. You have saved my life.”

“Oh, nonsense! I tell you. You make too much of it. I never had a brother, but fellows whom I have known at Winchester who have—they are not so very fond of doing things for one another. They generally like fighting and knocking one another about. I suppose they oughtn’t to, but they quarrel more with their brothers than they do with anyone else. But you mustn’t touch their brothers, for if you do—oh my! You have them on to you at once. Here, I say, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“Well, I will not. I don’t want to go away and leave you, but I must. I can think of nothing else.”

“But why?”

“Because I am shut up here alone so much, a prisoner.”

“Yes, but it’s only until it’s safe for you to go away. You must see that you ought to be patient. There, I’ll bring you up books to read, to amuse you.”

“I can’t read them. They wouldn’t amuse me with my mind in this state.”

“Well; then, have a look at some of my things,” cried Waller, pulling out the drawer of a big press. “These are all traps and springs with which I catch birds and animals in the forest. Bunny Wrigg taught me how to make them and how to use them. I wish you knew him. He’s a capital fellow, and knows the forest ten times better than I do.”

“Oh, I don’t want to know the forest—nor, your friend,” said the lad wearily. “I want to be free to come and go—as free as the birds and those little animals, the squirrels, that I see out of the window.”

“Yes, of course you do, and so you shall be soon,” cried Waller. “But you haven’t quite recovered yet from that feverishness and all you went through. I say, have a look in this drawer.”

Waller thrust the open one in and pulled out another. “Look here, these are my old nets with which we drag the hammer pond, and catch the carp and tench; great golden fellows they are, some of them; but the worst of it is the pond’s so deep that the fish dive under the net and escape.”

“And those which do not,” said the lad sadly, “you take in that net and make prisoners of them. Poor things! And what good are they to you when you have caught them?”

“Good? Good to eat! I say, what a fellow you are to talk of the fish one catches as prisoners! Carp and tench are not human beings.”

“No, they are not human beings,” said the lad, smiling sadly; “but they are prisoners, the same as I am.”

“Oh, I say, what stuff! To call yourself a prisoner, when you are only a visitor here, and could come and go just as you like—at least, not quite, for it wouldn’t be safe; but it will be soon.”

“What’s that coil of new rope for?”

“That?” cried Waller. “Oh, that’s a new rope for my drag-net. The old one was quite worn out. You shall help me to fit this on if you like.”

“Thank you. I’ll help you if you wish.”

“Well, I do wish, when you get well; but I don’t care to see you in the dumps like this. Of course I know what it is: it’s being shut up in this room for so long. A few good walks in the forest would make you as right as could be.”

“Yes,” said the lad wearily. “I feel as if I should like to be out again, for I often think when I am shut up here that it’s like being a bird in a cage.”

“Ah, you won’t feel that long,” said Waller.

It was the very next day when, after taking his new friend a selection of what he considered interesting books, Waller announced that he should not come upstairs again till the evening, for he had several things to do, and among others to write a letter to his father in London, and then take it to the village post-office for despatch.

“I don’t think that either of the maids is likely to come up,” said Waller, at parting; “but if they should try the door, all you have got to do is to keep quite still. Of course, you will lock yourself in as soon as I am gone. Shall I bring you anything else to eat before I go?”

“No,” said the lad, with a weary look of disgust. “You bring me too much as it is; more than I care to have. Don’t bring me any more till I ask.”

“I shall,” said Waller, with a laugh. “I am not going to have you starve yourself to death up in my room. There, jump up and come and shut the door, and then have a good long read. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, and then we will have a good game at draughts or chess. But I mustn’t be up here too much, or it will make the girls suspicious. There, good-bye for the present.”

Waller went down and busied himself at once over the letter to his father, telling him of some of the things that were going on, but carefully—though strongly tempted—omitting all allusion to the fugitive.

It was rather a slow and laborious task for the boy, clever as he was at most things, though none too able in the use of a quill pen. But he got his letter finished at last, the big post-paper carefully folded and sealed, and then went off to the post-bag at the little village shop, before hurrying back home to partake of his tea, which was waiting.

It was a lonely meal, and the boy sighed as he stirred the sugar, and wished he could have Godfrey Boyne down, as companion for himself, and to cheer the poor fellow up.

It was quite dark by the time he had done, and with the full intention of suggesting that they should wait till the girls had gone to bed, and then steal down together for a walk in the forest, the boy rose to go and make an observation or two as to the position of the servants, before stealing up to join his friend.

Waller rose, went across to the bell, the pull of which he had taken in his hand, when he was startled by a distant scream, followed by half a dozen more, and the trampling of feet somewhere above, while, as he rushed out into the hall, he was just in time to hear a door bang and quick steps hurrying along the kitchen passage.

Chapter Ten.Alarming Sounds.The thoughts of Godfrey Boyne occupied so much position in Waller’s brain that he at once concluded something must be wrong with him, and rushing upstairs two at a time, and making sure that he was not followed, he continued the rest of his way in the darkness as silently as he could, pausing to listen at the top of the attic stairs, and then cautiously creeping to and trying the door of his den.All was perfectly still there, and he found the door fastened from within.“False alarm,” he said to himself; and he crept down again to make his way to the kitchen, from which, as he drew nearer, there came faint hysterical cries and a most unpleasant smell of burning.Hurrying into the kitchen, Waller found that the cries came from Bella, who was lying upon her back upon the shred hearthrug in front of the kitchen fire, while Martha was trying to bring her fellow-servant round from a fainting fit, and causing the horrible stench by burning the dried wing of a goose close to the girl’s nostrils and making her sneeze violently.“Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried Bella, uttering a sob, and then giving vent to a tremendous sneeze.“Bless the King!” said Martha Gusset quietly. “Sneeze again, dear; it’ll do you no end of good.”The advice came rather late, for the girl’s face was already wrinkling up for another nervous convulsion that seemed stronger than the last.“Bless the King!” said the cook again, “There, there, dear: you will be better soon.”“What’s the matter, Martha?” said Waller anxiously, and with a horrible dread upon him that all had been found out.“She’s had a fright, my dear. I don’t quite know yet what it all means. She thinks she’s seen something, but I daresay it’s only one of them owls.”“Oh, no, no, no, no!” sobbed Bella, “it was something dreadful—something dreadful!”“Well, well, then, my dear, tell us what it is,” said Martha, in her most motherly way, “and it will do you good.”“Oh, it was dreadful!” moaned Bella. “I remembered that I had forgotten to shut the window in master’s chamber, which I opened this afternoon to let the sun in and get the room aired, and without stopping to fetch a light I went up in the dark, and then—and then—Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!”“Take another sniff of the feathers, my dear, and have a good sneeze, and that will relieve you.”“Oh, do a-done, cook, and throw the nasty thing behind the fire. I was just coming out again into the gallery, when I heard something horrid.”“Heard?” cried Waller excitedly. “Then you didn’t see it?”“No, Master Waller. I only heard it walking. Somewhere up by your room—I mean your den, as you call it. And then all in the dark there comebumpity bumpall down the stairs, and I shruck and shruck again, and ran for my life.”“My!” said cook. “Was it as bad as that? But what was it, my dear?”“Oh, I don’t know, cook. Something dreadfully horrid, and it was dragging a dead body all down the stairs, and knocking the back of the head hard on every step.”“Fancy!” said Martha, with an emphatic sniff. “It’s all stuff, and nonsense. No such thing could have happened. It was all because you went up in the dark.”From feeling startled, and in dread of his secret being known, a rapid change came over Waller; half-suspecting what must have occurred, and finding it covered by the girl’s superstitious notions, added to which there were the feathers, the sneezes, and the cook’s blessings upon his Majesty King George the Third, the boy’s risible faculties were so bestirred that he burst into a roar of laughter.The effect was almost magical. Bella, who had been lying stretched out upon her back, tapping the floor with her heels occasionally in her paroxysms, suddenly started bolt upright, to exclaim in an indignant voice—“Yes, it’s all very fine for you to laugh, Master Waller!”“Well, who wouldn’t laugh at such nonsense?” said the boy.“But it isn’t nonsense, nor it isn’t stuff, cook. You may laugh, sir, but there’s something walks up and down there in the dead of the night, and I heard it only last night, too, and told cook.”Martha Gusset slowly bent her head by way of acquiescence, and made as if to throw the goose-wing, with which she had been fanning herself, behind the fire, but altered her mind, and put it on the chimneypiece with the bright brass candlesticks.“Up and down where?” asked Waller.“Oh, I don’t know, sir; but it was somewhere in the roof.”“Bah!” cried Waller, contemptuously. “And pray what did cook say?” he went on, as he gave a glance at the comfortable-looking dame.“Said she was a silly goose, my dear,” cried the lady of the kitchen, with something like a snort, “and that she mustn’t eat so much for supper. I telled her, Master Waller, that she might go up and down the stairs and passages in the dead of the night for a hundred years, and she’d never see anything uglier than herself.”“Ah, you wait,” said Bella.“Did you hear or see anything, cook?” said Waller tentatively.“I always go to bed to sleep, my dear.”“But I mean this evening, just now?”“No, my dear. I had had my tea, and was having a comfortable nap over the fire.”“Why, Bella,” said Waller, laughing, “you must have heard one of those big bouncing rats that make their nests in the ivy, and come in through the windows in the night.”“Ah, you may sneer at me, Master Waller, but I wouldn’t sleep up there alone of a night for crowns of gold. It was just as I said. It was just like one of those horrid things you see in the old books in master’s library, dragging dead bodies down the stairs.”“Rat dragging a dead sparrow,” said Waller, and he hurried out of the kitchen to make his way out into the hall, where, consequent upon her fright, Bella had not lit the lamp, and then cautiously upstairs to the top attic, where he softly tried the door. He found it still fastened, and uttered a low signal agreed upon between the boys.This was responded to by the click of the lock, and as Waller entered his fugitive guest went on tiptoe back to the old chair on which he passed so much of his time, and there was just faint light enough coming through the window to show that he was softly rubbing his back.“What’s the matter?” said Waller.“Fell down and hurt myself—all down those stairs. Made a big lump on my head.”“Why, what were you doing?”“Oh, I waited till it was growing dark, and then I felt that I must get out of this room, if only for a few moments, just to breathe the air in that big passage. But the steps were so horribly polished with wax that I went down from top to bottom.”“Oh!” said Waller. “Then I suppose you don’t know that you frightened one of our maids.”“Did I? I think I did hear somebody shriek.”“You did; and if you do things like that again, all will be found out. I shall get into terrible trouble, and you will be caught, and you know what that means.”“Yes,” said Godfrey sadly; “I know what that means.”“Well, then, I don’t mean to trust you any more,” said Waller, “and I shall keep that door locked until I feel it’s safe. As soon as I can get you out, we will go off into the woods. I only hope our maid won’t talk about it, but I am afraid she will.”There was cause for Waller’s fear, for the very next day Bella told the gardener all about her alarm, and that night when he went down to the village shop, Joe Hanson made a small audience of the village people open their eyes widely, stare, and feel, as they told one another, a curious creepy sensation right down their backs.One of the gardener’s audience was Tony Gusset, a man who did not work much at shoe-making or mending, but when he did he thought a great deal, and after this occasion he mused much over what Bella had heard. Then he put that and that together, and thought of a certain reward of a hundred pounds for the taking, dead or alive, of any one of the French spies who had sought refuge in the forest; and that reward haunted the village constable and kept him awake all night.The next day, too, Bella’s, fright was food for reflection, and he mixed up with it the appearance of certain soldiers who had been billeted in the next village.Tony Gusset thought very slowly, and he reasoned a good deal as well, and it resulted in his asking himself this question: If a man knew where the spies were and showed them to the soldiers, how much would he get, and how much would the soldiers want for their share?

The thoughts of Godfrey Boyne occupied so much position in Waller’s brain that he at once concluded something must be wrong with him, and rushing upstairs two at a time, and making sure that he was not followed, he continued the rest of his way in the darkness as silently as he could, pausing to listen at the top of the attic stairs, and then cautiously creeping to and trying the door of his den.

All was perfectly still there, and he found the door fastened from within.

“False alarm,” he said to himself; and he crept down again to make his way to the kitchen, from which, as he drew nearer, there came faint hysterical cries and a most unpleasant smell of burning.

Hurrying into the kitchen, Waller found that the cries came from Bella, who was lying upon her back upon the shred hearthrug in front of the kitchen fire, while Martha was trying to bring her fellow-servant round from a fainting fit, and causing the horrible stench by burning the dried wing of a goose close to the girl’s nostrils and making her sneeze violently.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried Bella, uttering a sob, and then giving vent to a tremendous sneeze.

“Bless the King!” said Martha Gusset quietly. “Sneeze again, dear; it’ll do you no end of good.”

The advice came rather late, for the girl’s face was already wrinkling up for another nervous convulsion that seemed stronger than the last.

“Bless the King!” said the cook again, “There, there, dear: you will be better soon.”

“What’s the matter, Martha?” said Waller anxiously, and with a horrible dread upon him that all had been found out.

“She’s had a fright, my dear. I don’t quite know yet what it all means. She thinks she’s seen something, but I daresay it’s only one of them owls.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” sobbed Bella, “it was something dreadful—something dreadful!”

“Well, well, then, my dear, tell us what it is,” said Martha, in her most motherly way, “and it will do you good.”

“Oh, it was dreadful!” moaned Bella. “I remembered that I had forgotten to shut the window in master’s chamber, which I opened this afternoon to let the sun in and get the room aired, and without stopping to fetch a light I went up in the dark, and then—and then—Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!”

“Take another sniff of the feathers, my dear, and have a good sneeze, and that will relieve you.”

“Oh, do a-done, cook, and throw the nasty thing behind the fire. I was just coming out again into the gallery, when I heard something horrid.”

“Heard?” cried Waller excitedly. “Then you didn’t see it?”

“No, Master Waller. I only heard it walking. Somewhere up by your room—I mean your den, as you call it. And then all in the dark there comebumpity bumpall down the stairs, and I shruck and shruck again, and ran for my life.”

“My!” said cook. “Was it as bad as that? But what was it, my dear?”

“Oh, I don’t know, cook. Something dreadfully horrid, and it was dragging a dead body all down the stairs, and knocking the back of the head hard on every step.”

“Fancy!” said Martha, with an emphatic sniff. “It’s all stuff, and nonsense. No such thing could have happened. It was all because you went up in the dark.”

From feeling startled, and in dread of his secret being known, a rapid change came over Waller; half-suspecting what must have occurred, and finding it covered by the girl’s superstitious notions, added to which there were the feathers, the sneezes, and the cook’s blessings upon his Majesty King George the Third, the boy’s risible faculties were so bestirred that he burst into a roar of laughter.

The effect was almost magical. Bella, who had been lying stretched out upon her back, tapping the floor with her heels occasionally in her paroxysms, suddenly started bolt upright, to exclaim in an indignant voice—

“Yes, it’s all very fine for you to laugh, Master Waller!”

“Well, who wouldn’t laugh at such nonsense?” said the boy.

“But it isn’t nonsense, nor it isn’t stuff, cook. You may laugh, sir, but there’s something walks up and down there in the dead of the night, and I heard it only last night, too, and told cook.”

Martha Gusset slowly bent her head by way of acquiescence, and made as if to throw the goose-wing, with which she had been fanning herself, behind the fire, but altered her mind, and put it on the chimneypiece with the bright brass candlesticks.

“Up and down where?” asked Waller.

“Oh, I don’t know, sir; but it was somewhere in the roof.”

“Bah!” cried Waller, contemptuously. “And pray what did cook say?” he went on, as he gave a glance at the comfortable-looking dame.

“Said she was a silly goose, my dear,” cried the lady of the kitchen, with something like a snort, “and that she mustn’t eat so much for supper. I telled her, Master Waller, that she might go up and down the stairs and passages in the dead of the night for a hundred years, and she’d never see anything uglier than herself.”

“Ah, you wait,” said Bella.

“Did you hear or see anything, cook?” said Waller tentatively.

“I always go to bed to sleep, my dear.”

“But I mean this evening, just now?”

“No, my dear. I had had my tea, and was having a comfortable nap over the fire.”

“Why, Bella,” said Waller, laughing, “you must have heard one of those big bouncing rats that make their nests in the ivy, and come in through the windows in the night.”

“Ah, you may sneer at me, Master Waller, but I wouldn’t sleep up there alone of a night for crowns of gold. It was just as I said. It was just like one of those horrid things you see in the old books in master’s library, dragging dead bodies down the stairs.”

“Rat dragging a dead sparrow,” said Waller, and he hurried out of the kitchen to make his way out into the hall, where, consequent upon her fright, Bella had not lit the lamp, and then cautiously upstairs to the top attic, where he softly tried the door. He found it still fastened, and uttered a low signal agreed upon between the boys.

This was responded to by the click of the lock, and as Waller entered his fugitive guest went on tiptoe back to the old chair on which he passed so much of his time, and there was just faint light enough coming through the window to show that he was softly rubbing his back.

“What’s the matter?” said Waller.

“Fell down and hurt myself—all down those stairs. Made a big lump on my head.”

“Why, what were you doing?”

“Oh, I waited till it was growing dark, and then I felt that I must get out of this room, if only for a few moments, just to breathe the air in that big passage. But the steps were so horribly polished with wax that I went down from top to bottom.”

“Oh!” said Waller. “Then I suppose you don’t know that you frightened one of our maids.”

“Did I? I think I did hear somebody shriek.”

“You did; and if you do things like that again, all will be found out. I shall get into terrible trouble, and you will be caught, and you know what that means.”

“Yes,” said Godfrey sadly; “I know what that means.”

“Well, then, I don’t mean to trust you any more,” said Waller, “and I shall keep that door locked until I feel it’s safe. As soon as I can get you out, we will go off into the woods. I only hope our maid won’t talk about it, but I am afraid she will.”

There was cause for Waller’s fear, for the very next day Bella told the gardener all about her alarm, and that night when he went down to the village shop, Joe Hanson made a small audience of the village people open their eyes widely, stare, and feel, as they told one another, a curious creepy sensation right down their backs.

One of the gardener’s audience was Tony Gusset, a man who did not work much at shoe-making or mending, but when he did he thought a great deal, and after this occasion he mused much over what Bella had heard. Then he put that and that together, and thought of a certain reward of a hundred pounds for the taking, dead or alive, of any one of the French spies who had sought refuge in the forest; and that reward haunted the village constable and kept him awake all night.

The next day, too, Bella’s, fright was food for reflection, and he mixed up with it the appearance of certain soldiers who had been billeted in the next village.

Tony Gusset thought very slowly, and he reasoned a good deal as well, and it resulted in his asking himself this question: If a man knew where the spies were and showed them to the soldiers, how much would he get, and how much would the soldiers want for their share?

Chapter Eleven.Weary of Hiding.“If he sees me going up and down like this he’ll tell me I look like a wild beast in a cage, and he’ll be quite right; I do. I feel like one. There are moments when it seems as if I can’t bear it. All this dreary wait, wait, wait; all this longing to be out in the fresh air, free. It makes my head throb, and when he comes I could quarrel with him and fight, good chap as he is, so anxious to help me. And then there are the things he brings me. But I can’t eat. I must—I will get out, if it’s only for an hour’s run so as to make myself tired. What must it feel to be a real prisoner, shut up, poor wretch, for years!”Godfrey Boyne, who looked thin and haggard still, was sitting upon the edge of the truckle bed, elbows on knees, chin upon one hand, while the nails of the other were brought close to his firm teeth, to be nibbled and gnawed down till they were close to the quick, as their owner gazed straight out through the open window at the remains of the glowing sunset, which were paling fast.“Why hasn’t he been to see me all these hours?” he muttered. “He must know how dreary it is up here. He ought to have come. Books,” he muttered, as he glanced sharply round, his eyes lighting for a moment upon one that lay open upon a chair; “I couldn’t read when it was all bright and light, and even if I could force myself to now, it will soon be dark. It was enough to make me angry and bang one book down, and throw the other in the corner. Hasn’t he any brains? To pick out such books as those—escapes from prison. Oh, how I should like to escape from mine and get into the woods! He promised to take me. But, of course, I would come back. I wouldn’t have Waller think me ungrateful for the world. I can’t help liking him very much; but he’d think it silly if I told him I did. He won’t take me out to-night. He’d say again that it wasn’t safe while the soldiers were about; and I suppose he’s right. Oh, how miserable it is! I daren’t even look out of the window for fear of being seen by the servants or the gardener. Well, it will soon be dark, and then I can stare out at the stars. I wonder whether father got away, and what he thinks about me. Let’s see, how did that fellow escape?” he added, after an interval, during which dark clouds were sweeping up from the west, and the room seemed to fill with gloom. “Let’s see, he made himself a rope.”A rope!The lad sprang from his seat with the alacrity of a wild animal, for the very mention of a rope gave full play to his imagination, and sent him hurrying to and fro to the full extent of what he looked upon as his cage.The next moment he was down upon his knees dragging out one of the drawers which contained his young host’s treasures. In an instant the great tangle of fine meshes, pike-shaped leads, and strung-together corks was thrust on one side, while, with a faint sigh of exultation, the prisoner drew out the coil of light brown, pleasant-smelling, firmly twisted hemp that had been intended to form the new drag-rope of the net.“Hah!” panted the lad, as he threw the coil like a great quoit upon the quilt, and then thrust in the drawer.The next minute he was seated upon the edge of the bed with the rope in his lap, and busily untying the string that, in three places, secured it in shape, for it was brand new, just as it had come from the ship chandler’s in Southampton City.This was soon done, the stiff rope beginning to expand its rings as if it were some live serpent-like creature eager to escape from its bonds. But Godfrey Boyne paid no heed to this, not even once thinking of coiling it up again and replacing it in the drawer, for, as he thought hard, breathed hard, and felt his spirits expanding like the rope at the thoughts of being free, he saw in imagination the deep dark forest glades, felt the mossy, springy turf beneath his feet, and gave way to that strange half-wild excitement which comes at times upon a boy, and sets him bounding off like some wild creature of the plains, to run, and run, and run onward for no reason at all, until he is forced to stop for want of breath.“Oh, yes,” he muttered, “I can fasten it to that beam, slide down, have my run, and get back again without Waller knowing; and I will. No one shall see me. I’ll take care of that.”The thought of being at last in action sent a thrill through the lad’s breast, as if he had taken some powerful tonic, while, as if Nature was completely transforming him, he sprang up again, laying the cord upon the bed, and began to pace the sloping-ceiled room once more.It seemed as if Nature were favouring him further, for the darkness came on like magic till there was quite obscurity enough to favour his designs, and, going straight to the window he thrust out his head.“He will not be up till after he has had his supper, and I could have a couple of hours’ run before then,” thought the boy; and, leaning out, he plunged his hands into the thick ivy.“What do I want with a rope?” he muttered. “I could climb down here by holding on to these tough stems. Any of these are strong enough to bear me, and—”Crack!The tuft of green growth he was holding and involuntarily pressing hard, snapped off short and fell to the ground, rustling softly as it passed over the projecting strands.Godfrey Boyne shook his head and laughed.“I should get down quickly enough,” he said to himself, “but what about getting back?”Drawing in his head, he felt for—as it was getting very dark—one end of the thin rope, and then, mounting a stool, he passed the strong hempen twist over the beam, which just allowed room for it to pass, knotted the end, made a slip noose, drew it tight, and then, feeling for the other end of the coil, he began to run it out through the open dormer, listening with wild exultation to the passage of this narrow high-road to liberty over the rustling ivy.It was all excitement now. There was no room for hesitation, as, passing one leg out of the window, holding on to the centre support the while, he drew out the other, lowered himself a little, reaching out with his feet so as to get them beyond the stone gutter below, and then, seizing the rope, he twined one leg round it and began to let himself slide.But it was not done without noise. The twigs of ivy, as he passed over and through them, crackled and snapped; while, as he slid down more and more, and the projecting gutter held the rope out clear, he began to perform evolutions like those of a leg of mutton, pendent from a roasting-jack, the rope displaying more and more desire to untwine.Gripping it tightly, and using his other leg as a break against further descent, Godfrey stopped short to listen, and as he did so he suffered from a catching of the breath, for all at once he heard a sound from within the house, the ivy on a level with his face became illuminated, and a candle was carried past the window of the room by which he swung.He had a glimpse of a woman’s face, and as he felt convinced by the gleam of her eyes that she must see him, the light grew less, and was gone.The next minute the lad, after a few more evolutions that threatened to make him giddy, felt his feet touch the soft earth of a flower-bed, from which he swung himself on to the lawn, and was feeling about for the loose rope finding that there were at least twenty yards lying about amongst the shrubs.These he gathered together into one spot, and, with a feeling of exultation growing in his sense of freedom, he gave a sharp glance through the darkness to right and left, and then, making for the carriage-drive, whose position he fully knew now, he strode off rapidly and silently in the direction of one of the forest paths which led towards the little village; but of this fact he was naturally unaware.

“If he sees me going up and down like this he’ll tell me I look like a wild beast in a cage, and he’ll be quite right; I do. I feel like one. There are moments when it seems as if I can’t bear it. All this dreary wait, wait, wait; all this longing to be out in the fresh air, free. It makes my head throb, and when he comes I could quarrel with him and fight, good chap as he is, so anxious to help me. And then there are the things he brings me. But I can’t eat. I must—I will get out, if it’s only for an hour’s run so as to make myself tired. What must it feel to be a real prisoner, shut up, poor wretch, for years!”

Godfrey Boyne, who looked thin and haggard still, was sitting upon the edge of the truckle bed, elbows on knees, chin upon one hand, while the nails of the other were brought close to his firm teeth, to be nibbled and gnawed down till they were close to the quick, as their owner gazed straight out through the open window at the remains of the glowing sunset, which were paling fast.

“Why hasn’t he been to see me all these hours?” he muttered. “He must know how dreary it is up here. He ought to have come. Books,” he muttered, as he glanced sharply round, his eyes lighting for a moment upon one that lay open upon a chair; “I couldn’t read when it was all bright and light, and even if I could force myself to now, it will soon be dark. It was enough to make me angry and bang one book down, and throw the other in the corner. Hasn’t he any brains? To pick out such books as those—escapes from prison. Oh, how I should like to escape from mine and get into the woods! He promised to take me. But, of course, I would come back. I wouldn’t have Waller think me ungrateful for the world. I can’t help liking him very much; but he’d think it silly if I told him I did. He won’t take me out to-night. He’d say again that it wasn’t safe while the soldiers were about; and I suppose he’s right. Oh, how miserable it is! I daren’t even look out of the window for fear of being seen by the servants or the gardener. Well, it will soon be dark, and then I can stare out at the stars. I wonder whether father got away, and what he thinks about me. Let’s see, how did that fellow escape?” he added, after an interval, during which dark clouds were sweeping up from the west, and the room seemed to fill with gloom. “Let’s see, he made himself a rope.”

A rope!

The lad sprang from his seat with the alacrity of a wild animal, for the very mention of a rope gave full play to his imagination, and sent him hurrying to and fro to the full extent of what he looked upon as his cage.

The next moment he was down upon his knees dragging out one of the drawers which contained his young host’s treasures. In an instant the great tangle of fine meshes, pike-shaped leads, and strung-together corks was thrust on one side, while, with a faint sigh of exultation, the prisoner drew out the coil of light brown, pleasant-smelling, firmly twisted hemp that had been intended to form the new drag-rope of the net.

“Hah!” panted the lad, as he threw the coil like a great quoit upon the quilt, and then thrust in the drawer.

The next minute he was seated upon the edge of the bed with the rope in his lap, and busily untying the string that, in three places, secured it in shape, for it was brand new, just as it had come from the ship chandler’s in Southampton City.

This was soon done, the stiff rope beginning to expand its rings as if it were some live serpent-like creature eager to escape from its bonds. But Godfrey Boyne paid no heed to this, not even once thinking of coiling it up again and replacing it in the drawer, for, as he thought hard, breathed hard, and felt his spirits expanding like the rope at the thoughts of being free, he saw in imagination the deep dark forest glades, felt the mossy, springy turf beneath his feet, and gave way to that strange half-wild excitement which comes at times upon a boy, and sets him bounding off like some wild creature of the plains, to run, and run, and run onward for no reason at all, until he is forced to stop for want of breath.

“Oh, yes,” he muttered, “I can fasten it to that beam, slide down, have my run, and get back again without Waller knowing; and I will. No one shall see me. I’ll take care of that.”

The thought of being at last in action sent a thrill through the lad’s breast, as if he had taken some powerful tonic, while, as if Nature was completely transforming him, he sprang up again, laying the cord upon the bed, and began to pace the sloping-ceiled room once more.

It seemed as if Nature were favouring him further, for the darkness came on like magic till there was quite obscurity enough to favour his designs, and, going straight to the window he thrust out his head.

“He will not be up till after he has had his supper, and I could have a couple of hours’ run before then,” thought the boy; and, leaning out, he plunged his hands into the thick ivy.

“What do I want with a rope?” he muttered. “I could climb down here by holding on to these tough stems. Any of these are strong enough to bear me, and—”

Crack!

The tuft of green growth he was holding and involuntarily pressing hard, snapped off short and fell to the ground, rustling softly as it passed over the projecting strands.

Godfrey Boyne shook his head and laughed.

“I should get down quickly enough,” he said to himself, “but what about getting back?”

Drawing in his head, he felt for—as it was getting very dark—one end of the thin rope, and then, mounting a stool, he passed the strong hempen twist over the beam, which just allowed room for it to pass, knotted the end, made a slip noose, drew it tight, and then, feeling for the other end of the coil, he began to run it out through the open dormer, listening with wild exultation to the passage of this narrow high-road to liberty over the rustling ivy.

It was all excitement now. There was no room for hesitation, as, passing one leg out of the window, holding on to the centre support the while, he drew out the other, lowered himself a little, reaching out with his feet so as to get them beyond the stone gutter below, and then, seizing the rope, he twined one leg round it and began to let himself slide.

But it was not done without noise. The twigs of ivy, as he passed over and through them, crackled and snapped; while, as he slid down more and more, and the projecting gutter held the rope out clear, he began to perform evolutions like those of a leg of mutton, pendent from a roasting-jack, the rope displaying more and more desire to untwine.

Gripping it tightly, and using his other leg as a break against further descent, Godfrey stopped short to listen, and as he did so he suffered from a catching of the breath, for all at once he heard a sound from within the house, the ivy on a level with his face became illuminated, and a candle was carried past the window of the room by which he swung.

He had a glimpse of a woman’s face, and as he felt convinced by the gleam of her eyes that she must see him, the light grew less, and was gone.

The next minute the lad, after a few more evolutions that threatened to make him giddy, felt his feet touch the soft earth of a flower-bed, from which he swung himself on to the lawn, and was feeling about for the loose rope finding that there were at least twenty yards lying about amongst the shrubs.

These he gathered together into one spot, and, with a feeling of exultation growing in his sense of freedom, he gave a sharp glance through the darkness to right and left, and then, making for the carriage-drive, whose position he fully knew now, he strode off rapidly and silently in the direction of one of the forest paths which led towards the little village; but of this fact he was naturally unaware.

Chapter Twelve.An Adventure.Godfrey Boyne, consequent upon the darkness, was forced to keep to the well-beaten road; but it was grand. He breathed freely; there was a feeling of exultation to make his chest expand; his nostrils quivered with the delight he felt; and from time to time he checked his strong desire to run, and stopped to listen to the sounds that arrested his attention on either side—sometimes soft and mysterious, sometimes startling.There was the low rustling amongst last year’s leaves as some mouse was busy. Then the faint trickling of a worm struggling with a strand which it was fighting hard to drag into its hole.A little farther on he was startled by a sudden rush as something bounded away from close to his feet; and, as he stood breathing hard, he could hear it go onpat, pat, pat, pat, right away, till the sounds died out.He knew it was a rabbit, but the suddenness made his heart beat faster all the same.Then he was off again, to startle—as he had been startled himself—a blackbird or thrush suddenly awakened from its roost, or hear the loud flapping of a wood-pigeon beating through the trees overhead.There were other sounds, too, to which he could not give a name. But it was all dark, mysterious, and delightful, as he went on cautiously lest he should lose touch of the road, and find difficulty in getting back.How long this lasted, or how far he had gone, was driven, out of his mind soon after, when he came to a sudden turn in the wood where something dimly seen glided by him, close to his face, uttering a most unearthly shriek which, to use the common expression, brought his heart to his mouth and seemed to fix his feet to the ground.Then it was gone, gliding away upon silent wing, and he had sufficient commonsense to attribute the sound to a screech-owl.“Not one of those,” he muttered, “that hoot and shout and answer one another as they fly round the house at night. There,” he said, with a sigh, “I won’t stop any longer. I don’t know how long I have been, but I don’t want Waller to find me out. He wouldn’t like it; and it doesn’t seem right.”He stopped, hesitating now, the incident of the passing owl that he had come upon, and startled into uttering its shriek of dread on finding itself suddenly in such close contact with its great enemy, man, having confused him a little as to his direction, and it was some moments before he was sure of his road.But he was taking the right course, and, feeling more himself, less morbid and nervous, refreshed as he was by the exercise, interest, and pure fresh air, he reached the gate at the end of the drive, passed on up into the grounds and, during the latter part of his return journey, was guided by the light in the porch and in the dining-room window.“It was all so easy,” he said to himself, “and I could do it again at any time. But no; I won’t. I won’t give way to those feelings. It’s ungenerous to Waller, and he is such a good fellow. I am sure he likes me, and I want to be grateful and like him too. If he found me out I should lose his respect and confidence.”These were the lad’s last thoughts in this direction, for he had reached the lawn, over which he passed lightly, and began feeling about for the rope.Then his heart seemed to stand still, and a choking feeling assailed him, for the rope was gone—only for a few moments, for as he roused himself to action, and mastered his feeling of dismay, he awoke to the fact that he was feeling beneath the wrong window. Then a few yards to his right his searching hand came in contact with the firm twisted cord, which he grasped with both hands as high up as he could reach, drew up his legs to get the rope twisted round, and then began to—climb? No—gently swing to and fro. It was a very pleasant motion as he brushed against the shrubs and once bumped up against the sill of one of the lower windows, but it was not what he wanted.For the first time in his life he was realising that, though it is very easy to slide down a rope, it is quite a gymnastic feat, only to be mastered by long practice, to climb up a cord that is comparatively slight.“Oh, why didn’t I remember to make a knot at every foot?” thought the lad, as he severely abused himself for his folly and ignorance during the intervals of struggling hard to get, if only a few feet up, towards the window, but toiling in vain and only growing hotter and more exhausted in spite of all.He rested for a while, and once more tried, rested, and tried again, and at last, utterly fagged out, he gave up in despair.He was so wearied out that, still holding by the rope, he sank upon his knees amongst the shrubs that dotted the broad bed beneath the windows, and even when his breath was coming easily once more, and the hot burning pain in his chest had subsided, the spirit to make another attempt was wanting, and, with a feeling of despair increasing, he began to plan what he should do till morning—whether he could get round to the back and find an entrance to the stables and pass the night in a loft, so as to try and steal in some time in the morning, and reach the attic unseen.“But Waller will be going up and finding that I am gone,” he thought. “He will see the rope hanging out of the window, and— Oh, what an idiot I have been! If I had only waited and been patient for another day or two, perhaps—” He stopped short, for he was conscious of what sounded like a deep sigh close at hand, then of a heavy stertorous breathing, and, dimly seen, not a couple of yards away, he made out the shape of a big, heavy, stooping man, passing over the lawn very slowly, and as if looking for him. For that was the only interpretation that he could place upon the man’s movements.It was not Waller, nor the gardener, for certain; but who it could be, in his excitement, he could not hazard a conjecture. He himself was fugitive and spy, and the only interpretation natural was that this man was hunting for him, and he was lost.So startled was the boy by the adventure, so exhausted by what he had gone through, that it never occurred to him to make a dash for liberty. He crouched there, literally paralysed, and for the moment he could not believe it true that, due to his silence and position, he was unseen, and the man had passed away into the darkness, and his heavy panting breath had died away. In the reaction came the thought of what he ought to do, and with it the wonder that it had not occurred to him before.Pausing a few brief moments to make sure that he was quite alone, Godfrey rose from his crouching position, and, with the rope gliding through his hand, he stepped outward on to the lawn at right-angles to the front of the house, to feel the next minute the sharp needles of the big fir-tree brushing his face and making a crickling, crackling noise as the rope, which passed through his hands, rustled among the boughs.The next minute he had forced his way in close up to the trunk, and, running the rope through his hands, till he got hold of the free end, he fastened it round his waist and then began to climb.It would have been easy enough getting from bough to bough, which stood straight out, and was facile for one who mounted as if he were going up a ladder; but there was the rope, which kept catching and the noise it made as he had to shake and snatch to free it in its passage amongst the lower branches.But he persevered, and climbed and climbed with his task growing lighter, the branches thinner, and he found himself right up the grand old tree, which towered above the roof, leaving him now on a level with the window from which he had lowered himself.Godfrey paused, breathless, with one arm round a horizontal branch to rest himself a little and listen; but all was still, and, untying the rope from about his waist, he passed it round the tree, a comparatively easy task now, for, embracing the trunk, his hands touched, and directly after he was hauling upon the rope, had drawn it tight, so tight that it was pretty well horizontal, when, passing it round the trunk again, he knotted it firmly, forming a spider line ready for him to creep along to his sanctuary in the roof.It required a little nerve, but the lad was desperate, and, trusting to his knots at either end being firm, he took hold of the rope, let his feet glide down, and then began to travel hand over hand, swinging more and more till his feet ceased to touch the nearest, boughs, when, throwing them up, he hooked first one leg and then the other over the giving rope, and, relieving the weight upon his arms, began to creep more quickly over the ten or fifteen yards which separated the tree-trunk from the house.The rope, in spite of his efforts to tighten it, formed a deep bow as he went along, easily at first, but with the difficulty increasing as the depth of the curve was passed, and the latter part was somewhat of a climb.But almost before he could realise it, he was passing through the window with his eyes closed, and his first intimation of the success of his scheme was given by his right hand touching the knot which attached the rope to the attic beam.Dropping his feet to the floor, and trembling violently with excitement and exertion, the lad took a step to the window and peered out, listening; but all was still, and, taking his knife from his pocket, he felt for, and mounted the stool again, sawed through the rope, and, twisting it up till he had it tight from the tree, he leaned out, pulled hard once more so as to get the spring of the fir, and then threw it with all his might.There was a faint rustle as, helped by the bend given to the upper part of the trunk, the rope left his hand and fell amongst the needle-covered boughs, and then, closing the window, the lad, panting more from excitement than exertion, crept to the door and listened till, making sure that he heard Waller’s step below, he rushed to the bed, dragged down the clothes, sprang in, drew them up to his chin, and then, with his face to the wall, lay with closed eyes, striving hard to subdue the heaving of his breast.

Godfrey Boyne, consequent upon the darkness, was forced to keep to the well-beaten road; but it was grand. He breathed freely; there was a feeling of exultation to make his chest expand; his nostrils quivered with the delight he felt; and from time to time he checked his strong desire to run, and stopped to listen to the sounds that arrested his attention on either side—sometimes soft and mysterious, sometimes startling.

There was the low rustling amongst last year’s leaves as some mouse was busy. Then the faint trickling of a worm struggling with a strand which it was fighting hard to drag into its hole.

A little farther on he was startled by a sudden rush as something bounded away from close to his feet; and, as he stood breathing hard, he could hear it go onpat, pat, pat, pat, right away, till the sounds died out.

He knew it was a rabbit, but the suddenness made his heart beat faster all the same.

Then he was off again, to startle—as he had been startled himself—a blackbird or thrush suddenly awakened from its roost, or hear the loud flapping of a wood-pigeon beating through the trees overhead.

There were other sounds, too, to which he could not give a name. But it was all dark, mysterious, and delightful, as he went on cautiously lest he should lose touch of the road, and find difficulty in getting back.

How long this lasted, or how far he had gone, was driven, out of his mind soon after, when he came to a sudden turn in the wood where something dimly seen glided by him, close to his face, uttering a most unearthly shriek which, to use the common expression, brought his heart to his mouth and seemed to fix his feet to the ground.

Then it was gone, gliding away upon silent wing, and he had sufficient commonsense to attribute the sound to a screech-owl.

“Not one of those,” he muttered, “that hoot and shout and answer one another as they fly round the house at night. There,” he said, with a sigh, “I won’t stop any longer. I don’t know how long I have been, but I don’t want Waller to find me out. He wouldn’t like it; and it doesn’t seem right.”

He stopped, hesitating now, the incident of the passing owl that he had come upon, and startled into uttering its shriek of dread on finding itself suddenly in such close contact with its great enemy, man, having confused him a little as to his direction, and it was some moments before he was sure of his road.

But he was taking the right course, and, feeling more himself, less morbid and nervous, refreshed as he was by the exercise, interest, and pure fresh air, he reached the gate at the end of the drive, passed on up into the grounds and, during the latter part of his return journey, was guided by the light in the porch and in the dining-room window.

“It was all so easy,” he said to himself, “and I could do it again at any time. But no; I won’t. I won’t give way to those feelings. It’s ungenerous to Waller, and he is such a good fellow. I am sure he likes me, and I want to be grateful and like him too. If he found me out I should lose his respect and confidence.”

These were the lad’s last thoughts in this direction, for he had reached the lawn, over which he passed lightly, and began feeling about for the rope.

Then his heart seemed to stand still, and a choking feeling assailed him, for the rope was gone—only for a few moments, for as he roused himself to action, and mastered his feeling of dismay, he awoke to the fact that he was feeling beneath the wrong window. Then a few yards to his right his searching hand came in contact with the firm twisted cord, which he grasped with both hands as high up as he could reach, drew up his legs to get the rope twisted round, and then began to—climb? No—gently swing to and fro. It was a very pleasant motion as he brushed against the shrubs and once bumped up against the sill of one of the lower windows, but it was not what he wanted.

For the first time in his life he was realising that, though it is very easy to slide down a rope, it is quite a gymnastic feat, only to be mastered by long practice, to climb up a cord that is comparatively slight.

“Oh, why didn’t I remember to make a knot at every foot?” thought the lad, as he severely abused himself for his folly and ignorance during the intervals of struggling hard to get, if only a few feet up, towards the window, but toiling in vain and only growing hotter and more exhausted in spite of all.

He rested for a while, and once more tried, rested, and tried again, and at last, utterly fagged out, he gave up in despair.

He was so wearied out that, still holding by the rope, he sank upon his knees amongst the shrubs that dotted the broad bed beneath the windows, and even when his breath was coming easily once more, and the hot burning pain in his chest had subsided, the spirit to make another attempt was wanting, and, with a feeling of despair increasing, he began to plan what he should do till morning—whether he could get round to the back and find an entrance to the stables and pass the night in a loft, so as to try and steal in some time in the morning, and reach the attic unseen.

“But Waller will be going up and finding that I am gone,” he thought. “He will see the rope hanging out of the window, and— Oh, what an idiot I have been! If I had only waited and been patient for another day or two, perhaps—” He stopped short, for he was conscious of what sounded like a deep sigh close at hand, then of a heavy stertorous breathing, and, dimly seen, not a couple of yards away, he made out the shape of a big, heavy, stooping man, passing over the lawn very slowly, and as if looking for him. For that was the only interpretation that he could place upon the man’s movements.

It was not Waller, nor the gardener, for certain; but who it could be, in his excitement, he could not hazard a conjecture. He himself was fugitive and spy, and the only interpretation natural was that this man was hunting for him, and he was lost.

So startled was the boy by the adventure, so exhausted by what he had gone through, that it never occurred to him to make a dash for liberty. He crouched there, literally paralysed, and for the moment he could not believe it true that, due to his silence and position, he was unseen, and the man had passed away into the darkness, and his heavy panting breath had died away. In the reaction came the thought of what he ought to do, and with it the wonder that it had not occurred to him before.

Pausing a few brief moments to make sure that he was quite alone, Godfrey rose from his crouching position, and, with the rope gliding through his hand, he stepped outward on to the lawn at right-angles to the front of the house, to feel the next minute the sharp needles of the big fir-tree brushing his face and making a crickling, crackling noise as the rope, which passed through his hands, rustled among the boughs.

The next minute he had forced his way in close up to the trunk, and, running the rope through his hands, till he got hold of the free end, he fastened it round his waist and then began to climb.

It would have been easy enough getting from bough to bough, which stood straight out, and was facile for one who mounted as if he were going up a ladder; but there was the rope, which kept catching and the noise it made as he had to shake and snatch to free it in its passage amongst the lower branches.

But he persevered, and climbed and climbed with his task growing lighter, the branches thinner, and he found himself right up the grand old tree, which towered above the roof, leaving him now on a level with the window from which he had lowered himself.

Godfrey paused, breathless, with one arm round a horizontal branch to rest himself a little and listen; but all was still, and, untying the rope from about his waist, he passed it round the tree, a comparatively easy task now, for, embracing the trunk, his hands touched, and directly after he was hauling upon the rope, had drawn it tight, so tight that it was pretty well horizontal, when, passing it round the trunk again, he knotted it firmly, forming a spider line ready for him to creep along to his sanctuary in the roof.

It required a little nerve, but the lad was desperate, and, trusting to his knots at either end being firm, he took hold of the rope, let his feet glide down, and then began to travel hand over hand, swinging more and more till his feet ceased to touch the nearest, boughs, when, throwing them up, he hooked first one leg and then the other over the giving rope, and, relieving the weight upon his arms, began to creep more quickly over the ten or fifteen yards which separated the tree-trunk from the house.

The rope, in spite of his efforts to tighten it, formed a deep bow as he went along, easily at first, but with the difficulty increasing as the depth of the curve was passed, and the latter part was somewhat of a climb.

But almost before he could realise it, he was passing through the window with his eyes closed, and his first intimation of the success of his scheme was given by his right hand touching the knot which attached the rope to the attic beam.

Dropping his feet to the floor, and trembling violently with excitement and exertion, the lad took a step to the window and peered out, listening; but all was still, and, taking his knife from his pocket, he felt for, and mounted the stool again, sawed through the rope, and, twisting it up till he had it tight from the tree, he leaned out, pulled hard once more so as to get the spring of the fir, and then threw it with all his might.

There was a faint rustle as, helped by the bend given to the upper part of the trunk, the rope left his hand and fell amongst the needle-covered boughs, and then, closing the window, the lad, panting more from excitement than exertion, crept to the door and listened till, making sure that he heard Waller’s step below, he rushed to the bed, dragged down the clothes, sprang in, drew them up to his chin, and then, with his face to the wall, lay with closed eyes, striving hard to subdue the heaving of his breast.

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