Part 44 (1/2)

Uncle Marmaduke gave a malicious little laugh: ”I'm sorry for you, my friend,” he said, ”but I really can't help it.”

”You can,” said Paul; ”you can tell him what you know. You can save me.”

”Very poor economy that,” said Marmaduke airily. ”I prefer spending to saving, always did. I have my own interests to consider, my dear Paul.”

”d.i.c.k,” said poor Mr. Bult.i.tude, disgusted at this exhibition of selfishness, ”you said you were sorry just now. Will you tell him the truth?”

But d.i.c.k was quite unnerved, he cowered away, almost crying; ”I daren't, I daren't,” he stammered; ”I--I can't go back to the fellows like this. I'm afraid to tell him. I--I want to hide somewhere.”

And certainly he was in no condition to convince an angry schoolmaster of anything whatever, except that he was in a state very unbecoming to the head of a family.

It was all over; Paul saw that too well, he dashed frantically from the fatal billiard-room, and in the hall met Boaler preparing to admit the visitor.

”Don't open the door!” he screamed. ”Keep him out, you mustn't let him in. It's Dr. Grimstone.”

Boaler, surprised as he naturally was at his young master's unaccountable appearance and evident panic, nevertheless never moved a muscle of his face; he was one of those perfectly bred servants, who, if they chanced to open the door to a ghoul or a skeleton, would merely inquire, ”What name, if you please?”

”I must go and ask your Par, then, Master d.i.c.k; there's time to 'ook it upstairs while I'm gone. I won't say nothing,” he added compa.s.sionately.

Paul lost no time in following this suggestion, but rushed upstairs, two or three steps at the time, stumbling at every flight, with a hideous nightmare feeling that some invisible thing behind was trying to trip up his heels.

He rushed blindly past the conservatory, which was lit up by Chinese lanterns and crowded with little ”Kate Greenaway” maidens crowned with fantastic headdresses out of the crackers, and comparing presents with boy-lovers; he upset perspiring waiters with gla.s.ses and trays, and scattered the children sitting on the stairs, as he bounded on in his reckless flight, leaving crashes of gla.s.s behind him.

He had no clear idea of what he meant to do; he thought of barricading himself in his bedroom and hiding in the wardrobe; he had desperate notions of getting on to the housetop by means of a step-ladder and the sky-light above the nursery landing; on one point he was resolved--he would not be retaken _alive_!

Never before in this commonplace London world of ours was an unfortunate householder hunted up his own staircase in this distressing manner; even his terror did not blind him to the extreme ignominy and injustice of his position.

And below he heard the bell ringing more and more impatiently, as the Doctor still remained on the wrong side of the door. In another minute he must be admitted--and then!

Who will not sympathise with Mr. Bult.i.tude as he approaches the crisis of his misfortunes? I protest, for my own part, that as I am compelled to describe him springing from step to step in wild terror, like a highly respectable chamois before some Alpine marksman, my own heart bleeds for him, and I hasten to end my distressing tale, and make the rest of it as little painful as I may with honesty.

19. _The Reckoning_

MONTR. The father is victorious.

BELF. Let us haste To gratulate his conquest.

1ST CAPT. We to mourn The fortune of the son.

Ma.s.sINGER. _The Unnatural Combat._

Poor Mr. Bult.i.tude, springing wildly upstairs in a last desperate effort to avoid capture, had now almost reached his goal. Just above him was the nursery landing, with its little wooden gate, and near it, leaning against the wall, was a pair of kitchen steps, with which he had hopes of reaching the roof, or the cistern loft, or some other safe and inaccessible place. Better a night spent on the slates amongst the chimney-pots than a bed in that terrible No. 6 Dormitory!

But here, too, fate was against him. He was not more than half-a-dozen steps from the top, when, to his unspeakable horror, he saw a small form in a white frock and cardinal-red sash come running out of the nursery, and begin to descend slowly and cautiously, clinging to the banisters with one chubby little hand.

It was his youngest son, Roly, and as soon as he saw this, he lost hope once and for all; he could not escape being recognised, the child would probably refuse to leave him, and even if he did contrive to get away from him, it would be hopeless to make Roly understand that he was not to betray his hiding-place.

So he stopped on the stairs, aghast at this new misfortune, and feeling himself at the end of all his resources. Roly knew him at once, and began to dance delightedly up and down on the stair in his little bronze shoes. ”Buzzer d.i.c.ky,” he cried, ”dear buzzer d.i.c.ky, tum 'ome to party!”

”It's not brother d.i.c.ky,” said Paul miserably; ”it's all a mistake.”