"Mischief? No, papa: for shame!" cried Helen, with her arm resting on the boy's shoulders. "In your study, working away at those terrible sides and angles invented by that dreadful old Greek Euclid."

"Work, eh? Ha! that's good!" cried the doctor jovially. "Bravo, Dexter! I am glad."

If ever a boy felt utterly ashamed of himself, Dexter did then. He could not meet the doctor's eye, but was on his way to get a book to turn over, so as to have something to look at, but this was not to be.

"No, no, you have had enough of books for one day, Dexter. Come and turn over the music for me. Why! what's that?"

"That?" said Dexter slowly, for he did not comprehend.

"Yes, I felt it move. You have something alive in your pocket."

He felt prompted to lie, but he could not tell a falsehood then, and he stood with his teeth set.

"Whatever have you got alive in your pocket?" said the doctor. "I know.

A young rabbit, for a guinea."

"Is it?" cried Helen. "Let me look: they are such pretty little things."

"Yes, out with it, boy, and don't pet those things too much. Kill them with kindness, you know. Here, let me take it out."

"No, no!" cried Dexter hastily.

"Well, take it out yourself."

A spasm of dread had run through the boy, as in imagination he saw the doctor's hand taking out the letter in his pocket.

"It isn't a young rabbit," he faltered.

"Well, what is it, then? Come, out with it."

Dexter hesitated for a few moments, and now met the doctor's eye. He could not help himself, but slowly took out his pocket-handkerchief, as he held the note firmly with his left hand outside the jacket. Then, diving in again, he got well hold of Sam, who was snug at the bottom, and, with burning cheeks, and in full expectation of a scolding, drew the toad slowly forth.

"Ugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Helen.

The doctor, who was in a most amiable temper, burst into a roar of laughter.

"Well, you are a strange boy, Dexter," he said, as he wiped his eyes.

"You ought to be a naturalist by and by. There, open the window, and put the poor thing outside. You can find plenty another time."

Dexter obeyed, glad to be out of his quandary, and this time, as he put Sam down, the reptile crawled slowly away into the soft dark night.

He closed the window, and went back to find the doctor and Helen all smiles, and ready to joke instead of scold. Then he went to the piano, and turned over the music, the airs and songs making him feel more and more sad, and again and again he found himself saying--

"Why are they so kind to me now, just as I am going away?"

"Shall I stop!" he said to himself, after a time.

"No: I promised Bob I would come, and so I will."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

AN ACT OF FOLLY.

Bedtime at last, and as Dexter bade the doctor and his daughter "good-night," it seemed to him that they had never spoken so kindly to him, and the place had never appeared to be so pleasant and homelike before.

His heart sank as he went up to his room, and he felt as if he could not go away. The lessons Mr Limpney had given him to write out were not done; but he had better stop and face him, and every other trouble, including the window he had broken, and never owned to yet.

It was impossible to go away and leave everybody who was so kind. A harsh word would have kept him to the point; but now he wavered as he sat down on the edge of his bed, with his mind in a whirl.

Then, as he sat there, he pictured in his own mind the figure of Bob Dimsted, waiting for him, laden with articles of outfit necessary for their voyage, and behind Bob loomed up bright sunny scenes by sea and land; and with his imagination once more excited by all that the boy had suggested, Dexter blinded himself to everything but the object he had in view.

He had planned in his own mind what he would take with him, but now it had come to the point he felt a strange compunction. Everything he possessed seemed to him as if it belonged to the doctor, and, finally, he resolved to take nothing with him but the clothes in which he stood.

He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing Mrs Millett's infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness; and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead of a gla.s.s, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance.

He could not help smiling as he took up the cup and smelt it, seeing at the same time the old dame's pleasant earnest face--a face that suddenly seemed to have become very loving, now he was to see it no more.

He set down the cup, and shook his head, and then, as if nerving himself for the task, he went to the drawers, took out a key from his pocket, and then, from the place where it lay, hidden beneath his clean linen, brought forth the old clothes-line twisted and knotted together--the line which had done duty in the loft as a swing.

He listened as he crossed to the door, but all was still downstairs, and it was not likely that any one would come near his room that night; but still he moved about cautiously, and taking the line with his hands, about two feet apart, snapped it again and again with all his might, to try if it was likely to give way now beneath his weight.

It seemed firm as ever, but he could not help a shiver as he laid it by the window, and thought of a boy being found in the shrubbery beneath, with a broken leg, or, worse still, neck.

Then as he waited for the time to glide by, so that all might be in bed before he made his escape, a sudden chill ran through him.

He had remembered everything, as he thought; and yet there was one thing, perhaps the simplest of all, forgotten. He was going to take no bundle, no money, nothing which the doctor had in his kindness provided for him; but he could not go without a cap, and that was hanging in the hall, close to the drawing-room door.

The question arose whether he should venture down to get it now, or after the doctor had gone to bed.

It took him some time to make up his mind; but when he had come to a decision he opened his door softly, listened, and stole out on to the landing.

All was very still as he looked over the bal.u.s.trade to where the lamp shed its yellow rays all round, and to his mind more strangely upon the object he wanted to obtain than elsewhere.

It was a very simple thing to do, and yet it required a great deal of nerve, for if the drawing-room door were opened just as he reached the hat-stand, and the doctor came out, what should he say?

Then there was the risk of being heard, for there were, he knew, two of the old oaken stairs which always gave a loud crack when any one pa.s.sed down, and if they cracked now, some one would be sure to come out to see what it meant.

Taking a long catching breath he went quickly to the top of the stairs, and was about to descend in a desperate determination to go through with his task, when an idea struck him, and bending over the bal.u.s.trade he spread his hands, balanced himself carefully, and then slid down the mahogany rail, round curve after curve as silently as could be, and reaching the curl at the bottom dropped upon the mat.

Only five or six yards now to the hat-stand, and going on tiptoe past the entrance to the drawing-room, he was in the act of taking down the cap, when the handle rattled, the door was thrown open, and the hall grew more light.

In his desperation Dexter s.n.a.t.c.hed down the cap, and stood there trying to think of what he should say in answer to the question that would be asked in a moment--

"What are you doing there!"

It was Helen, chamber-candlestick in hand, and she was in the act of stepping out, when her step was arrested by words which seemed to pierce into the listener's brain:--