The Camera Fiend by E. W. Hornung (the first e reader TXT) 📕

Immediately underneath was another window, opening on a leaded balcony over the bow-window in the drawing-room. To shift his bedstead with the least possible noise, to tie a sheet to it, and to slide down the sheet till he had but a few feet to drop into the balcony, was the work of a very few minutes to one as excitedly determined as Pocket had become on finding himself a prisoner. Thought they would lock him in, did they? They would just find out their mistake! It was exactly the same mood in which he had scaled the upright palings in defiance of the policeman who said he might not sleep in the Park.

The balcony window was open, the room within empty. It was obviously Baumgartner's bedroom. There was a camp bedstead worthy of an old campaigner, a large roll-top desk, and a waste-paper basket which argued either a voluminous correspondence or imperfect domestic service; it would have furnished scent for no short paper-chase. Otherwise the room was tidy enough, and [pg 132] so eloquent of Baumgartner himself, in its uncompromising severity, that Pocket breathed more freely on the landing. And in the hall he felt absolutely safe, for he had gained it without the creaking of a stair, and there on the pegs hung his hat, but neither the cloak nor the weird wide-awake affected by his host.

Baumgartner out. That was a bit of luck; and it was just like Pocket to lose a moment in taking advantage of it; but the truth was that he had made an interesting discovery. It was in that house the piano was being played. He heard it through the drawing-room door; he had heard it on the balcony up above; it had never stopped once, so silent had he been. It was that Phillida, with the large dark eyes, and she was playing something that Lettice sometimes played, and very nearly, though naturally not quite, as well. Pocket would have said that it was Mendelssohn, or Chopin, “or something,” for his love of music was greater than his knowledge. But it was not exactly the music that detained him; he was thinking more of the musician, who had shown him kindness, after all. It would be only decent to thank her before he went, and the doctor himself through his niece. If she knew he had been locked in, and he had to tell her how he had made his escape and yet not a sound—well, she would not think the less of him at [pg 133] all events, and so they would part for ever. Or perhaps not for ever! The juvenile instinct for romance was not to be stifled at such a stimulating moment. The girl would be sorry for him when she knew all; she might know enough to be sorry for him as it was; in any case it was the game to say goodbye.

The girl sprang from the music-stool in extraordinary excitement. Her large eyes were larger than ever, as it were with fear, and yet they blazed at the intruder. Pocket could not understand it, unless she already knew the truth.

“I'm so sorry for starting you,” he apologised. “I just came in to say goodbye.”

And he held out a hand which she never seemed to see.

“To say goodbye!” she gasped.

“Yes, I've got to go. I'm afraid the doctor's out?”

“Yes, he is. Won't you wait?”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

She was shrinking from him, shrinking round towards the door. He stood aside, to let her bolt if that was her desire. And then she in turn took her stand, back to the door.

“He'll be very sorry to miss you,” she said more firmly, and with a smile.

“And I'm very sorry to miss him,” said Pocket, [pg 134] unconscientiously enough for anybody. “He's been most awfully good to me, and I wish you'd tell him how grateful I am.”

“I'm afraid he won't believe me,” the girl said dryly, “if he finds you gone.”

“I must go—really I must. I shall get into an awful row as it is. Do you mind giving him one other message?”

“As many as you like.”

“Well, you might tell him from me that I'll give myself away, but I'll never give him! He'll know what I mean.”

“Is that all?”

She was keeping him very cleverly, putting in her word always at the last moment, and again refusing to see his hand; but again it was the boy who helped to waste his own golden opportunity, this time through an indefensible bit of boyish braggadocio.

“No; you may tell the doctor that if he wanted to detain me he went the worst way about it by locking me into my room!”

She looked mystified at first, and then astounded.

“How did you get out?”

“How do you suppose?”

“I never heard anything!”

“I took care you shouldn't.”

And he described the successful adventure with [pg 135] pardonable unction in the end. After that he insisted on saying goodbye. And the young girl stood up to him like a little heroine.

“I'm very sorry, but I can't let you go, Mr. Upton.”

“Can't let me?”

“I really am sorry—but you must wait to see my uncle.”

He stood aghast before the determined girl. She was obviously older than himself, yet she was only a slip of a girl, and if he forced his way past—but he was not the fellow to do it—and that maddened him, because he felt she knew it.

“Oh, very well!” he cried, sarcastically. “If you won't let me out that way, I'll go this!”

And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the garden; but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she held him firmly by the hand.

“If you do I'll blow a police-whistle!” she said. “We have one—it won't take an instant. You shan't come out the front way, and you'll be stopped if you climb the wall!”

“But why? Do you take me for a lunatic, or what?” he gasped out bitterly.

“Never mind what I take you for!”

“You're treating me as though I were one!”

“You've got to stay and see my uncle.” [pg 136]

“I shan't! Let me go, I tell you! You shall you shall! I hate your uncle, and you too!” But that was only half true, even then while he was struggling almost as passionately as though the girl had been another boy. He could not strike her; but that was the only line he drew, for she would grapple with him, and release himself he must. Over went walnut whatnots, and out came mutterings that made him hotter than ever for very shame. But he did not hate her even for what she made him say; all his hatred and all his fear were of the dreadful doctor whose will she was obeying; and both were at their highest pitch when the door burst open, and in he sprang to part them with a look. But it was a look that hurt more than word or blow; never had poor Pocket endured or imagined such a steady, silent downpour of indignation and contempt. It turned his hatred almost in a moment to hatred of himself; his fear it only increased.

“Leave us, Phillida,” said Baumgartner at last. Phillida was in tears, and Pocket had been hanging his head; but now he sprang towards her.

“Forgive me!” he choked, and held the door open for her, and shut it after her with all the gallantry the poor lad had left.