“Demobilized! Oh, Bob—truly?”
“Truly and really,” said Bob. “At least, I shall be in twenty-seven days. Got my orders. Show up for the last time on the fifteenth of next month. Get patted on the head, and told to run away and play. That's the programme, I believe, Tommy. The question is—What shall we play at?”
Cecilia brushed the hair from her brow.
“I don't know,” she said vaguely. “It's too big to think of; and I can't think in this awful house, anyhow. Take me out, quick, please, Bobby.”
“Sure,” said Bob, regarding her with an understanding eye. “But you want to change or something, don't you, old girl?”
“Why, yes, I suppose I do,” said Cecilia, with a watery smile, looking at her schoolroom overall. “I forgot clothes. I've had a somewhat packed morning.”
“You look as if this had been your busy day,” remarked Bob. “Right-oh, old girl; jump into your things, and I'll wait on the mat. Any chance of the she-dragon coming back?”
“No; she's gone out to tea.”
“More power to her,” said Bob cheerfully. “And the dragon puppies?”
“Oh, they're safely out of the way. I won't be five minutes, Bob. Don't shut the door tight—you might disappear before I opened it.”
“Not much,” said Bob, through the crack of the door. “I'm a fixture. Want any shoes cleaned?”
“No, thanks, Bobby dear. I have everything ready.”
“From what the other fellows say about their sisters, I'm inclined to believe that you're an ornament to your sex,” remarked Bob. “When you say five minutes, it really does mean not more than five and a half, as a rule; other girls seem to mean three-quarters of an hour.”
“I get all my things ready the night before when I'm going to meet you,” said Cecilia. “Catch me losing any time on my one day out. You can come back again—my coat's on the hanger there, Bobby.” He put her into it deftly, and she leaned back against him. “If you knew how good it is to see you again—and you smell of clean fresh air and good tobacco and Russia leather, and all sorts of nice things.”
“Good gracious, I'll excite attention in the street!” grinned Bob. “I didn't imagine I was a walking scent-factory!”
“Neither you are—but everything in this house smells of coal-smoke and cabbage-water and general fustiness, and you're a nice change, that's all,” said Cecilia. They ran downstairs together light-heartedly, and let themselves out into the street.
“Do we catch a train or a 'bus?”
“Oh, can't we walk?” Cecilia said. “I think if I walked hard I might forget Mrs. Rainham.”
“I'd hate you to remember her,” Bob said. “Tell me what she has been doing, anyhow, and then we won't think of her any more.”
“It doesn't sound much,” Cecilia said. “There never is anything very much. Only it goes on all the time.” She told him the story of her day, and managed to make herself laugh now and then over it. But Bob did not laugh. His good-humoured young face was set and angry.
“There isn't a whole lot in it, is there?” Cecilia finished. “And no one would think I was badly off—especially when the thing that hit me hardest of all was just dusting that awful drawing-room while she plays her awful tunes. Yes, I know I shouldn't say awful, and that no lady says it—that must be true because Mrs. Rainham frequently tells me so—but it's such a relief to say whatever I feel like.”
“You can say what you jolly well please,” said Bob wrathfully. “Who's she, I'd like to know, to tell us what to say? And she kept you there all the afternoon, when she knew you were due to meet me!—my hat, she is a venomous old bird! And now it's half-past four, and what time does she expect you back?”
“Oh—the usual thing; the children's tea-time at six. She told me not to be late.”
Bob set his jaw.
“Well, you won't be late, because you won't be there,” he said. “No going back to tea for you. We'll have dinner at the Petit Riche in Soho, and then we'll do a theatre, and then I'll take you home and we'll face the music. Are you game?”
Cecilia laughed.
“Game? Why, of course—but there will be awful scenes, Bobby.”
“Well, what can she do to you?” asked Bob practically. “You're too big to beat, or she'd certainly do it; she can't stop your pay, because you don't get any; and as you have your meals with the youngsters, she can't dock your rations. That doesn't leave her much beside her tongue. Of course, she can do a good deal with that; do you think you can stand it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Cecilia. “You see, I generally have it, so it really doesn't matter much. But if she forbids me to go out with you again, Bobby?”
Bob pondered.
“Well—you're nineteen,” he said. “And the very first minute I can, I'm going to take you away from her altogether. If you were a kid I wouldn't let you defy her. But, hang it all, Tommy, I'm not going to let her punish you as though you were ten. If she forbids you to meet me—well, you must just take French leave, that's all.”
“Oh, Bob, you are a satisfying person!” said Cecilia, with a sigh.
“Well, I don't know—it's you who will have to stand the racket,” said Bob. “I only wish I could take my share, old girl. But, please goodness, it won't be for long.”
“Bob,” said Cecilia, and paused. “What about that statement of hers—that it would be illegal for you to take me away? Do you think it's true?”
“I've asked our Major, and he's a bit doubtful,” said Bob. “All the other fellows say it's utter nonsense. But I'm going to ask the old lawyer chap who has charge of Aunt Margaret's money—he'll tell me. We won't bother about it, Tommy; if I can't get you politely, I'll steal you. Just forget the she-dragon and all her works.”
“But have you thought about what you are going to do?”
“I don't think of much else, and that's the truth, Tommy,” said her brother ruefully. “You see, there's mighty little in sight. I could get a clerkship, I suppose. I could certainly get work as a day labourer. But I don't see much in either of those possibilities towards a little home with you, which is what I want. I'm going to answer every advertisement I can find for fellows wanted on farms.” He straightened his square shoulders. “Tommy, there must be plenty of work for any chap as strong as an ox, as I am.”
“I'm sure there's work,” said Cecilia. “But the men who want jobs don't generally advertise themselves as 'complete with sister.' I'm what's technically known as an encumbrance, Bob.”
“You!” said Bob. “You're just part of the firm, so don't you forget it. Didn't we always arrange that we should stick together?”
“We did—but it may not be easy to manage,” Cecilia said, doubtfully. “Perhaps we could get some job together; I could do inside work, or teach, or sew.”
“No!” said Bob explosively. “If I can't earn enough for us both, I ought to be shot, Aunt Margaret didn't bring you up to work.”
“But the world has turned upside down since Aunt Margaret died,” said Cecilia. “And I have worked pretty hard for the last two years, Bob; and it hasn't hurt me.”
“It has made you older—and you ought to be only a kid yet,” said Bob wistfully. “You haven't had any of the fun girls naturally ought to have. I don't want you to slave all your time, Tommy.”
“Bless you!” said his sister. “But I wouldn't care a bit, as long as it was near you—and not in Lancaster Gate.”
They had turned across Hyde Park, where a big company of girl guides was drilling, watched by a crowd of curious on-lookers. Across a belt of grass some boy scouts were performing similar evolutions, marching with all the extra polish and swagger they could command, just to show the guides that girls were all very well in their way, but that no one with skirts could really hope to do credit to a uniform. Cecilia paused to watch them.
“Thank goodness, the children can come and drill in the park again!” she said. “I hated to come here before the armistice—soldiers, soldiers, drilling everywhere, and guns and searchlight fixings. Whenever I saw a squad drilling it made me think of you, and of course I felt sure you'd be killed!”
“I do like people who look on the bright side of life!” said Bob laughing. “And whenever you saw an aeroplane I suppose you made sure I was crashing somewhere?”
“Certainly I did,” said his sister with dignity.
“Women are queer things,” Bob remarked. “If you had these unpleasant beliefs, how did you manage to write as cheerfully as you did? Your letters were a scream—I used to read bits of 'em out to the fellows.”
“You had no business to do any such thing,” said Cecilia, blushing.
“Well, I did, anyhow. They used to make 'em yell. How did you manage them?”
“Well, it was no good assuring you you'd be killed,” said Cecilia practically. “I thought it was more sensible to try to make you laugh.”
“You certainly did that,” said Bob. “I fancied from your letters that life with the she-dragon was one huge joke, and that Papa was nice and companionable, and the kids, sweet little darlings who ate from your hand. And all the time you were just the poor old toad under the harrow!”
“I'm not a toad!” rejoined his sister indignantly. “Don't you think you could find pleasanter things to compare me to?”
“Toads aren't bad,” said Bob, laughing. “Ever seen the nice old fellow in the Zoo who shoots out a tongue a yard long and picks up a grub every time? He's quite interesting.”
“I certainly never had any inclination to do any such thing,” Cecilia laughed.
They had turned into Piccadilly and were walking down, watching the crowded motor traffic racing north and south. Suddenly Bob straightened up and saluted smartly, as a tall staff officer, wearing a general's badges, ran down the steps of a big club, and nearly cannoned into Cecilia.
“I beg your pardon!” he said—and then, noticing Bob—“How are you, Rainham?” He dived into a waiting taxi, and was whisked away.
“Did he bump you?” inquired Bob.
“No—though it would be almost a privilege to be bumped by anyone as splendid as that!” Cecilia answered. “He knows you, too!—who is he, Bobby?”
“That's General Harran, the Australian,” said Bob proudly. “He's a great man. I've run into him occasionally since I've been with the Australians in France.”
“He looks nice.”
“He is nice,” replied Bob. “Awful martinet about duty, but he treats every one under him jolly well. Never forgets a face or a name, and he's always got a decent word for everybody. He's had some quite long talks to me, when we were waiting for some 'plane or other to come back.”
“Why wouldn't he?” asked Cecilia, who considered it a privilege for anyone to talk to her brother.
Bob regarded her in amazement.
“Good gracious!” he ejaculated. “Why, he's a major-general; I can tell you, most men of his rank haven't any use for small fry like me—to talk to, that is.”
Cecilia had a flash of memory.
“Isn't he the general who was close by when you brought that German aeroplane down behind our lines? Didn't he say nice things to you about it?”
“Oh, that was only in the way of business,” said Bob somewhat confused. “The whole thing was only a bit of luck—and, of course, it was luck, too, that he was there. But he is just as nice to fellows who haven't had a chance like that.”
Out of the crowd two more figures in Air Force uniform came, charging at Bob with outstretched hands.
“By Jove, old chap! What luck to meet you!”
They shook hands tumultuously, and Bob made them known to Cecilia—comrades he had not seen for months, but with whom he had shared many strange experiences in the years of war. They fell into quick talk, full of the queer jargon of the air. The newcomers, it appeared, had been with the army of occupation in Germany; there seemed a thousand things they urgently desired to tell Bob within the next few minutes. One turned to Cecilia, presently, with a laughing interpretation of some highly technical bit of slang.
“Oh, you needn't bother to translate to Tommy,” Bob said. “She knows all about it.”
The other boys suddenly gave her all their attention.
“Are you Tommy? But we know you awfully well.”
“Me?” Cecilia turned pink.
“Rather. We used to hear your letters.”
The pink deepened to a fine scarlet.
“Bob!” said his sister reproachfully. “You really shouldn't.”
“Oh, don't say that,” said the taller boy, by name Harrison. “They were a godsend—there used to be jolly little to laugh about, pretty often, and your letters made us all yell. Didn't they, Billy?”
“They did,” said Billy, who was small and curly-haired—and incidentally a captain, with a little row of medal ribbons. “Jolliest letters ever. We passed a vote of thanks to you in the mess, Miss Tommy, after old Bob here had gone. Some one was to write and tell him about it, but I don't believe anyone ever did. I say, you must have had a cheery time—all the funny things that ever happened seemed to come your way.”
Cecilia stammered something, her scarlet confusion deepening. A rather grim vision of the war years swept across her mind—of the ceaseless quest in papers and journals, and wherever people talked, for “funny things” to tell Bob; and of how, when fact and rumour gave out, she used to sit by her attic window at night, deliberately inventing merry jests. It had closely resembled a job of hard work at the time; but apparently it had served its purpose well. She had made them laugh; and some one had told her that no greater service could be rendered to the boys who risked death, and worse than death, during every hour of the day and night. But it was extremely difficult to talk about it afterwards.
Bob took pity on her.
“I'll tell you just what sort of a cheery time she had, some time or other,” he remarked. “What are you fellows doing this evening?”
“We were just going to ask you the same thing,” declared Billy. “Can't we all go and play about somewhere? We've just landed, and we want to be looked after. Any theatres in this little town still?”
“Cheer-oh!” ejaculated Billy. “Let's all go and find out.”
So they went, and managed very successfully to forget war and even stepmothers. They were all little more than children in enjoyment of simple pleasures still, since war had fallen upon them at the very threshold of life, cutting them off from all the cheery happenings that are the natural inheritance of all young things. The years that would ordinarily have seen them growing tired of play had been spent in grim tasks; now they were children again, clamouring for the playtime they had lost. They found enormous pleasure in the funny little French restaurant, where Madame, a lady whose sympathies were as boundless as her waist, welcomed them with wide smiles, delighting in the broken French of Billy and Harrison, and deftly tempting them to fresh excursions in her language. She put a question in infantile French to Bob presently, whereupon that guileless youth, with a childlike smile, answered her with a flood of idiomatic phrases, in an accent purer than her own—collapsing with helpless laughter at her amazed face. After which, Madame neglected her other patrons to hover about their table like a stout, presiding goddess, guiding them gently to the best dishes on the menu, and occasionally putting aside their own selection with a hasty, “Mon-non; you vill not like that one to-day.” She patted Cecilia in a motherly fashion at parting, and their bill was only about half what it should have been.
They found a musical comedy, and laughed their way through it—Billy and Harrison had apparently no cares in the world, and Bob and Cecilia were caught up in the whirl of their high spirits, so that anything became a huge joke. The evening flew by on airy wings, when Billy insisted on taking them to supper after the theatre. Cecilia allowed herself a fleeting vision of Mrs. Rainham, and then, deciding that she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, followed gaily. And supper was so cheery a meal that she forgot all about time—until, just at the end, she caught sight of the restaurant clock.
“Half-past eleven! Oh, Bobby!”
“Well, if it is—you poor little old Cinderella,” said Bob.
But he hurried her away, for all that, amid a chorus of farewells and efforts, on the part of Billy and Harrison, to arrange further meetings. They ran to the nearest tube station, and dived into its depths; and, after being whisked underground for a few minutes, emerged into the cool night. Cecilia slipped her arm through her brother's as they hurried along the empty street.
“Now, you keep your nose in the air,” Bobby told her. “You aren't exactly a kid now, and she can't really do anything to you. Oh, by Jove—I was thinking, in the theatre, she might interfere with our letters.”
“She's quite equal to it,” said Cecilia.
“Just what she'd revel in doing. Well, you can easily find out. I'll write to you to-morrow, and again the next day—just ordinary letters, with nothing particular in them except an arrangement to meet next Saturday. If you don't get them you'll know she's getting at the mail first.”
“What shall I do, then?”
“Drop me a line—or, better still, wire to me,” said Bob. “Just say, 'Address elsewhere.' Then I'll write to you at Mr. M'Clinton's; the old solicitor chap in Lincoln's Inn; and you'll have to go there and get the letters. You know his address, don't you?”
“Oh, yes. I have to write to him every quarter when he sends me my allowance. You'll explain to him, then, Bob, or he'll simply redirect your letters here.”
“Oh, of course. I want to go and see the old chap, anyhow, to talk over Aunt Margaret's affairs. I might as well know a little more about them. Tommy, the she-dragon can't actually lock you up, can she?”
“No—it couldn't be done,” said Cecilia. “Modern houses aren't built with dungeons and things. Moreover, if she tried to keep me in the house she would have to take the children out for their walks herself; and she simply hates walking.”
“Then you can certainly post to me, and get my letters, and I'll be up again as soon as ever I can. Buck up, old girl—it can't be for long now.”
They turned in at the Rainhams' front gate, and Cecilia glanced up apprehensively. All the windows were in darkness; the grey front of the house loomed forbiddingly in the faint moonlight.
“You're coming in, aren't you?” she asked, her hand tightening on his arm.
“Rather—we'll take the edge off her tongue together.” Bob rang the bell. “Wonder if they have all gone to bed. The place looks pretty dark.”
“She's probably in the little room at the back—the one she calls her boudoir.”
“Horrible little den, full of bamboo and draperies and pampas grass—I know,” nodded Bob. “Well, either she's asleep or she thinks it's fun to keep us on the mat. I'll try her again.” He pressed the bell, and the sound of its whirring echoed through the silent house.
The bolt grated, as if grudgingly, and slowly the door opened as far as the limits of its chain would permit, and Mrs. Rainham's face appeared in the aperture. She glared at them for a minute without speaking.
“So you have come home?” she said at last. The chain fell, and the door opened. “I wonder you trouble to come home at all. May I ask where you have been?”
“She has been with me, Mrs. Rainham,” Bob said cheerfully. “May I come in?”
Mrs. Rainham did not move. She held the door half open, blocking the way.
“It is far too late for me to ask you in,” she answered frigidly. “Cecilia can explain her conduct, I presume.”
“Oh, there's really nothing to explain,” Bob answered. “It was so late when she got out this afternoon that I kept her—why, it was after half-past four before she was dressed.”
“I told her to be in for tea.”
“Yes; but I felt sure you couldn't realize how late she was in getting out,” said Bob in a voice of honey.
“That was entirely her own mismanagement—” began the hard tones.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Rainham; really it wasn't,” said Cecilia mildly. “Your accompaniments, you remember—your dress—your music,” she stopped, in amazement at herself. It was rarely indeed that she answered any accusation of her stepmother's. But to be on the mat at midnight, with Bob in support, seemed to give her extraordinary courage.
“You see, Mrs. Rainham, there seems to have been quite a number of little details that Cecilia couldn't mismanage,” said Bob, following up the advantage. It was happily evident that his stepmother's rage was preventing her from speaking, and, as he remarked later, there was no knowing when he would ever get such a chance again. “She really needed rest. I'm sure you'll agree that every one is entitled to some free time. Of course, you couldn't possibly have realized that it was a week since she had been off duty.”
“It's her business to do what I tell her,” said Mrs. Rainham, finding her voice, in an explosive fashion that made a passing policeman glance up curiously. “She knew I had company, and expected her help. I had to see to the children's tea myself. And how do I know where she's been?—gallivanting round to all sorts of places! I tell you, young lady, you needn't think you're going to walk in here at midnight as if nothing was the matter.”
“I never expected to,” said Cecilia cheerfully. “But it was worth it.”
Bob regarded her in solemn admiration.
“I don't think we gallivanted at all reprehensibly,” he said. “Just dinner and a theatre. I haven't made much claim to her time during the last four years, Mrs. Rainham; surely I'm entitled to a little of it now.”
“You!” Mrs. Rainham's tone was vicious. “You don't give her a home, do you? And as long as I do, she'll do what I tell her.”
“No; I don't give her a home—yet,” said Bob very quietly. “But I very soon will, I assure you; and meanwhile, she earns a good deal more than her keep in her father's house. You can't treat her worse than your servants—”
Cecilia suddenly turned to him.
“Ah, don't, Bob darling. It doesn't matter—truly—not a bit.” With the end of the long penance before her, it seemed beyond the power of the angry woman in the doorway to hurt her much. What she could not bear was that their happy evening should be spoiled by hard and cruel words at its close. Bob's face, that had been so merry, was sterner than she had ever seen it, all its boyishness gone. She put up her own face, and kissed him.
“Good night—you mustn't stay any longer. I'll be all right.” She whispered a few quick words of French, begging him to go, and Bob, though unwillingly, gave in.
“All right,” he said. “Go to bed, little 'un. I'll do as I promised about writing.” He saluted Mrs. Rainham stiffly. “You'll remember, Mrs. Rainham, that she stayed out solely at my wish—I take full responsibility, and I'll be ready to tell my father so.” The door closed behind Cecilia, and he strode away down the street, biting his lip. He felt abominably as though he had deserted the little sister—and yet, what else could he do? One could not remain for ever, brawling on a doorstep at midnight—and Tommy had begged him to go. Still—
“Hang it!” he said viciously. “If she were only a decent Hun to fight!”
In the grim house in Lancaster Gate Cecilia was facing the music alone. She listened unmoved, as she had listened many times before, to the catalogue of her sins and misdeeds—only she had never seen her stepmother quite so angry. Finally, a door above opened, and Mark Rainham looked out, his dull, colourless face weakly irritable.
“I wish you'd stop that noise, and let the girl go to bed,” he said. “Come here, Cecilia.”
She went to him hesitating, and he looked at her with a spark of compassion. Then he kissed her.
“Good night,” he said, as though he had called her to him simply to say it, and not to separate her from the furious woman who stood looking at them. “Run off to bed, now—no more talking.” Cecilia ran upstairs obediently. Behind her, as she neared her attic, she heard her stepmother's voice break out anew.
“Just fancy Papa!” she muttered. Any mother sensations were lost in wonder at her father's actually having intervened. The incredible thing had happened. For a moment she felt a wave of pity for him, left alone to face the shrill voice. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Ah, well—he married her,” she said. “I suppose he has had it many a time. Perhaps he knows how to stop it—I don't!” She laughed, turning the key in the lock, and sitting down beside the open window. The glamour of her happy evening was still upon her; even the scene with her stepmother had not had power to chase it away. The scene was only to be expected; the laughter of the evening was worth so every-day a penalty. And the end of Mrs. Rainham's rule was nearly in sight. Not even to herself for a moment would she admit that there was any possibility of Bob failing to “make good” and take her away.
She went downstairs next morning to an atmosphere of sullen resentment. Her father gave her a brief, abstracted nod, in response to her greeting, and went on with his bacon and his Daily Mail; her stepmother's forbidding expression checked any attempt at conversation. The children stared at her with a kind of malevolent curiosity; they knew that a storm had been brewing for her the night before, and longed to know just how thoroughly she had “caught it.” Eliza, bringing in singed and belated toast, looked at her with pity, tinged with admiration. Cook and she had been awakened at midnight by what was evidently, in the words of Cook, “a perfickly 'orrible bust-up,” and knowing Cecilia to have been its object, Eliza looked at her as one may look who expects to see the scars of battle. Finding none, but receiving instead a cheerful smile, she returned to the kitchen, and reported to Cook that Miss Cecilia was “nuffink less than a neroine.”
But as that day and the next wore on, Cecilia found it difficult to be cheerful. That she was in disgrace was very evident, Mrs. Rainham said no more about her sins of the night before; instead, she showed her displeasure by a kind of cold rudeness that gave a subtle insult to her smallest remark. The children were manifestly delighted. Cecilia was more or less in the position of a beetle on a pin, and theirs was the precious opportunity of seeing her wriggle. Wherefore they adopted their mother's tone, openly defied her, and turned school-hours into a pandemonium.
Cecilia at last gave up the attempt to keep order. She opened her desk and took out her knitting.
“Well, this is all very pleasant,” she said, calmly. “You seem determined to do no work at all, so I can only hope that in time you will get tired of being idle. I can't attempt to teach you any more. I am quite ready, however, if you bring your lessons to me.”
“You'll get into a nice row from the Mater,” jeered Wilfred.
“Very possibly. She may even punish me by finding another governess,” said Cecilia, with a twinkle. “However that may be, I do not feel compelled to talk to such rude little children as you any more. When you are able to speak politely you may come to me for anything you want; until then, I shall not answer you.” She bent her attention to the mysteries of heel-turning.
The children were taken aback. To pinprick with rudeness a victim who answered back was entertaining; but there was small fun in baiting anybody who sat silently knitting with a half-smile of contempt at the corners of her mouth. They gave it up after a time, and considered the question of going out; a pleasant thing to do, only that their mother had laid upon them a special injunction not to leave Cecilia, and she was in a mood that made disobedience extremely dangerous. Cecilia quite understood that she was being watched. No letters had yet come from Bob, and she knew that her stepmother had been hovering near the letter-box whenever the postman had called. Mrs. Rainham had accompanied them on their walk the day before; a remark of Avice's revealed that she meant to do so again to-day.
“It's all so silly,” the girl said to herself. “If I chose to dive into a tube station or board a motor-bus she couldn't stop me; and she can't go on watching me and intercepting my letters indefinitely. I suppose she will get tired of it after a while.” But meanwhile she found the spying rather amusing. Avice popped up unexpectedly if she went near the front door; Wilfred's bullet head peeped in through the window whenever she fancied herself alone in the schoolroom. Only her attic was safe—since to spy upon it would have required an aeroplane.
The third day brought no letter from Bob. Cecilia asked for her mail when she went down to breakfast, and was met by a blank stare from her stepmother—“I suppose if there had been any letters for you they would be on your plate.” She flushed a little under the girl's direct gaze, and turned her attention to Queenie's table manners, which were at all times peculiar; and Cecilia sat down with a faint smile. It was time to obey orders and telegraph to Bob.
She planned how to do it, during a long morning when the children actually did some work—since to be rude or idle meant that their teacher immediately retired into her shell of silence, and knitted, and life became too dull. To employ Eliza was her first thought—rejected, since it seemed unlikely that Eliza would be able to get time off to go out. If Mrs. Rainham's well-known dislike for walking proved too strong for her desire to watch her stepdaughter, it would be easy enough to do it during the afternoon; but this hope proved vain, for when she appeared in the hall with her charges at three o'clock the lady of the house sailed from the drawing-room, ready for the march. They moved off in procession; Mrs. Rainham leading the way, with Avice and Wilfred, while Cecilia brought up the rear, holding Queenie's podgy hand.
She had telegraph forms in her desk, and the message, already written, and even stamped, was in the pocket of her coat. There was nothing for it but to act boldly, and accordingly, when they entered a street in which there was a post office, she let Queenie lag until they were a little distance behind the others. Then, as they reached the post office, she turned sharply in.
“Wait a minute, Queenie.”
She thrust her message across the counter hurriedly. The clerk on duty was provokingly slow; he finished checking a document, and then lounged across to the window and took the form, running over it leisurely.
“Oh, you've got the stamps on. All right,” he said, and turned away just as quick steps were heard, and Mrs. Rainham bustled in, panting.
“What are you doing?”
Cecilia met her with steady eyes.
“Nothing wrong, I assure you.” She had had visions of covering her real purpose by buying stamps—but rejected it with a shrug.
“Thethilia gave the man a pieth of paper!” said Queenie shrilly.
“What was it? I demand to know!” cried Mrs. Rainham. She turned to the clerk, who stood open-mouthed, holding the telegram in his hand. “Show me that telegram. I am this young lady's guardian.”
The clerk grinned broadly. The stout and angry lady made no appeal to him, and Cecilia was a pretty girl, and moreover her telegram was for a flying captain. The clerk wore a returned soldier's badge himself. He fell back on Regulations.
“Can't be done, ma'am. The message is all in order.”
“Let me see it.”
“Much as my billet's worth, if I did,” said the clerk. “Property of the Postmaster-General now, ma'am. Couldn't even give it back to the young lady.”
“I'll report you!” Mrs. Rainham fumed.
“Do, ma'am. I'll get patted on the head for doin' me duty.” The clerk's grin widened. Cecilia wished him good afternoon gravely, and slipped out of the office, pursued by her stepmother.
“What was in that telegram?”
“It was to my brother.”
“What was in it?”
“It was to Bob, and that is guarantee that there was nothing wrong in it,” Cecilia said steadily. “It was on private business.”
“You have no right to have any business that I do not know about.”
Cecilia found her temper rising.
“My father may have the power to say that—I do not know,” she said. “But you have none, Mrs. Rainham.”
“I'll let you see whether I have the right!” her stepmother blazed. “For two pins, young lady, I'd lock you up.”
Cecilia laughed outright.
“Ah, that's not done now,” she said. “You really couldn't, Mrs. Rainham—especially as I have done nothing wrong.” She dropped her voice—passers-by were looking with interest at the elder woman's face. “Why not let me go? You do not approve of me—let me find another position.”
“You'll stay in your father's house,” Mrs. Rainham said. “We'll see what the law has to say to your leaving with your precious Bob. Your father's your legal guardian, and in his control you stay until you're twenty-one, and be very thankful to make yourself useful. The law will deal with Bob if he tries to take you away—you're a minor, and it'd be abduction.” The word had a pleasantly legal flavour; she repeated it with emphasis. “Abduction; that's what it is, and there's a nice penalty for it. Now you know, and if you don't want to get Bob into trouble, you'd best be careful.”
Cecilia had grown rather white. The law was a great and terrible instrument, of which she knew nothing. It seemed to have swallowed up Aunt Margaret's money; it might very well have left her defenceless. Her stepmother seemed familiar with its powers, and able to evoke them at will; and though she did not trust her, there was something in her glib utterance that struck fear into the girl's heart. She did not answer, and Mrs. Rainham followed up her advantage.
“We'll go home,” she said. “And you make up your mind to tell me what was in that telegram, and not to have any secrets from me. One thing I can tell you—until you decide to behave yourself—Bob shan't show his nose in my house, and you shan't go out to meet him, either. He only leads you into mischief; I don't consider he has at all a good influence over you. The sooner he's away somewhere, earning his own living in a proper manner, the better for every one; and it'll be many a long day before he can give you as good a home as you've got now.” She paused for breath. “Anyhow, he's not going to have the chance,” she finished grimly.
“Is Mr. M'Clinton in?”
The clerk, in a species of rabbit hutch, glanced out curiously at the young flying officer.
“Yes; but he's very busy. Have you an appointment?”
“No—I got leave unexpectedly. Just take him my card, will you?”
The clerk handed the card to another clerk, who passed it to an office-boy, who disappeared with it behind a heavy oaken door. He came back presently.
“Mr. M'Clinton will see you in ten minutes, if you can wait, sir.”
“I'll wait,” said Bob, sitting down upon a high stool. “Got a paper?”
“To-day's Times is here, sir.” He whisked off, to return in a moment with the paper, neatly folded.
“You'll find a more comfortable seat behind the screen, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Bob, regarding him with interest—he was so dapper, so alert, so all that an office-boy in a staid lawyer's establishment ought to be. “How old might you be?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“And are you going to grow into a lawyer?”
“I'm afraid I'll never do that, sir,” said the office-boy gravely. “I may be head clerk, perhaps. But—” he stopped, confused.
“But what?”
“I'd rather fly, sir, than anything in the world!” He looked worshippingly at Bob's uniform. “If the war had only not stopped before I was old enough, I might have had a chance!”
“Oh, you'll have plenty of chances,” Bob told him consolingly. “In five years' time you'll be taking Mr. M'Clinton's confidential papers across to Paris in an aeroplane—and bringing him back a reply before lunch!”
“Do you think so, sir?” The office-boy's eyes danced. Suddenly he resumed his professional gravity.
“I must get back to my work, sir.” He disappeared behind another partition; the office seemed to Bob to be divided into water-tight compartments, in each of which he imagined that a budding lawyer or head clerk was being brought up by hand. It was all rather grim and solid and forbidding. To Bob the law had always been full of mystery; this grey, silent office, in the heart of the city, was a fitting place for it. He felt a little chill at his heart, a foreboding that no comfort could come of his mission there.
The inner door opened, after a little while, and a woman in black came out. She passed hurriedly through the outer office, pulling down her veil over a face that showed traces of tears. Bob looked after her compassionately.
“Poor soul!” he thought. “She's had her gruel, evidently. Now I suppose I'll get mine.”
A bell whirred sharply. The alert office-boy sprang to the summons, returning immediately.
“Mr. M'Clinton can see you now, sir.”
Bob followed him through the oaken door, and along a narrow passage to a room where a spare, grizzled man sat at a huge roll-top desk. He rose as the boy shut the door behind his visitor.
“Well, Captain Rainham. How do you do?”
Bob gripped the lean hand offered him—it felt like a claw in his great palm. Then he sat down and looked uncomfortably at the lawyer.
“I had thought to have seen you here before, Captain.”
“I suppose I should have shown up,” said Bob—concealing the fact that the idea had never occurred to him. “But I've been very busy since I've been back to England.”
“And what brings you now?”
“I'm all but demobilized,” Bob told him, “and I'm trying to get employment.”
“What—in this office?”
“Heavens, no!” ejaculated Bob, and at once turned a fine red. “That is—I beg your pardon, sir; but I'm afraid I'm not cut out for an office. I want to get something to do in the country, where I can support my sister.”
“Your sister? But does not your father support her? She is an inmate of his house, is she not?”
“Very much so,” said Bob bitterly. “She's governess, and lady-help, and a good many other things. You couldn't call it a home. Besides, we have always been together. I want to take her away.”
“And what does your father say?”
“He says she mustn't go. At least, that's what my stepmother says, so my father will certainly say it too.”
“Your sister is under age, I think?”
“She's just nineteen—I'm over twenty-two. Can my father prevent her going with me, sir?”
“Mph,” said the lawyer, pondering. “Do I gather that the young lady is unhappy?”
“If she isn't, it's because she has pluck enough for six people, and because she always hopes to get away.”
“And do you consider that you could support her?”
“I don't know,” said Bob unhappily. “I would certainly have thought I could, but there seems mighty little chance for a fellow whose only qualification is that he's been fighting Huns for nearly five years. I've answered advertisements and interviewed people until my brain reels; but there's nothing in it, and I can't leave Tommy there.”
“Tommy?” queried the lawyer blankly.
Bob laughed.
“My sister, I mean, sir. Her name's Cecilia, but, of course, we've never called her that. Even Aunt Margaret called her Tommy.”
Mr. M'Clinton made no reply. He thought deeply for a few moments. Then he looked up, and there was a glint of kindness in his hard grey eyes.
“I think you had better tell me all about it, Captain Rainham. Would it assist you to smoke?”
“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Bob, accepting the proffered cigarette. He plunged into his story; and if at times it was a trifle incoherent, principally from honest wrath, yet on the whole Cecilia's case lost nothing in the telling. The lawyer nodded from time to time, comprehendingly.
“Aye,” he said at last, when Bob paused. “Just so, just so. And why did you come to me, Captain?”
“I want your advice, sir,” Bob answered. “And I should like to know something about my aunt's property—if I can hope for any help from that source. I should have more chance of success if I had a little capital to start with. But I understand that most of it was lost. My father seemed very disappointed over the small amount she left.” He hesitated. “But apart from money, I should like to know if I am within the law in taking my sister away.”
Mr. M'Clinton thought deeply before replying.
“I had better speak frankly to you, Captain Rainham,” he said. “Your aunt, as you probably know, did not like your father. I am not sure that she actually distrusted him. But she considered him weak and indolent, and she recognized that he was completely under the thumb of his second wife. Your late aunt, my old friend, had an abhorrence for that lady that was quaint, considering that she had scarcely ever seen her.” He permitted himself the ghost of a smile. “She was deeply afraid of any of her property coming under the control of your father—and through him, of his wife. And so she tied up her money very carefully. She left direct to you and your sister certain assets. The rest of her property she left, in trust, to me.”
“To you, sir?”
“Aye. Very carefully tied up, too,” said Mr. M'Clinton, with a twinkle. “I can't make ducks and drakes of it, no matter how much I may wish to. It is tied up until your sister comes of age. Then my trust ceases.”
“By Jove!” Bob stared at him. “Then—do we get something?”
“Certainly. Unfortunately, many of your aunt's investments were very hard hit through the war. Certain stocks which paid large dividends ceased to pay altogether; others fell to very little. The sum left to you and your sister for immediate use should have been very much larger, but all that is left of it is the small allowance paid to you both. I imagine that a smart young officer like yourself found it scarcely sufficient for tobacco.”
“I've saved it all,” said Bob simply. “A bit more, too.”
“Saved it!” said the lawyer in blank amazement. “Do you tell me, now? You lived on your pay?”
“Flying pay's pretty good,” said Bob. “And there was always Tommy to think of, you know, sir. I had to put something away for her, in case I crashed.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. M'Clinton. “Your aunt had great confidence in you as a boy, and it seems she was justified. I'm very glad to hear this, Captain, for it enables me to do with a clear conscience something which I have the power to do. There is a discretionary clause in your aunt's will, which gives me power to realize a certain sum of money, should you need it. I could hand you over about three thousand pounds.”
“Three thousand!” Bob stared at him blankly.
“Aye. And I see no reason why I should not do it—provided I am satisfied as to the use you will make of it. As a matter of form I should like a letter from your commanding officer, testifying to your general character.”
“That's easy enough,” said Bob. “But—three thousand! My hat, what a difference it will make to Tommy and me! Poor old Aunt Margaret—I might have known she'd look after us.”
“She loved you very dearly. And now, Captain, about your sister.”
“She's the big thing,” said Bob. “Can I kidnap her?”
“It's rather difficult to say just how your father might act. Left to himself, I do not believe he would do anything. But urged by your stepmother, he might make trouble. And the good lady is more likely to make trouble if she suspects that there is any money coming to your sister.”
“That's very certain,” Bob remarked. “I wish to goodness I could get her right out of England, sir. How about Canada?”
The lawyer pondered.
“Do you know any one there?”
“Not a soul. But I suppose one could get introductions. And one can always get Government expert advice there, I believe, to prevent one chucking away one's money foolishly.”
Mr. M'Clinton nodded approvingly.
“I don't know, but you might do worse,” he said. “I believe in these new countries for young people; the old ones are getting overcrowded and worn out. And your relations are likely to give trouble if you are within their reach. A terrible woman, that stepmother of yours; a terrible woman. She came to see me with your father; he said nothing, but she talked like a mill-race. Miss Tommy has my full sympathy. A brawling woman in a wide house, as the Scripture says. I reproach myself, Captain, that I did not inquire personally into Miss Tommy's well-being. She told you nothing of her trials, you say, during the war?”
“Not a word. Wrote as if life were a howling joke always. I only found out for myself by accident a few months ago.”
“A brave lassie. Well, I'll do what I can to help you, Captain. I'll keep a lookout for a likely land investment for your money, and endeavour to prepare a good legal statement to frighten Mrs. Rainham if she objects to your taking your sister away. Much may be done by bluffing, especially if you do it very solemnly and quietly. So keep a good heart, and come and see me next time you're in London. Miss Tommy will be in any day, I presume, after the telegram you told me about?”
“Sure to be,” said Bob. “She'll be anxious for her letters. I'm leaving one for her, if you don't mind, and I'll write to her again to-night.” He got up, holding out his hand. “Good-bye—and I don't know how to thank you, sir.”
“Bless the boy—you've nothing to thank me for,” said the lawyer. “Just send me that letter from your commanding officer, and remember that there's no wild hurry about plans—Miss Tommy can stand for a few weeks longer what she has borne for two years.”
“I suppose she can—but I don't want her to,” Bob said.
The brisk office-boy showed him out, and he marched down the grey streets near Lincoln's Inn with his chin well up. Life had taken a sudden and magical turn for the better. Three thousand pounds!—surely that meant no roughing it for Tommy, but a comfortable home and a chance of success in life. It seemed a sum of enormous possibilities. Everything was very vague still, but at least the money was certain—it seemed like fairy gold. He felt a sudden desire to get away somewhere, with Tommy, away from crowded England to a country where a man could breathe; his heart rejoiced at the idea, just as he had often exulted when his aeroplane had lifted him away from the crowded, buzzing camp, into the wide, free places of the air. Canada called to him temptingly. His brain was seething with plans to go there when, waiting for a chance to cross a crowded thoroughfare, he heard his own name.
“Asleep, Rainham?”
Bob looked up with a start. General Harran, the Australian, was beside him, also waiting for a break in the crawling string of motor-buses and taxi-cabs. He was smiling under his close-clipped moustache.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the boy, coming to the salute stiffly. “I was in a brown study, I believe.”
“You looked it. I spoke to you twice before you heard me. What is it?—demobilization problems?”
“Just that, sir,” said Bob, grinning. “Most of us have got them, I suppose—fellows of my age, anyhow. It's a bit difficult to come down to earth again, after years spent in the air.”
“Very difficult,” Harran agreed gravely. He glanced down with interest at the alert face and square-built figure of the boy beside him. There were so many of them, these boys who had played with Death for years. They have saved their country from horror and ruin, and now it seemed very doubtful if their country wanted them. They were in every town in England, looking for work; their pitiful, plucky advertisements greeted the eye in every newspaper. The problem of their future interested General Harran keenly. He liked his boys; their freshness and pluck and unspoiled enthusiasm had been a tonic to him during the long years of war. Now it hurt him that they should be looking for the right to live.
“I'm just going to lunch, Rainham,” he said. “Would you care to come with me?”
Bob lifted a quaintly astonished face.
“Thanks, awfully, sir,” he stammered.
“Then jump on this 'bus, and we'll go to my club,” said the General, swinging his lean, athletic body up the stairs of a passing motor-'bus as he spoke. Bob followed, and they sped, rocking, through the packed traffic until the General, who had sat in silence, jumped up, threaded his way downstairs, and dropped to the ground again from the footboard of the hurrying 'bus—with a brief shake of the head to the conductor, who was prepared to check the speed of his craft to accommodate a passenger with such distinguished badges of rank. Bob was on the ground almost as quickly, and they turned out of the crowded street into a quieter one that presently led them into a silent square, where dignified grey houses looked out upon green trees, and the only traffic was that of gliding motors. General Harran led the way into one of the grey houses, up the steps of which officers were constantly coming and going. A grizzled porter in uniform, with the Crimean medal on his tunic, swung the door open and came smartly to attention as they passed through. The General greeted him kindly.
“How are you, O'Shea? The rheumatism better?”
“It is, sir, thank you.” They passed on, through a great hall lined with oil-paintings of famous soldiers, and trophies of big game from all over the world; for this was a Service club, bearing a proud record of soldier and sailor members for a hundred years. Presently they were in the dining-room, already crowded. The waiter found them a little table in a quiet corner.
There was a sprinkling of men whom Bob already knew; he caught several friendly nods of recognition us he glanced round. Then General Harran pointed out others to him—Generals, whose names were household words in England—a notable Admiral, and a Captain with the V.C. ribbon—earned at Zeebrugge. He seemed to know every one, and once or twice he left his seat to speak to a friend—during which absence Bob's friends shot him amazed glances, with eyebrows raised in astonishment that he should be lunching with a real Major-General. Bob was somewhat tongue-tied with bewilderment over the fact himself. But when their cold beef came, General Harran soon put him at his ease, leading him to talk of himself and his plans with quiet tact. Before Bob fairly realized it he had unfolded all his little story—even to Tommy and her hardships. The General listened with interest.
“And was it Tommy I saw you with on Saturday?”
“Yes, sir. She was awfully interested because it was you,” blurted Bob. “You see, she and I have always been pals. I'm jolly keen to get some place to take her to.”
“And you think of Canada. Why?”
“Well—I really don't know, except that it would be out of reach of England and unpleasantness,” Bob answered. “And my money would go a lot further there than here, wouldn't it, sir? Three thousand won't buy much of a place in England—not to make one's living by, I mean.”
“That's true. I advise every youngster to get out to one of the new countries, and, of course, a man with a little capital has a far greater chance. But why Canada? Why not Australia?”
“There's no reason why not,” said Bob laughing. “Only it seems further away. I don't know more of one country than the other—except the sort of vague idea we all have that Canada is all cold and Australia all heat!”
General Harran laughed.
“Yes—the average Englishman's ideas about the new countries are pretty sketchy,” he said. “People always talk to me about the fearfully hot climate of Australia, and seem mildly surprised if I remark that we have about a dozen different climates, and that we have snow and ice, and very decent winter sports, in Victoria. I don't think they believe me, either. But seriously, Rainham, if you have no more leaning towards one country than the other, why not think of Australia? I could help you there, if you like.”
“You, sir!” Bob stammered.
“Well, I can pull strings. I dare say I could manage a passage out for you and your sister—you see, you were serving with the Australians, and you're both desirable immigrants—young and energetic people with a little capital. That would be all right, I think, especially now that the first rush is over. And I could give you plenty of introductions in Australia to the right sort of people. You ought to see something of the country, and what the life and work are, before investing your money. It would be easy enough to get you on to a station or big farm—you to learn the business, and your sister to teach or help in the house. She wouldn't mind that for about a year, with nice people, would she?”
“Not she!” said Bob. “It was her own idea, in fact; only I didn't want to let her work. But I can see that it might be best. Only I don't know how to thank you, sir—I never imagined—”
General Harran cut him short.
“Don't worry about that. If I can help you, or any of the flying boys, out of a difficulty, and at the same time get the right type of settlers for Australia—she needs them badly—then I'm doing a double-barrelled job that I like. But see here—do I understand that what you really want to do is to take your sister without giving your father warning? To kidnap her, in short?”
“I don't see anything else to do, sir. I spoke to him a while ago about taking her away, and he only hummed and hawed and said he'd consult Mrs. Rainham. And my stepmother will never let her go as long as she can keep her as a drudge. We owe them nothing—he's never been a father to us, and as for my stepmother—well, she should owe Tommy for two years' hard work. But honestly, to all intents and purposes, they are strangers to us—it seems absolutely ridiculous that we should be controlled by them.”
“You say your aunt's family lawyer approves?”
“Yes, or he wouldn't let me have the money. I could get him to see you, sir, if you like; though I don't see why you should be bothered about us,” said Bob flushing.
“Give me his address—I'll look in on him next time I'm in Lincoln's Inn,” said the General. “Your own, too. Now, if I get you and your sister passages on a troopship, can you start at short notice—say forty-eight hours?”
Bob gasped, but recovered himself. After all, his training in the air had taught him to make swift decisions.
“Any time after the fifteenth, sir. I'll be demobilized then, and a free agent. I'll get my kit beforehand.”
“Don't get much,” counselled the General. “You can travel in uniform—take flannels for the tropics; everything you need in Australia you can get just as well, or better, out there. Most fellows who go out take tons of unnecessary stuff. Come into the smoking-room and give me a few more details.”
They came out upon the steps of the club a little later. Bob's head was whirling. He tried to stammer out more thanks and was cut short, kindly but decisively.
“That's all right, my boy. I'll send you letters of introduction to various people who will help you, and a bit of advice about where to go when you land. Tell your sister not to be nervous—she isn't going to a wild country, and the people there are much the same as anywhere else. Now, good-bye, and good luck”; and Bob found himself walking across the Square in a kind of solemn amazement.
“This morning I was thinking of getting taken on as a farm hand in Devonshire, with Tommy somewhere handy in a labourer's cottage,” he pondered. “And now I'm a bloated capitalist, and Tommy and I are going across the world to Australia as calmly as if we were off to Margate for the day! Well, I suppose it's only a dream, and I'll wake up soon. I guess I'd better go back and tell Mr. M'Clinton; and I've got to see Tommy somehow.” He bent his brows over the problem as he turned towards Lincoln's Inn.