Back To Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce
"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.
CHAPTER V
THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL
"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."