SAILING ORDERS
“Are you there, miss?”
The sepulchral whisper came faintly to Cecilia's ears as she sat in her
little room, sewing a frock of Queenie's. The children were out in the
garden at the back of the house. Mrs. Rainham was practising in the
drawing-room. The sound of a high trill floated upwards as she opened
the door.
“What is it, Eliza?”
“It's a letter, miss. A kid brought it to the kitchen door--a bit of a
boy. Arsked for me as if 'e'd known me all 'is life--called me Elizer!
'E's waitin' for an answer. I'll wait in me room, miss, till you calls
me.” The little Cockney girl slipped away, revelling in furthering any
scheme to defeat Mrs. Rainham and help Cecilia.
Cecilia opened the letter hurriedly. It contained only one line.
“Can you come at once to Lincoln's Inn? Important.--BOB.”
Cecilia knitted her brows. It was nearly a month since the memorable
evening when she and Bob had revolted; and though she was still made
to feel herself in disgrace, and she knew her letters were watched, the
close spying upon her movements had somewhat relaxed. It had been
too uncomfortable for Mrs. Rainham to keep it up, since it made heavy
demands upon her own time, and interfered with too many plans; moreover,
in spite of it, Cecilia had slipped away from the house two or three
times, going and coming openly, and replying to any questions by the
simple answer that she had been to meet Bob. Angry outbreaks on the part
of her stepmother she received in utter silence, against which the waves
of Mrs. Rainham's wrath spent themselves in vain.
Indeed, the girl lived in a kind of waking dream of happy anticipation,
beside which none of the trials of life in Lancaster Gate had power to
trouble her. For on her first stolen visit to Mr. M'Clinton's office the
wonderful plan of flight to Australia had been revealed to her, and the
joy of the prospect blotted out everything else. Mr. M'Clinton, watching
her face, had been amazed by the wave of delight that had swept over it.
“You like it, then?” he had said. “You are not afraid to go so far?”
“Afraid--with Bob? Oh, the farther I can get from England the better,”
she had answered. “I have no friends here; nothing to leave, except the
memory of two bad years. And out there I should feel safe--she could not
get a policeman to bring me back.” There was no need to ask who “she”
was.
Cecilia had made her preparations secretly. She had not much to do--Aunt
Margaret had always kept her well dressed, and the simple and pretty
things she had worn two years before, and which had never been unpacked
since she put on mourning for her aunt, still fitted her, and were
perfectly good. It had never seemed worth while to leave off wearing
mourning in Lancaster Gate--only when Bob had come home had she unpacked
some of her old wardrobe. Much was packed still, and in store under Mr.
M'Clinton's direction, together with many of Aunt Margaret's personal
possessions. It was as well that it was so, since Mrs. Rainham had
managed to annex a proportion of Cecilia's things for Avice. To
Lancaster Gate she had only taken a couple of trunks, not dreaming of
staying there more than a short time. So packing and flitting would be
easy, given ordinary luck and the certain co-operation of Eliza. Her few
necessary purchases had been made on one of her hurried excursions with
Bob; she had not dared to have the things sent home, and they had been
consigned in a tin uniform case to Bob's care.
She pondered over his note now, knitting her brows. It would be easy
enough to act defiantly and go at once; but if this meant that the
final flight were near at hand she did not wish to excite anew her
stepmother's anger and suspicion. Then, as she hesitated, she heard a
heavy step on the stairs, and she crushed the note hurriedly into her
pocket.
Mrs. Rainham came into the room without the formality of knocking--a
formality she had never observed where Cecilia was concerned. The
afternoon post had just come, and she carried some letters in her hand.
“Cecilia, I want you to put on your things and go to Balding's for me,”
she said, her voice more civil than it had been for a month. “I'm asked
up to Liverpool for a few days; my sister there is giving a big At
Home--an awfully big thing, with the Lady Mayoress and all the Best
People at it--and she wants me to go up. I suppose she'll want me to
sing.”
“That is nice,” said Cecilia, speaking with more truth than Mrs. Rainham
guessed. “What will you wear?”
“That's just it,” said her stepmother eagerly. “My new evening dress
isn't quite finished--we ran short of trimming. I can't go out, because
the Simons are coming in to afternoon tea; so you just hurry and go over
to Balding's to match it. I got it there, and they had plenty. Here's
a bit.” She held out a fragment of gaudy sequin trimming. “I think you
could finish the dress without me getting in the dressmaker again--she's
that run after she makes a regular favour of coming.”
“Very well,” said Cecilia--who would, at the moment, have agreed to sew
anything or everything that might hasten her stepmother's journey. “When
do you go?”
“The day after to-morrow. I'll stay there a few days, I suppose; not
worth going so far for only one evening. Mind, Cecilia, you're not to
have Bob here while I'm away. When I come back, if I'm satisfied with
you, I'll see about asking him again.”
“That is very good of you,” said the girl slowly.
“Well, that's all right--you hurry and get ready; there's always a
chance they may have sold out, because it was a bargain line, and if
they have you'll have to try other places. I don't know what on earth
I'll do if you can't match it.” She turned to go, and then hesitated. “I
was thinking you might take Avice with you--but you'll get about quicker
alone, and she isn't ready. The tubes and buses are that crowded it's
no catch to take a child about with you.” In moments of excitement
Mrs. Rainham's English was apt to slip from her. At other times
she cultivated it carefully, assisted by a dramatic class, which an
enthusiastic maiden lady, with leanings towards the stage, conducted
each winter among neighbouring kindred souls.
Cecilia had caught her breath in alarm, but she breathed a sigh of
relief as the stout, over-dressed figure went down the narrow stairs,
with a final injunction to hurry. There was, indeed, no need to give
Cecilia that particular command. She scribbled one word, “Coming,” on
Bob's note, thrust it into an envelope and addressed it hastily, and
then tapped on the wall between the servants' room and her own.
Eliza appeared with the swiftness of a Jack-in-the-box, full of
suppressed excitement.
“Lor! I fought she was never goin',” she breathed. “Got it ready, Miss?
The boy'll fink I've gorn an' eloped wiv it.” She took the envelope and
pattered swiftly downstairs.
A very few moments saw Cecilia flying in her wake--to Balding's first,
as quickly as tube and motor-bus could combine to take her, since
she dared not breathe freely until Mrs. Rainham's commission had been
settled. Balding's had never seemed so huge and so complicated, and when
she at length made her way to the right department the suave assistant
regretted that the trimming was sold out. It was Cecilia's face of blank
dismay that made him suddenly remember that there was possibly an odd
length somewhere, and a search revealed it, put away in a box of odds
and ends. Cecilia's thanks were so heartfelt that the assistant was
mildly surprised.
“For she don't seem the sort to wear ghastly stuff like that,” he
pondered, glancing after the pretty figure in the well-cut coat and
skirt.
Outside the great shop Cecilia glanced up and caught the eye of a
taxi-driver who had just set down a fare.
“I'll be extravagant for once,” she thought. She beckoned to the man,
and in a moment was whirring through the streets in the peculiar comfort
a motor gives to anyone in a hurry in London--since it can take
direct routes instead of following the roundabout methods of buses and
underground railways. She leaned back, closing her eyes. If this summons
to Bob indeed meant that their sailing orders had come, she would need
all her wits and her coolness. For the first time she realized what her
stepmother's absence from home might mean--a thousandfold less plotting
and planning, and no risk of a horrible scene at the end. Cecilia
loathed scenes; they had not existed in Aunt Margaret's scheme of
existence. Since Bob's plans had become at all definite, she had looked
forward with dread to a final collision with Mrs. Rainham--it was untold
relief to know that it might not come.
She hurried up the steps of Mr. M'Clinton's office. The alert office
boy--who had been Bob's messenger to Lancaster Gate--met her.
“You're to go straight in, miss. The Captain's there.”
Bob was in the inner sanctum with Mr. M'Clinton. They rose to meet her.
“Well--are you ready, young lady?” the old man asked.
“Is it--are we to sail soon?”
“Next Saturday--and this is Monday. Can you manage it, Tommy?” Bob's
eyes were dancing with excitement.
“Oh, Bobby--truly?” She caught at his coat sleeve. “When did you hear?”
“I had a wire from General Harran this morning. A jolly good ship, too,
Tommy; one of the big Australian liners--the Nauru. You're all ready,
aren't you?”
“Oh, yes. And there's the most tremendous piece of luck, Bobby--Mrs.
Rainham's going away on Wednesday!”
“Going away! How more than tactful!” ejaculated Bob. “Where is she
going?”
“To Liverpool.”
“Liverpool? Oh, by Jove!” Bob ended on a low whistle, while his face
assumed a comical expression of dismay. He turned to the lawyer. “Did
you ever hear of anything so queer?”
“Queer? Why?” demanded Cecilia.
“Well, it looks as if she wanted to see the last of you, that's all. The
Nauru sails from Liverpool.”
“Bobby!” Cecilia's face fell. “I thought we went from Gravesend or
Tilbury, or somewhere.”
“So did I. But the General's wire says Liverpool, so it seems we don't,”
said Bob. “And that she-dragon is going there too!”
“I don't think you need really worry,” Mr. M'Clinton said drily.
“Liverpool is not exactly a village. The chances are that if you went
there, trying to meet some one, you would hunt for him for a week in
vain. And you'll probably go straight from the train to the docks, so
that you won't be in the least likely to encounter Mrs. Rainham.”
“Why, of course, we'd never run into her in a huge place like
Liverpool,” Bob said, laughing. “Don't be afraid, Tommy--you'll have
seen the last of her when you say good-bye on Wednesday.”
“It seems too good to be true,” said Cecilia solemnly. “I remember how
I felt once before, when she went away to visit her sister in Liverpool;
the beautiful relief when one woke, to think that not all through the
day would one even have to look at her. It's really very terrible to
look at her often; her white face and hard eyes seem to fascinate one.
Oh, I don't suppose I ought to talk like that, especially here.” She
looked shamefacedly at Mr. M'Clinton, and blushed scarlet.
Both men laughed.
“The good lady had something of the same effect on me,” Mr. M'Clinton
admitted. “I found her a very terrible person. Cheer up, Miss Tommy,
you've nearly finished with her. And, now, what about getting you away?”
Cecilia turned to her brother.
“What am I to do, Bob?”
“We'll have to go to Liverpool on Friday,” Bob replied promptly. “I
can't find out the Nauru's sailing time, and it isn't safe to leave it
until Saturday. There's a train somewhere about two o'clock that gets up
somewhere about seven or eight that evening. Mr. M'Clinton and I don't
want to leave it to the last moment to get your luggage away from
Lancaster Gate. Can you have it ready the night before?”
“It would really be safer to take it in the afternoon,” Cecilia said
after a moment's thought. “Mrs. Rainham's absence will make that quite
easy, for I know I can depend upon Eliza and Cook. I can get my trunks
ready, leave them in my room, and tell Eliza you will be there to call
for them, say, at four o'clock. Then I take the three children out for a
walk, and when we return everything is gone. Will that do?”
“Perfectly,” said Bob, laughing. “And four o'clock suits me all right.
Then you'll saunter out on Friday morning with an inoffensive brown
paper parcel containing the rest of your worldly effects, and meet me
for lunch at the Euston Hotel. Is that clear?”
“Quite. I suppose I had better put no address on my trunks?”
“Not a line--I'll see to that. And don't even mention the word
'Australia' this week, just in case your eye dances unconsciously, and
sets people thinking! I think you'd better cultivate a downtrodden look,
at any rate until Mrs Rainham is out of the house; at present you look
far too cheerful to be natural--doesn't she, sir?”
“You have to see to it that she does not look downtrodden again, after
this week,” said Mr. M'Clinton. “Remember that, Captain--she's going a
long way, and she'll have no one but you.”
“I know, sir. But, bless you, it's me that will look downtrodden,” said
Bob with a grin. “She bullies me horribly--always did.” He slipped his
hand through her arm, and they looked up at him with such radiant faces
that the old man smiled involuntarily.
“Ah, I think you'll be all right,” he said. “Remember, Miss Tommy, I'll
expect to hear from you--fairly often, too. I shall not say good-bye
now--you'll see me on Friday at luncheon.”
They found themselves down in the grey precincts of Lincoln's Inn,
which, it may be, had rarely seen two young things prancing along so
dementedly. In the street they had to sober down, to outward seeming;
but there was still something about them, as they hurried off to find a
teashop to discuss final details, that made people turn to look at
them. Even the waitress beamed on them, and supplied them with her
best cakes--and London waitresses are a bored race. But at the moment,
neither Cecilia nor Bob could have told you whether they were eating
cakes or sausages.
“The money is all right,” Bob said. “It'll be available at a Melbourne
bank when we get there; and meanwhile, there's plenty of ready money,
with what I've saved and my war gratuity. So if you want anything,
Tommy, you just say so, and don't go without any pretties just because
you think we'll be in the workhouse.”
“Bless you--but I don't really need anything,” she told him gratefully.
“It would be nice to have a little money to spend at the ports, but I
think we ought to keep the rest for Australia, don't you, Bob?”
“Oh, yes, of course; but you're not to go without a few pounds if you
want 'em,” said Bob. “And, Tommy, don't leave meeting me on Friday until
lunch time. I'll be worrying if you do, just in case things may have
gone wrong. Make it eleven o'clock at the Bond Street tube exit, and if
you're not there in half an hour I'll jolly well go and fetch you.”
“I'll be there,” Cecilia nodded. “You had better give me the half-hour's
grace, though, in case I might be held up at the last moment. One never
knows--and Avice and Wilfred are excellent little watchdogs.”
“Anyhow, you won't have the she-dragon to reckon with, and that's a
big thing,” Bob said. “I don't see how you can have any trouble--Papa
certainly will not give you any.”
“No, he won't bother,” said Cecilia slowly. “It's queer to think how
little he counts--our own father.”
“A pretty shoddy apology for one, I think,” Bob said bitterly. “What has
he ever done for us? But I'd forgive him that when I can't forgive him
something else--the way he has let you be treated these two years.”
“He hasn't known everything, Bobby.”
“He has known quite enough. And if he had the spirit of a man he'd have
saved you from it. No; we don't owe him any consideration, Tommy; and
he saw to it years ago that we should never owe him any affection. So
we really needn't worry our heads about him. By the way, there are to be
some Australians on the Nauru who General Harran says may be of use to
us--I don't remember their names, but he's going to give me a letter
to them. And probably there will be some other flying people whom I may
know. I think the voyage ought to be rather good fun.”
“I think so, too. It will be exciting to be on a troopship,” Cecilia
said. “But, then, anything will be heavenly after Lancaster Gate!”
She hurried home, as soon as the little meal was over, knowing that
Mrs. Rainham would be impatiently awaiting her. Luckily, her success in
matching the trimming made her stepmother forget how long she had been
away; and from that moment until a welcome four-wheeler removed the
mistress of the house on Wednesday, she sewed and packed for her
unceasingly. Her journey excited Mrs. Rainham greatly. She talked
almost affably of her sister's grandeur, and of the certainty of meeting
wealthy and gorgeously dressed people at her party.
“Not that I'll be at all ashamed of my dress,” she added, looking at
the billowy waves on which Cecilia was plastering yet more trimming.
“Unusual and artistic, that's what it is; and it'll show off my hair.
Don't forget the darning when I'm gone, Cecilia. There's a tablecloth to
mend, as well as the stockings. I'll be home on Saturday night, unless
they persuade me to stay over the week-end.”
Cecilia nodded, sewing busily.
“And just see if you can't get on a bit better with the children. You've
got to make allowances for their high spirits, and treat them tactfully.
Of course you can't expect them to be as obedient to you as they would
be to a regular governess, you being their own half-sister, and not so
much older than Avice, after all. But tact does wonders, especially with
children.”
“Yes,” said Cecilia, and said no more.
“Well, just bear it in mind. I don't suppose you'll see much of your
father, so you needn't worry about him. But don't let Eliza gossip and
idle; she never does any work if she's not kept up to it, and you know
you're much too familiar with her. Always keep girls like her at a
distance, and they'll work all the better, that's what I say. Treat her
as an equal, and the next thing you know she'll be trying on your hats!”
“I haven't caught Eliza at that yet,” said Cecilia with the ghost of a
smile.
“It'll come, though, if you're not more stand-offish with her--you mark
my words. Keep them in their place--that's what I always do with my
servants and governesses,” said Mrs. Rainham without the slightest idea
that she was saying anything peculiar. “Now, I'll go and put my things
out on my bed, and as soon as you've finished that you can come up and
pack for me.”
Cecilia stood at the hall door that afternoon to watch her go--bustling
into the cab, with loud directions to the cabman, her hard face full of
self-importance and satisfaction. The plump hand waved a highly scented
handkerchief as the clumsy four-wheeler moved off.
“To think I'll never see you again!” breathed the girl. “It seems too
good to be true!”
A kind of wave of relief seemed to have descended upon the house. The
children were openly exulting in having no one to obey; an attitude
which, in the circumstances, failed to trouble their half-sister. Eliza
went about her work with a cheery face; even Cook, down in the basement,
manifested lightness of heart by singing love songs in a cracked soprano
and by making scones for afternoon tea. Mark Rainham did not come home
until late--he had announced his intention of dining at his club. Late
in the evening he sauntered into the dining-room, where Cecilia sat
sewing.
“Still at it?” he asked. He sat down and poked the fire. “What are you
sewing?”
“Just darning,” Cecilia told him.
He sat looking at her for a while--at the pretty face and the
well-tended hair; and who shall say what thoughts stirred in his dull
brain?
“You look a bit pale,” he said at last. “Do you go out enough?”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” Cecilia answered in astonishment. Not in two
years had he shown so much interest in her; and it braced her to a
sudden resolve. She had never been quite satisfied to leave him without
a word; whatever he was, he was still her father. She put her darning on
her knee, and looked at him gravely.
“You know Bob is demobilized, don't you, Papa?”
“Yes--he told me so,” Mark Rainham answered.
“And you know he wants to take me away?”
Her father's eyes wavered and fell before her.
“Oh, yes--but the idea's ridiculous, I'm afraid. You're under age, and
your stepmother won't hear of it.” He poked the fire savagely.
“But if Bob could make a home for me! We have always been together, you
know, Papa.”
“Oh, well--wait and see. Time enough when you're twenty-one, and your
own mistress; Bob will have had a chance to make good by then. I--I
can't oppose my wife in the matter--she says she's not strong enough to
do without your help.”
“But she never seems satisfied with me.”
Mark Rainham rose with an irritably nervous movement.
“Oh, no one is ever perfect. I suspect, if each of you went a little
way to meet the other, things would be better. Your stepmother says her
nerves are all wrong, and I'm sure you do take a great deal of trouble
off her shoulders.”
“Then you won't let me go?” The girl's low voice was relentless, and
her father wriggled as though he were a beetle and she were pinning him
down.
“I--I'm afraid it's out of the question, Cecilia. I should have to be
very satisfied first that Bob could offer you a home--and by that time
he'll probably be thinking of getting married, and won't want you. Why
can't you settle down comfortably to living at home?”
“There isn't any home for me apart from Bob,” said the girl.
“Well, I can't help it.” Mark Rainham's voice had a hopeless tone. He
walked to the door, and then half turned. “If you can make my wife agree
to your going, I won't forbid it. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Cecilia. The slow footsteps went up the stairs, and
she turned to her darning with a lip that curled in scorn.
“Well, that let's me out. I don't owe you anything--not even a good-bye
note on my pincushion,” she said presently; and laughed a little. She
folded a finished pair of socks deliberately, and, rising, stretched
her arms luxuriously above her head. “Two more days,” she whispered. She
switched off the light, and crept noiselessly upstairs.