THE WATCH DOGS
“Well, if you ask me, she's up to something,” said Avice with
conviction.
“How d'you mean?” Wilfred looked up curiously.
“Lots of things. She looks all different. First of all--look how red she
is all the time, and the excited look in her eyes.”
“That's all look--look!” jeered her brother. “Girls always have those
rotten ideas about nothing at all. Just because Cecilia's got a bit
sunburnt, and because she's havin' an easy time 'cause Mater's away--”
“Oh, you think because you're a boy, you know everything,” retorted his
sister hotly. “You just listen, and see if I've got rotten ideas. Did
you know, she's kept her room locked for days?”
“Well--if she has? That's nothing.”
“You shut up and let me go on. Yesterday she forgot, and left it open
while she was down talking to Cook, and I slipped in. And there was
one of her great big trunks, that she always keeps in the box room,
half-packed with her things. I nicked this necklace out of it, too,”
said Avice with triumph, producing a quaint string of Italian beads.
“Good business,” said Wilfred with an appreciative grin. “Did she catch
you?”
“Not she--I can tell you I didn't wait long, 'cause she always comes
upstairs as quick as lightning. She did come, too, in an awful hurry,
and locked up the room--I only got out of the way just in time. And
every minute she could, yesterday, she was up there.”
“Well, I don't see much in that.”
“No, but look here, I got another chance of looking into her room this
morning, and that trunk was gone!”
“Gone back to the box-room,” said Wilfred with superiority.
“No, it wasn't--I went up and looked. And her other trunk's not there,
either.”
“Oh, you're dreaming! I bet she'd just pushed it under her bed.”
“Pooh!” said Avice. “That great big trunk wouldn't go under her bed--you
know she's only got a little stretcher-bed. And I tell you they'd both
gone. I bet you anything she's going to run away.”
“Where'd she run to?”
“Oh, somewhere with Bob.”
“Well, let her go.”
“Yes, and Mater 'd have to spend ever so much on a new governess; and
most likely she'd be a worse beast than Cecilia. And no governess we
ever had did half the things Mater makes Cecilia do to help in the
house. Why she's like an extra servant, as well as a governess. Mater
told me all about it. I tell you what, Wilfred, it's our business to see
she doesn't run away.”
“All right,” said Wilfred, “I suppose we'd better watch out. When do you
reckon she'd go? People generally run away at night, don't they?”
“Well, anyone can see she's just taking advantage of Mater being away.
Yes, of course she'd go at night. She might have sent her boxes away
yesterday by a carrier--I bet that horrid little Eliza would help her.
Ten to one she means to sneak out to-night--she knows Mater will be home
to-morrow.”
“What a sell it will be for her if we catch her!” said Wilfred with
glee. “I say, what about telling Pater?”
Avice looked sour.
“I did tell him something yesterday, and he only growled at me. At
least, I said, 'Do you think Cecilia would ever be likely to run away?'
And he just stared at me, and then he said, 'Not your business if she
does.' So I'm not going to speak to him again.”
“Well, we'd better take it in turns to watch her,” Wilfred said. “After
dark's the most likely time, I suppose, but we'd better be on the
look-out all the time. Where's she now, by the way?”
“Why, I don't know. I say, she's been away a long time--I never
noticed,” said Avice, in sudden alarm. “She said we were to go on with
our French exercises--and that's ages ago.”
“Come on and see,” said Wilfred jumping up.
Outside the room he caught Avice by the arm.
“Kick off your shoes,” he said. “We'll sneak up to her room.”
They crept up silently. The door of Cecilia's room was ajar. Peeping in,
they saw her standing before her tiny looking-glass, pinning on her
hat. A small parcel lay upon her bed, with her gloves and parasol. The
children were very silent--but something struck upon the girl's tightly
strung nerves. She turned swiftly and saw them.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “How dare you come into my room?”
“Why, we thought you were lost,” said Avice. “We finished our French
ages ago. Where are you going?”
“I am going out,” said Cecilia. “I'll set you more work to do while I'm
away.”
“But where are you going?”
“That has nothing to do with you. Come down to the schoolroom.”
Avice held her brother firmly by the arm. Together they blocked the way.
“Mater wouldn't let you go out in lesson time. I believe you're going to
run away!”
A red spot flamed in each of Cecilia's white cheeks.
“Stand out of my way, you little horrors!” she said angrily. She caught
up her things and advanced upon them.
“I'm hanged if you're going,” said Wilfred doggedly. He pushed her back
violently, and slammed the door.
The attic doors in Lancaster Gate, like those of many London houses,
were fitted with heavy iron bolts on the outside--a precaution against
burglars who might enter the house by rooms ordinarily little used. It
was not the first time that Cecilia had been bolted into her room by her
step-brother. When first she came, it had been a favourite pastime to
make her a prisoner--until their mother had made it an offence carrying
a heavy penalty, since it had often occurred that Cecilia was locked up
when she happened to need her.
But this time Cecilia heard the heavy bolt shoot home with feelings of
despair. It was already time for her to leave the house. Bob would
be waiting for her in Bond Street, impatiently scanning each crowd of
passengers that the lift shot up from underground. She battered at the
door wildly.
“Let me out! How dare you, Wilfred? Let me out at once!”
Wilfred laughed disagreeably.
“Not if we know it--eh, Avice?”
“Rather not,” said Avice. “What d'you think Mater'd say to us if we let
you run away?”
“Nonsense!” said Cecilia, controlling her voice with difficulty. “I was
going to meet Bob.”
There was silence, and a whispered consultation. Then Avice spoke.
“Will you give us your word of honour you weren't going to run away?”
Words of honour meant little to the young Rainhams. But they knew that
Cecilia held it as a commonplace of decent behaviour that people did not
tell lies. They had, indeed, often marvelled that she preferred to “take
her gruel” rather than use any ready untruth that would have shielded
her from their mother's wrath. Avice and Wilfred had no such scruples on
their own account: but they knew that they could depend upon Cecilia's
word. They were, indeed, just a little afraid of their own action in
locking her up; their mother might have condoned it as “high spirits,”
but their father was not unlikely to take a different view. So they
awaited her reply with some anxiety.
Cecilia hesitated. Never in her life had she been so tempted. Perhaps
because the temptation was so strong she answered swiftly.
“No--I won't tell you anything of the kind. But look here--if you will
let me out I'll give you each ten shillings.”
Ten shillings! It was wealth, and the children gasped. Wilfred, indeed,
would have shot back the bolt instantly. It was Avice who caught at his
arm.
“Don't you!” she whispered. “It'll cost heaps more than that to get
a new governess--and we'll make Mater give us each ten shillings for
keeping her. I say, we'll have to get the Pater home.”
“How?” Wilfred looked at her blankly.
“Easy. You go to the post office and telephone to him at his office.
Tell him to come at once. I'll watch here, in case Eliza lets her out.
Run--hard as you can. Mater'll never forgive us if she gets away.”
Wilfred clattered off obediently, awed by his sister's urgency. Avice
sat down on the head of the stairs, close to the bolted door; and when
Cecilia spoke again, repeating her offer, she answered her in a voice
unpleasantly like her mother's:
“No, you don't, my fine lady. Wilfred's gone for the Pater--he'll be
here presently. You just stay there quietly till he comes.”
“Avice!” The word was a wail. “Oh, you don't know how important it
is--let me out. I'll give you anything in the world.”
“So'll Mater if I stop your little game,” said Avice. “You just keep
quiet.”
Eliza's sharp little face appeared at the foot of the flight of stairs.
“Wot's up, Miss Avice? Anyfink wrong with Miss 'Cilia?”
“Nothing to do with you,” said Avice rudely. “I'm looking after her.”
But Cecilia's sharp ears had caught the new voice.
“Eliza! Eliza!” she called.
The girl came up the stairs uncertainly. Avice rose to confront her.
“Now, you just keep off,” she said. “You're not coming past here. The
master'll be home directly, and till he comes, no one's going up
these stairs.” She raised her voice, to drown that of Cecilia, who was
speaking again.
Eliza looked at her doubtfully. She was an undersized, wizened little
Cockney, and Avice was a big, stoutly-built girl--who held, moreover,
the advantage of a commanding position on the top step. In an encounter
of strength there was little doubt as to who would win. She turned
in silence, cowed, and went down to the kitchen, while Avice sang a
triumphant song, partly as a chant of victory, and partly to make sure
that no one would hear the remarks that Cecilia was steadily making. She
herself had caught one phrase--“Tell my brother”--and her sharp little
mind was busy. Did that mean that Bob would be coming, against its
mistress's orders, to Lancaster Gate.
In the kitchen Eliza poured out a frantic appeal to Cook.
“She's got Miss 'Cilia locked up--the little red-'eaded cat! An' Master
Wilfred gorn to fetch the Master! Oh, come on, Cookie darlin', an' we'll
let 'er out.”
Cook shook her head slowly.
“Not good enough,” she said. “I got a pretty good place. I ain't goin'
to risk it by 'avin' a rough-an'-tumble with the daughter of the 'ouse
on the hattic stairs. You better leave well alone, Liza. You done your
bit, 'elpin' 'er git them trunks orf yes'day.”
“Wot's the good of 'avin the trunks off if she can't go, too?” demanded
Eliza.
“Oh, she'll git another chance. Don't worry your 'ead so much over other
people's business. If the Master comes 'ome an' finds us scruffin' 'is
daughter, 'e'll 'and us both over to the police for assault--an' then
you'll 'ave cause for worry. Now you git along like a good gel--I got to
mike pastry.” Cook turned away decisively.
Wilfred had come home and had raced up the stairs.
“Did you get him?” Avice cried.
“No--he was out. So I left a message that he was to come home at once,
'cause something was wrong.”
“That'll bring him,” said Avice with satisfaction. “Now, look here,
Wilf--I believe Bob may come. You go and be near the front door, to
block Eliza, if he does. Answer any ring.”
“What'll I say if he comes?”
“Say she's gone out to meet him--if he thinks that, he'll hurry back to
wherever they were to meet. Don't give him a chance to get in. Hurry!”
“Right,” said Wilfred, obeying. He sat down in a hall chair, and took
up a paper, with an eye wary for Eliza. Half an hour passed tediously,
while upstairs Cecilia begged and bribed in vain. Then he sprang to his
feet as a ring came.
Bob was at the door; and suddenly Wilfred realized that he had always
been afraid of Bob. He quailed inwardly, for never had he seen his
half-brother look as he did now--with a kind of still, terrible anger in
his eyes.
“Where's Cecilia?”
“Gone out,” said the boy.
“Where?”
“Gone to meet you.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Yes, of course--how'd I know if she didn't?”
“Then that's a lie, for she wouldn't tell you. Let me in.”
“I tell you, she's gone out,” said Wilfred, whose only spark of
remaining courage was due to the fact that he had prudently kept the
door on the chain. “And Mater said you weren't to come in here.”
From the area below a shrill voice floated upwards.
“Mr. Bob! Mr. Bob! Daon't you believe 'im. They got Miss 'Cilia locked
up in 'er room.”
“By Jove!” said Bob between his teeth. “Bless you, Eliza! Open that
door, Wilfred, or I'll make it hot for you.” He thrust a foot into the
opening, with a face so threatening that Wilfred shrank back.
“I shan't,” he said. “You're not going to get her.”
“Am I not?” said Bob. He leaned back, and then suddenly flung all his
weight against the door. The chain was old and the links eaten with
rust--it snapped like a carrot, and the door flew open. Bob brushed
Wilfred out of his way, and went upstairs, three at a time.
Avice blocked his path.
“You aren't coming up.”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” Bob said. He stooped, with a quick movement,
and picked her up, holding her across his shoulder, while she beat and
clawed unavailingly at his back. So holding her, he thrust back the bolt
of Cecilia's door and flung it open.
“Did you think they had got you, Tommy?”
She could only cling to his free arm for a moment speechless. Then she
lifted her face, her voice shaking, still in fear.
“We must hurry, Bob. They've sent for Papa.”
“Have they?” said Bob, with interest. “Well, not a regiment of papas
should stop you now, old girl. Got everything?”
Cecilia gathered up her things, nodding.
“Then we'll leave this young lady here,” said Bob. He placed Avice
carefully on Cecilia's bed, and made for the door, having the pleasure,
as he shot the bolt, of hearing precisely what the younger Miss
Rainham thought of him and all his attributes, including his personal
appearance.
“A nice gift of language, hasn't she?” he said. “Inherits it from
her mamma, I should think.” He put his arm round Cecilia and held her
closely as they went downstairs, his face full of the joy of battle.
Wilfred was nowhere to be seen, but by the door Eliza waited. Bob
slipped something into her hand.
“I expect you'll lose your place over this, Eliza,” he said. “Well,
you'll get a better--I'll tell my lawyer to see to that. He'll write to
you--by the way, what's your surname? Oh, Smithers--I'll remember. And
thank you very much.”
They shook hands with her, and passed out into the street. Cecilia was
still too shaken to speak--but as Bob pulled her hand through his arm
and hurried her along, her self-control returned, and the face that
looked up at his presently was absolutely content. Bob returned the look
with a little smile.
“Didn't you know I'd come?” he asked. “You dear old stupid.”
“I knew you'd come--but I thought Papa would get there first,” Cecilia
answered. “Somehow, it seemed the end of everything.”
“It isn't--it's only the beginning,” Bob answered.
There was a narrow side street that made a short cut from the tube
station to the Rainhams' home; and as they passed it Mark Rainham came
hurrying up it. Bob and Cecilia did not see him. He looked at them for
a moment, as if reading the meaning of the two happy faces--and then
shrank back into an alley and remained hidden until his son and daughter
had passed out of sight. They went on their way, without dreaming that
the man they dreaded was within a stone's throw of them.
“So it was that,” said Mark Rainham slowly, looking after them. “Out of
gaol, are you--poor little prisoner! Well, good luck to you both!” He
turned on his heel, and went back to his office.