CECILY’S PRISONER.

Otago Witness, Issue 3711, 28 April 1925, Page 74

CECILY’S PRISONER.

By

Clive Fenn.

(Oopybight.—Fob thb Witness.) It was a truism that nothing ever happened at Mugley. Cecily Lang only wished it would—something stirring which would make the pulses beat fast. Cecily bemoaned her fate, just as a bright, intelligent and pretty girl might. Her lot was cast in a dead-alive village. Worse, it was then centred in a mean little shop. Mugley had two other shops, a church, a chapel, and a small Army hut called the Public Hall. Cecily was nineteen. The shop in which she was interested—well, no, not exactly interested—belonged to her uncle, Septimus Lockyer; but that afternoon in early spring Mr Lockyer was absent—another of his scientific meetings. He might not be back for days. Lockyer was not by persuasion a shopkeeper, for he thought of nothing besides science. He was particularly great on optics, and old books. The “shop,” so called, had a window front with a few telescopes standing at ease in the dust; a batch of eye-glasses; a few small globes, one celestial—and that was about all. When at home, Uncle Septimus was not what one would describe as chatty. He lived for work. Cecily lived to run the house, to see that Jane had the meals ready, and to watch over her uncle in case he sank into the carelessness of the absent-minded troglodyte. On this special afternoon Cecily had had her tea, then attended to her greenhouse at the back of the house. The daylight faded. When Cecily came in, her hands covered with garden mould, for she had set the bulbs, Jane met her mistress in the hall. “Can I have the evening off, Miss?” sail Jane. “I am going to the pictures with my aunt, you see.” “Very well, Jane,” said Cecily. Jane laid the supper. Cecily toyed with a mutton pie of the dreary kind. The house was at the end of the village, and after dusk nobody passed. The girl went to the piano and strummed, but gave that up. There was nobody to listen. “I wish something would happen,” she said. It was just as some geni had dashed to meet her wish. Something was happening. There was a peculiar grating noise round at the back of the bouse—reached by a narrow passage between the gardens. The girl listened intently. She knew what it was—burglars—and a tremour passed through her. “Somebody’s trying to break in,” she griped. She was wrong in the first instance, right in the second, with modifications. It was Mr Aubrey Rice who had broken in. He had accomplished his purpose with a vengeance. The truth was simply this: Mr Aubrey Rice had walked from the station on nis way to dine with Sir Thomas Sturt, at the Grange. And he had lost his eyeglass. In alighting from the train in a hurry, the black cord had caught in the window; the monocle had fallen on the platform and been reduced to atoms. Mr Aubrey was nothing minus his monocle. He was at a complete loss. The little collection of houses clustering round the station could produce nothing so elegant. But as Mr Rice traversed the street of Mugley his eye caught the legend over the door of Uncle Septimus’s shop—“S. Lockyer, Optician.” “I can get one here,” he said to himself. The assertion was a bit rash. There was no bell to the shop door, no knocker. Cecily was upstairs in the drawing room at that moment. Her uncle never expected customers, so he made no preparation for their coming. Mr Rice tapped; it was to no effect. Then he stepped back into the road and examined the place keenly. ‘‘Evidently there’s nobody at home,” he said, “but tnat is no reason why I should not take what I want, leave the money, and—well, there can’t be any harm in ft. They ougnt not to be so slack in this village.” The front door was well barred. Mr Rice reconnoitred the back. He found a

passage window which offered possibilities, and with an agility which did him credit he raised himself and scrambled over the ledge into a shadowy little corridor. “Now, this should be the way to the shop,” he said, as he felt his way down the passage. “I am sure Mr Lockyer will not object when he knows all.” The adventure tickled the caller. He crept cautiously forward. The place was cold, and smelt damp and mushroomy. And then the surprising thing happened. From a flight of stairs which the visitor had not as yet seen, there was a rush on the part of somebody in skirts. It was* Cecily. She had mastered her fear, seized the tongs from the drawing room grate, and now she was descending the narrow stairs like a small whirlwind, tongs in hand. “How dare you!” she screamed. She saw a man crouching in the twilight, and she struck at him with the tongs. Mr Aubrey tried to protect himself, but with only partial success. To avoid a second blow, the unfortunate man ducked, and fled into the dimness. His flight led him into the vague regions beyond the kitchen. He came to grief over a table, but the next second he was up again. “It is a mistake,” he gasped. “I ” He got no further, for the tongs descended. Luckily they missed Aubrey, but it was obvious this was no time for explanations. A vast and higgledy piggledy scullery lay before the fugitive. He saw an open door —envisaged a sanctuary from the security of which it might be possible to explain why he was there. With a bound he gained the scullery, and in a flash he had banged the door between him and the avenging fury. “That’s all right,’’ came in a rather pleasant voice. Aubrey heard a heavy bolt shot home. “Perhaps I made a mistake in coming in here,” he muttered. “How dare you come stealing?” cried Cecily, the other side of the door. “I was not stealing,” protested Aubrey. In the dusk he was beginning to take stock of things. He found that he had torn his coat, and that samewhere and somehow he had come to grief in a smother of cobwebs. It was disastrous altogether. “Let me out!’’ he said. He shook the door. There was a laugh. “Not at all likely. You will stop there till I get Mr Hildon to you.” Who was this mysterious Mr Hildon? The prisoner did not have to wait long for an answer to .that question. “Mr Hildon is our policeman—Oh, I forgot; he is away till Thursday. That means you will have to stop where you are.” “But this is monstrous. I am eoing to dine with my friend, Sir Thomas Sturt.” Of course, Cecily Lang knew Sir Thomas —by repute. The baronet kept himself to himself. “I am afraid you will not dine with Sir Thomas to-night,” she said merrily. Thieves always talked like that. They were, as a rule, quite clever. She knew that much. “But I tell you it is true,” shouted Aubrey. He was busy disentagling a mass of spider furniture from his hair. The distribution of dust caused him to sneeze. He felt the door, and found a small shutter panel—-quite a foot and a half square. He raised this shutter and gazed through at his captor. Cecily was standing in a kitcheny apartment. A lighted candle was on the table. The girl looked pretty. Aubrey did not observe the fact —not then. He was perplexed and angry. “You are not going to leave here,” said Cecily. “My uncle is away. I am alone in tire house, as Jane has gone to the pictures. But you are perfectly safe. I know you are a dangerous burglar. Burglars always try to explain matters, but I understand. You can resign yourself to it.” “I tell you I must go.” Cecily giggled. It was as good as a film play—better. She was playing the heroine. Who said things did not happen in Mugley? The place was a hotbed of adventure. “Look here, my good girl,” began Aubrey, “I ” “I am not your good girl.” Cecily was feeling the inspiring influence of the upper hand. “Well, whoever you are,” panted the prisoner. “That is not the way to address a lady.” “I am sorry—l only wanted to explain—you see, I lost my eyeglass.” This sounded thin. Cecily’laughed again. “It is a fact. I thought, as the shop was shut up and I could not make anyone hear, I might find an eyeglass in the shop.” “If that isn’t stealing, I should like to know what is,” said the girl. “I am not a thief,” cried Aubrey tempestuously. “No, because I caught you in time.” “Will you not understand?” “Thank you,” replied Cecily primly; “I understand perfectly well. You are a thief. You knew that my uncle, Mr Lockyer, kept a lot of priceless early editions in this shop, and you watched him leave for town ” There was a burst of denial. “I know nothing of your miserable uncle. I didn’t —I wasn’t. ’ Cecily remained calm as a judge. “My uncle is not miserable. He cares nothing about bis shop. It doesn’t worry him that nobody but tnioves come after eye-glasses” —there was more freezing mixture—“but ho is keen about his books. You are not going to have them, bad man that you are. Aubrey Rice gave a groan. He was a prisoner. The scullery had ono window, strongly bar*cd, and it smelt of onions—old in tone. What was he to do? He tried diplomacy. “Look here.” he said, “you are a bravo little girl ’ He was snapped off again like a frozen twig. “I am five foot ten—so there 1”

“If I gave you my card, would you believe that I had no felonious intent?” “I don’t want your card, ' said Cecily. “But what am I to do? I am hungry. I am expected to dinner. Cecily was a woman. 'The elementary wants touched her—she was a woman. “Are you really hungry, or is that just another story?” she asked. Mr Aubrey Rice fairly gasped. Never in all his leisured and considerable intellectual life had he been subjected to such humiliation. He stared through the shutter and saw a graceful girl with merriment in her eyes. He felt no answering chord of mirth. The situation was critical. There was no escape by door or window. The big chimney offered no hope. A fire gt-ill burned in the large grate. Jane had had a washing day. “You don’t intend me to stay here all night, surely,” he asked. “I see nothing else for it,” said Cecily. “There, I daresay you ought to have something to eat. Prisoners are always fed. I will see what I can do.” ►She swung round. There was no doubt about it —she was leaving him to his fate, for a time anyway, while she foraged. Mr Rice resented this desertion nearly as much as he did her presence. “Stop!” he thundered. “Well, what is it now? You never seem satisfied.” “What are you going to do?” “It is not for a person in your position to ask questions, but as you have so far forgotten your manners, I will tell you. I am going to fetch you some tea and bread and butter. There is not much in the house. Jane finished the Irish stew. If you are really ravenous I might go as far as a slice of cold mutton.” Cecily darted off. Aubrey gave a groan. He had worked himself up into a fresh rage when Cecily came back with the food. She reproved him pretty smartly. “Don’t go on shaking that door,” she said. “It is merely silly. You could not possibly get away, and if you carry on like that any more I shall bring a bucket of water and throw it at you. Now behave yourself nicely, even if you are a professional burglar. Here’s you tea. The mug is chipped, but I wasn’t going to trust you with our best porcelain. Regular thieves cannot be trusted.” “I tell you I arn not a thief.” Cecily pushed a plate of thick bread and butter through the aperture. After the food came a chipped mug. “Now I am going to push these old rugs through. They will make a sort of bed —a better one than you will get in prison. I hope you feel properly sorry for all your crimes.” Aubrey retired a few paces as a mass of rugs came through. Then Cecily pulled down the shutter. “1 am going now,” she said. “Where?” “I told you before not to ask questions. lam going to bed. It is very late.” “And leave me here?” “Yes. It is quite a comfortable scullery, as sculleries go.” Cecily was down early. iShe prepared breakfast, with Jane’s help. Jane was in a condition bordering on hysteria. The maid-of-all-work had not been informed the night before of how the land lay—or, rather, the details concerning Aubrey. Cecily knew that Jane would have had an attack of nerves. When Jane came down in the morning—not so very early, for the pictures had made her dream—it was to find Cecily half through the work. “Don’t go into the scullery, Jane,” said Miss Lang; “I have a burglar there.” “A what, miss?” Cecily did not repeat her information. She simply shrugged her shapely^houlders. Aubrey was in a chastened and an unshared mood. He had slept on the scullery flood, and bemoaned his hard luck, also the bricks. He was pacing his prison like a lion when the shutter was raised. “Your breakfast,” said Cecily. T will get a constable just the first minute I can.” Aubrey abandoned protest. Protest was N.G. As for Cecily, she hurried off to see if by any chance Policeman Hildon had come back. He was uncertain in his movements. Chance had it that the officer was at home. He listened to Cecily’s story with amazement. “Better bring handcuffs and a truncheon,” said Cecily. But there was a surprise for the girl when the worthy representative of law and order set eyes on the prisoner. Bless you, Miss Oeciy, that’s no burglar—that’s Mr Aubrey Rice,” cried P.C. Hildon. “Friend of Sir Thomas, lie is. fine gentleman, too.” Cecily blushed. Aubrey stalked out of the scullery. He looked positively ferocious; but suddenly, as Cecily held out her hand and said, “I am sorry. I really, really am,” he gave a laugu. “I am not,” he said. Cecily skipped down the passage. “Jane,” she cried, “make haste with breakfast, and take hot water up to Mr Lockyer’s dressing room.” Mr Aubrey remained to breakfast. Afterwards Cecily showed him the first editions; also the stock qi eye-glasses. Mr Rice comes more often to Mugley now, and it is not specially to see Sir Thomas.