TAMSIN SPEAKS HER MIND
And so the days and weeks went by, and by general consent Launce
Keymer’s name was never mentioned at Rose Mount.
It was not owing to any lack of invitations that Ethel scarcely went
anywhere that summer, but simply because of late she had lost all
desire to do so. It is true that the Lovibonds and the Delaports and
one or two other families at whose houses she had heretofore been a
welcome visitor, nowadays saw fit to omit her name from the lists of
those invited to their garden-parties and other festivities, but the
major part of her friends were guilty of no such forgetfulness. To them
her changed fortunes (for she could no longer be regarded as the
heiress she once had been) made no apparent difference, and it was
entirely her own fault that they saw so little of her.
But although Ethel chose to go scarcely anywhere, she was not without
friends of her own age who came to seek her out in her self-imposed
solitude and retail to her the very latest items of local gossip,
consisting, as is usual in such cases, of a pretty equal admixture of
fact and fiction. Thus it was that she came to learn of the violent
quarrel which had taken place between Mr. Launce Keymer and his father,
and of how the latter had cut down his son’s allowance of three hundred
a year to a pound a week. As a matter of course, a dozen different
versions were afloat as to the origin of the quarrel, but, in reality,
the facts of the case seemed to be known to no one except the two
people concerned. Almost immediately afterwards Launce had left the
town, and among all his intimates there was not one who professed to
know where he had gone, or what had become of him.
All this was recounted to Ethel as a piece of news which would be
likely to interest her as one who had known Launce Keymer and had met
him several times in society in the course of the previous summer and
winter. There was no faintest suspicion in the narrator’s mind, so
carefully had the secret of Ethel’s brief engagement been kept, that
for the latter her news might have an interest very different from any
that she imagined.
When Ethel assured Miss Matilda that the wound from which she was
suffering was one which time would quickly heal, she stated no more
than she felt to be the fact. Between her and the man whose wife she
had promised to become, everything was at an end; and although the
relief was great—greater perhaps than she was aware of—she yet felt as
if there was a void in her inner life which had never been there
before. Her heart was empty. The doors of the temple were shut and the
flame of the altar, which, truth to tell, had been of the frailest and
feeblest, had been blown suddenly out. But Ethel turned away from
brooding over the past and set her face resolutely towards the future.
And so the summer wore on until the crown of it was turned and autumn
was drawing on apace. It was Tamsin, whose eyes were ever keen where
her darling was concerned, who was the first to notice that the
wild-rose tints of Ethel’s cheeks were paling to the delicate ivory of
the lily. She watched her closely for several days without saying a
word to anyone. At length she made up her mind to speak. It was Miss
Jane’s month, and to her she went.
“The child will just end by moping herself into a decline,” said the
sturdy dame after a few preliminary remarks. “Look at her cheeks—not a
morsel of colour left in ’em, but just as if it had all been washed
out. And then, her appetite! I’ve watched her at meal-times, and she
hardly eats more than enough to keep a canary alive. And when did she
sing last, pray, without being asked—she that used to be as merry as a
thrush about the house and needed no asking at all? And her laugh that
used to do one’s heart good to hear—that’s dead and buried. Whoever
hears it nowadays?”
“But what is to be done, Tamsin?” pleaded Miss Jane, thoroughly
frightened by the picture the old woman had drawn. “Where is a remedy
to be found?”
“That is hardly for me to say, Miss Jane. But if Miss Ethel were a
niece of mine, I’m pretty clear what I would do.”
“And what would that be, Tamsin? You know that my sister and I are
always pleased to listen to your suggestions.”
“I should take her right away to the seaside, or to some place where
she’s never been before. It’s change the girl wants. At her age they
all need it. It’s only when folk get elderly that they grow loth to
leave their own chimney-corner. Young birds always want to try their
wings; and to young folk it always seems as if there must be something
better on the far side of the hill than on the side their eyes are used
to.”
“But the expense,” faltered Miss Jane. “My sister and I have very
little money by us, and our next dividends will not be due till the new
year. And at the seaside one is robbed so terribly—at least, that is
what _we_ term it—although _they_, no doubt, call it by a different
name.”
Tamsin was running her fingers along the bottom of her apron in a sort
of diffident way altogether unusual with her. “If it’s only a question
of expense, Miss Jane, that can soon be got over,” she said. “As it
happens, I’ve a matter of sixty pounds put away in the savings bank,
not a penny of which will ever be the least bit of use to me—having
neither chick nor child to leave it to. Take it, Miss Jane; it has been
saved up out of the wages paid me by you and your sister. Take it and
give the poor child the holiday she needs so sorely.”
Rarely had Jane Thursby looked more distressed and perturbed than she
did just then, and yet in her cheeks there was a delicate flush which
for the passing moment made her seem almost a girl again. “How dare
you, Tamsin, even to hint at such a thing!” she exclaimed in a voice
which she vainly strove to render severe.
Then her lips began to tremble and a moisture shone in her eyes.
Turning suddenly and laying a hand on each of Tamsin’s shoulders, she
said with a quaver in her voice: “You foolish but generous-hearted
creature, cannot you see—cannot you understand how impossible it is
that my sister and I should accept any such offer?”
“No, Miss Jane, with all deference to you, I can neither see nor
understand why it should be so. The money was yours to begin with, and
if you don’t have it before, it will come back to you when I’m dead and
gone. I arranged that with Lawyer Tullock half a year agone. It’s only
a trifle, I know, but it’s enough to pay for a month or two at the
seaside; and to what better use could it be put, I should like to know,
than in helping to bring back the roses to Miss Ethel’s cheeks. So do
you and Miss Matilda just put your pride in your pocket and take it
with an old woman’s blessing!”
“Oh no, we cannot, we cannot—God bless you all the same!” cried Miss
Jane. “Of course I shall at once consult my sister, but I feel quite
sure that in such a matter her sentiments will thoroughly coincide with
my own.”
Two vivid spots of red flamed out in Tamsin’s cheeks. “And can you and
Miss Matilda reconcile it to your consciences to sit down with folded
hands and watch the poor child grow thinner and paler with every day
that breaks, when the means by which health and strength might be given
back to her are within your reach?” demanded the old woman in accents
such as Miss Jane had never before heard from her lips. “Can you doubt
the child was lent you so as to bring a sunshine into your lives which,
but for her, you would never have known? And can you doubt that one day
an account will be demanded of you by the Lender? When that day comes,
what will your answer be?”
Without a word more Tamsin turned on her heel and flinging her apron up
to her face, a sure sign that she was deeply moved, walked slowly out
of the room, leaving Miss Jane like one petrified.
Miss Matilda happened to be from home at the time, but she had not been
five minutes in the house before her sister was pouring into her ears
an account of the morning’s interview.
“Nothing could justify Tamsin in speaking to you as she did,” said Miss
Matilda with a highly offended air, when Miss Jane had come to an end.
“It was most reprehensible on her part. She knows that she is
privileged and she presumes on the fact. I agree with you that it is
quite out of the question that we should accept her offer.”
“But what if the dear girl is really pining and losing her appetite, as
Tamsin states?” queried Miss Jane.
“Even in that case, it is impossible that we should make use of her
money. Some other way must be found. But let us first satisfy ourselves
that Tamsin is not alarming herself and us unnecessarily.”
Accordingly for the next two days the sisters kept silent but
unobtrusive watch over Ethel, a fact wholly unsuspected by her.
On the forenoon of the third day, Ethel being out of earshot in the
garden, said Miss Jane to her sister: “I am greatly afraid that Tamsin
was fully justified in what she said to me about the dear girl. Her
appetite has certainly failed her, she moves languidly about the house,
and has lost all, or nearly all, that sunny vivacity and liveliness of
disposition which used to be one of her greatest charms. We must have
been very blind, sister, not to have noticed all this for ourselves.”
“It certainly seems strange that we failed to do so,” returned Miss
Matilda. “But the change in her has been so gradual as to be all but
imperceptible, especially to us who are in the habit of seeing her from
hour to hour every day of our lives. And besides”—with a sigh—“we have
had so many things of late to engage our attention and occupy our
thoughts. Still, I admit that it ought not to have been left for Tamsin
to see and point out the change.”
“Now that we have satisfied ourselves that there is a change, the
question remains, what steps ought we, or can we, take in order to
remedy it?”
“Tamsin’s offer is not to be thought of. On that point my mind is made
up. We must devise some other plan. Let us think.”
Whenever Miss Matilda made use of this formula her sister knew that it
was intended to apply to the speaker alone, for it was tacitly admitted
between the sisters that Miss Matilda was the stronger-minded of the
two, and that in all matters of doubt or difficulty her decision should
be accepted as final. And Miss Jane was quite content that it should be
so. Her knowledge of her own deficiencies awoke no slightest feeling of
bitterness in her breast; rather indeed, was she proud of having a
sister whose powers of mind and force of character were so superior to
her own.
So now, during the silence that ensued, she cheerfully left it to her
sister to mentally evolve a way out of the difficulty in which they
found themselves, never for a moment doubting that she would succeed in
doing so.
Ten minutes might have gone by when Miss Matilda, looking up from her
work and pausing with her needle in mid-air, said: “I see one way, and
only one, out of our difficulty.”
“Yes?” remarked her sister tentatively.
“And that is to obtain a loan of fifty pounds on the security of our
mother’s jewellery (which is good, but old-fashioned), and the silver
tea and coffee service given us by Uncle Henry on our twenty-first
birthday.”
“O Mattie, what a desecration!” exclaimed Miss Jane, her underlip
beginning to quiver as it always did when she was much moved.
“Desecration! I fail to understand you, sister.”
“In having to pawn dear mamma’s jewels.”
“No such idea entered my mind. What I said was, that we should
endeavour to obtain a loan on them in conjunction with the service. It
seemed to me that Mr. Daykin, the banker, who has known us ever since
we came to St. Oswyth’s, would perhaps not object to advance the sum I
have named on my frankly explaining to him the purpose for which we
require it.”
“That of course would make all the difference. And certainly Mr. Daykin
has always treated us very nicely; besides which, he looks the
personification of benevolence.”
“So did that elderly man who called at Vale View last year with a
forged letter of introduction and obtained twenty pounds from us, and
yet turned out to be nothing but a common impostor. I merely recall the
fact as a proof that it is not safe to rely upon looks alone as an
index of character. But that has nothing to do with Mr. Daykin, whom I
believe to be a thoroughly good and kind-hearted man.”
“Still, it will not be a pleasant errand on which to go to him.”
“That cannot be helped. In this life duty and inclination by no means
always go hand in hand.”
“When do you purpose calling on him?”
“Some time in the course of to-morrow.”
“Of course I shall accompany you.”
“Thank you all the same, sister, but I think I should prefer to go
alone. Five minutes will suffice for all I have to say to Mr. Daykin,
and less than that for his answer. I shall take the jewels with me and
one or two pieces of the service, just enough to enable him to estimate
the value of the whole.”
Miss Jane felt inwardly relieved at the thought of not having to face
the banker on such an errand, while reproaching herself for not
insisting that it was her bounden duty to accompany her sister.