The Tower Rooms

by Mary Grant Bruce

We had argued at intervals all the afternoon. At first, after recovering from the fainting-fit into which the arrival of Transom’s letter, urging Ronald Hull to come without delay, had thrown her, Mrs. McNab had declared that she herself would be well enough to go out that night: a manifest absurdity, speedily proved when she tried to walk across the room. She could only totter a few yards, and then was glad to catch at my arm and let me support her to a chair. Again and again she had tried, with no better success. I put her back to bed at last, and gave her a stimulant, angry with myself for having assisted at the folly. And then had begun the argument.

It seemed to me that the only thing to be done was for me to take the launch and convey Ronald Hull to Southport. I didn’t like the idea of doing it alone—who would? But there was no other way, since Mrs. McNab steadfastly refused to tell Harry. A second reading of Transom’s letter showed us that we should have received it a day earlier, and that to reach Adelaide in time Mr. Hull must start that very night. It was now or never; and Mrs. McNab had made up her mind that it must be never.

She turned her weary eyes in my direction now with a hopeless movement.

“I cannot. It is absolutely unthinkable that I could allow it. Even Ronald’s disgrace, sore as it is, would not be as bitter to me as my own conscience if I let you go. We must find some other plan of escape for him. I am too tired to talk any more. Promise me you will not try to go alone, and I will go to sleep.”

I promised, reluctantly, knowing that she had already strained her endurance too far: she had a touch of fever again, and I feared that the next day would find her much worse. She looked relieved, murmuring something I could not catch; then she closed her eyes, and I went quietly out of the room, tasting all the bitterness of failure. I had so built on ridding her of her abominable brother. It was terrible to think that this wonderful chance was to be lost—that when she struggled back to health he would still be a millstone about her neck.

The sound of galloping hoofs came to me as I went out on the front verandah, and I saw Judy and Jack come racing up the drive on their ponies. They waved to me and shouted, but did not stop, tearing on to the stable-yard. I sat down on a garden-seat to await them—and suddenly hope flashed on me like a beacon-light.

Judy and Jack! They were only children, but they were strong and sensible, when they chose: they knew the launch and its engine better than I did, and the sea was their friend and playfellow. They would come, my little Fellow-Members of the Band, and ask no questions that would lead to unpleasant explanations. I could trust them, just as their father had said he could trust them—not to betray a confidence, never to let one down. It wasn’t done, in the Band.

I turned my great idea over and over in my mind while we were at dinner in the schoolroom, and could find no flaw in it. I believed Mrs. McNab would find none, either. To go out on the sea at night was nothing to any McNab: that part of it I dismissed as not worth considering. The chief thing to ponder was the necessity of letting them into at least part of the secret: and there it was their very youth that gave me confidence. Harry, if told, would have demanded every detail: Judy and Jack would be content with what I chose to tell them, and I need tell them nothing that would affect their peace of mind in the future. I looked at my outlaws, unconsciously eating their dinner, with a gratitude that would certainly have amazed them, had they suspected it.

I went in to consult Mrs. McNab when we had finished. Before dinner she had not slept, and I had felt uneasy about her, for she was flushed and hot and restless: but now I found her in a heavy slumber, breathing deeply and regularly. She might remain so for hours, perhaps all night. Why should I tell her at all? Why not let her sleep on, untroubled, while the Band did her work? There was nothing to be gained by waking her. I knew where to find, in the Tower room, the little suit-case that held necessaries she had packed for her brother’s journey, and the money she had procured for him. It had been ready for days, in case of a hurried summons. I had only to take it, and go.

Slowly I went back to the schoolroom. The children were reading, their mother’s illness making them unusually quiet; they glanced up at me, and grinned in a friendly fashion. I sat down on the table and looked at them.