“He was a poor man, he averred, with a family of his own, and he would have nothing to do with his sister’s child, which, according to his account, was not hers at all. For anything he cared, it might go to the workhouse. He went away like a dazed man, with a promise that he would call on me the next morning; but he failed to do so, and I have never set eyes on him from that day to this.
“That the child thus strangely thrown on our hands should be committed to the tender mercies of the workhouse was not to be thought of. For the time being it was put out to nurse, where my sisters were satisfied that it would be well cared for. When, a couple of years later, they went to reside permanently at St. Oswyth’s, they took the child with them, they having decided to adopt it; and, in order that the tongue of idle rumour and scandal might have no cause to wag, at my persuasion they consented to the innocent ruse of passing the girl off to the world as their niece.
“I need scarcely add that you, my dear Ethel, are the child in question.
“In these few lines are summed up the whole of the facts bearing upon your early history which are known to my sisters and myself. I may, however, be allowed to record my firm belief that the person who called herself Mrs. Montmorenci-Vane was not your mother. That, after this length of time, the mystery of your birth and parentage will ever be cleared up, seems to me exceedingly doubtful; but even should such prove to be the case, who shall venture to say that the knowledge has not been withheld from you for some wise purpose. That, should you be spared, you will grow up to be a comfort and a blessing to those who have made their home your home, and that you will return them love for love, I feel fully assured.
“MATTHEW THURSBY.”
CHAPTER IX.
ETHEL AND TAMSIN
When Ethel had read Matthew Thursby’s letter to the last word she quietly refolded the paper and laid it on the table. The sisters were watching her every movement intently. She wished they would speak—that they would say something—anything. But it seemed as if they were waiting for her to break the silence. Her eyes turned from one to the other. In their faces she read nothing save love and compassion. Then, with a sob in her throat, she spoke.
“And I—the child of a stranger—a nobody’s child, owe everything to you! But for you I might have starved, or found my only home in the workhouse! Oh! how can I ever love you half enough? But now I have learnt this, I feel that I have no longer a right to call this place my home. I must go out into the world and earn my living. I must strive to——”
“Ethel!” exclaimed an austere voice, that of Miss Matilda.
There was an inflection in it which the girl had not heard for years—not since some juvenile peccadillo had momentarily excited the spinster’s ire. “Nothing which has occurred this morning justifies you in adopting such a tone towards my sister and myself. You seem to forget that what comes as news to you has been known to us from the first. Why, then, should you assume that the mere fact of your having learnt certain things to-day for the first time should have the effect of abrogating arrangements which have been in existence for a longer period than you can remember?” Miss Matilda’s style in her more didactic moments was unconsciously modelled to some extent on that of her favourite authors, the English essayists of the eighteenth century.