Chapter 24 Red Rose and Tiger Lily by L. T. Meade
A WET SPONGE
Antonia walked slowly in the direction of the house, trailing her long skirt behind her. She entered by a side door, and went straight up to her own room. The bedroom set apart for Miss Bernard Temple opened into the large and stately bedroom occupied by the future mistress of the Grange. Both rooms were dainty and fresh in the extreme. Mrs. Bernard Temple's maid was now sitting in Antonia's room mending a long rent in that young lady's brown Liberty velveteen evening dress.
"You have made an awfully jagged rent, Miss Antonia," said the girl.
"Have I?" said Antonia; "why mend it, then? I never expect to have my clothes mended. Of course, if you are good enough to occupy your time over me, Pinkerton, I am much obliged to you, but I don't expect your services, so clearly understand the position."
"Lor'!" answered Pinkerton, who had a round, country face and a somewhat brusque manner, "what a show you'd be, Miss Antonia, if someone didn't make you and mend you."
Antonia went over to the open window, and, flopping herself down on her knees, leant her two elbows on the window-sill and looked out.
"I wish you'd let me know if Miss Drummond is having forty winks in her room," she said suddenly. "She generally does go to her own room about this hour, does she not?"
"I believe so, miss. I'll inquire if she's there now."
Pinkerton soon returned with the information that Miss Drummond's door was locked, that she could not see her maid anywhere, but that she heard sounds proceeding from within the room which led her to infer that the forty winks were being enjoyed.
"But there's no use in your going to her, Miss Antonia," said Pinkerton, "for she won't hear you however hard you knock."
"I'll see about that," said Antonia. "Do you happen to know, Pinkerton, if Miss Drummond's window is open?"
"Sure to be, miss; every window in the house is kept open during this sultry weather."
"There's no time to be lost," murmured Antonia; "I must scale the wall."
She left her own bedroom in a hurry, and ran downstairs.
"Nan," she shouted, catching sight of Nan's white frock in the distance, "come here."
Nan ran up to her rather unwillingly. Antonia was detestable in her eyes as belonging to the dreadful new stepmother.
"Why do you frown at me like that, child?" said Antonia; "it isn't pretty."
"Tell-tale tit," answered Nan rudely; "you'll be making up stories of me in the future, won't you?"
"I?" said Antonia, with a careless rise of her brows. "No; I shan't have time. Now, can you tell me if there's a ladder about?"
"No, I can't," answered Nan.
"Are there no ladders to be found in this benighted and over-cultivated region?"
"Plenty; but I can't tell you where they are."
Antonia knitted her brows. Nan gazed at her curiously. It was really interesting to have something to do with a person who wanted a ladder. What was she going to do with it?
"I must climb without," said Antonia. "I wonder are there creepers."
"What do you want with it?" said Nan in quite a friendly tone.
"I want to get into Susan Drummond's room by her window."
"Oh, dear, what fun!" Nan's eyes danced.
"She is sound asleep," pursued Antonia, "and I propose to use the wet sponge with effect."
"They did that at school," replied Nan. "How lovely! Oh, how perfectly lovely! I'm sure I can help you to find a ladder. Come round with me to the farmyard."
Nan held out her hand, which Antonia grasped. They rushed across the lawn helter-skelter, and in an incredibly short space of time a ladder was leaning up against Susy's window. Nan held it from below while Antonia climbed. The next moment she had entered the room.
"Thank you heartily, Nan," she called to the little girl.
She made a good deal of noise, but Susy, lying on her back in the centre of the big bed, was impervious to sound. Antonia filled the sponge with cold water, and, standing at the foot of the bed, dashed it at Susy. The first application only made the sleeper groan and snore heavily, but at the second she opened her eyes, and at the third she sat up.
"Now, what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "Am I back at that detestable school with the she-dragon once more? Oh, Antonia, what in the world are you doing here?"
"Sponging you," said Antonia. "I have something to say, so wake up."
"Wake up?" replied Susy. "I should think I am awake. Who could stand such barbarous treatment? I was so comfortable, and I had locked the door to make all things perfectly safe.
How in the world did you get into the room?"
"By a ladder, through the open window. Now pray don't waste any more time over trivial details. I have come here to have a serious talk with you."
"Why serious, Tony? You know how I hate grave subjects."
"I have come to have a quiet talk with you about the Towers; you can sit there, just where you are. Don't dry your hair, or you'll get sleepy again. I'll keep a basin of cold water near me and sponge you whenever you wink an eyelid. Now then, what do you think of the Towers?"
"I have scarcely seen it yet."
"You must have a first impression; what is it?"
"Really, Tony, you needn't have awakened me and gone to the trouble of a ladder, and an open window, and a sponge, for the sake of hearing my first impressions."
"That's neither here nor there," answered Antonia. "What do you think of the Towers?"
"Oh, it's well enough; it seems to be a very old place."
"Didn't it strike you that the rooms were musty?"
"Well, yes; now that you mention it, I thought they were decidedly musty."
"It will be impossible," said Antonia, "for you to turn the Towers into a proper Moresque or Libertyesque house."
"I thought you liked the place; you seemed so delighted with the briars."
"The briars are well enough, and so is the china; it's the rooms I complain of; they never can be reduced to high art—your sort of high art, I mean, Susy. But now, tell me, did you do much measuring?"
"No, I didn't; a dreadful woman came with me; she quite frightened me, and spoke a lot about the Lorrimers, and a ghost in the tower."
"Well, of course there'd be a ghost in the tower," continued Antonia; "an old place like that couldn't exist without its ghost."
"I don't believe a bit in ghosts," said Susy. "No sensible people believe in them; there are no such things. You know that, of course, Antonia."
Susy looked uncomfortable while she spoke, and Antonia knew well that she was an arrant coward.
"You don't believe in ghosts either," continued Susy; "do you now, Tony?"
"Oh, but I do," answered Antonia; "I believe in them profoundly. I have Shakespeare for my authority on the subject."
"And you really think that—that the Towers is haunted?"
"No doubt whatever on the subject. If you don't want to be convinced against your will, you must choose a bedroom in the most modern part of the house, and avoid the old tower, with its funny, quaint little rooms. Frankly, I am disappointed in the Towers as a place for you—the rooms are not your sort—you want great, lofty, bright, modern rooms. I don't like that musty smell either; it points to damp somewhere. Then, it is scarcely likely that the water supply is perfect; those old wells are full of danger, and you once had typhoid, don't you remember? Your father will have to spend a lot on the place before he makes it anything like what your sort of high art requires; and when all is said and done, you'd be lonely there. You know I'm perfectly frank; you know that well, don't you?"
"Yes, Tony," answered poor Susy in a most melancholy voice. "Oh, please don't throw any more sponges at me; I am quite shivering, and your words make me feel so melancholy. But why should I be lonely at the Towers; there are plenty of neighbours all around?"
"That is true, but I don't believe you'll care for them, nor they for you: they are the Lorrimer sort, and the Miss Macalister sort, and the Hester Thornton sort. You know you don't care for those sorts of people, do you?"
"I'm sure I don't. I hate them. I wish father hadn't bought the Towers without consulting me."
"Can't he back out of it?"
"Back out of his bargain? What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say; can't he get out of it? The Towers isn't a bit the sort of place for you; it isn't even healthy for a girl like you. There's a ghost there, and ground damp, and bad water, and the neighbours aren't sociable, and you'll be moped to death."
"How perfectly miserable you make me, Tony, but I won't be quite friendless, for you'll be here most of the time now, won't you?"
"Not I; I am going back to my atelier in Paris. Do you think I'd live in a poky corner of the world like this?"
"What shall I do?" echoed Susy. "I think you're very unkind to make me so wretched and to depress me in the way you are doing. The Towers is bought now, and we must make the best of it."
"I only hope you won't suffer the consequences of this piece of folly," retorted Antonia with spirit. "The Towers is not the place for you, and you ought to persuade your father to get out of that bargain. Let him take a nice cheerful villa at Richmond; that's where you ought to live."
"I wish he would," said Susy; "but it's a great deal too late, a great deal too late to draw back now. Besides, we did so want to be county people."
"You'll never be county people, whatever that jargon means—that is, you'll never be like the Lorrimers and the Thorntons. You don't want to be, do you?"
"Good gracious, no; they are a depressing set."
"Then that's what county people are, so why should you kill yourself to be one of them? Aren't you going to write to your father to tell him what you think of the Towers?"
"Shall I?"
"I would if I were you. You might suggest——"
"Yes; do you think it would be any use?"
"There is no saying—it's your own affair. If you choose to die of ennui, don't tell me that I haven't warned you. Now I see you are wide awake, so you may dry your hair and get up."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," sighed Susy after Antonia had swung herself out of the room, "I'm chilled to the bone and every scrap of spirit taken out of me. I hate that awful Towers—why did father buy it?"
One of Antonia's great ideas was on all occasions to strike while the iron is hot. It was her plan to leap over obstacles or to push them vigorously aside. She had no respect for people's corns. Their preconceived prejudices were nothing to her. Having succeeded in disturbing Susy, she now went straight to her mother's room. Mrs. Bernard Temple was seated in an easy chair by the open window, enjoying a quiet ten minutes for thought and rest before It was time for her to dress for dinner. Pinkerton was moving about putting the different accessories for her mistress's toilet in order. Antonia pushed her almost rudely aside as she swept across the room.
"Go away, Pinkerton," she said, "I want to speak to mother by herself."
"Oh, really, not at present, Antonia," said Mrs. Bernard Temple, with a look of alarm spreading over her high-class features. "I have gone through a great deal to-day and am quite tired, and I shall have to begin to dress for dinner in a few minutes. Sir John is very particular about my appearance, and I wish Pinkerton to try the effect of arranging my hair in a new manner. I thought, Pinkerton, that you might pile it up high on a sort of cushion—it has a very old-picture effect."
"You ought to wear a cap," said Antonia, standing in front of her parent; "it would be much more suitable and appropriate, and would save you a lot of trouble."
"A cap!" almost screamed Mrs. Bernard Temple. "To hear you speak, Antonia, one would think that I was advanced in years."
"As it's only I who think that, it doesn't matter, mother," said Antonia. "You shall wear your hair any way you please, only I really must have a little talk with you first. The sooner I begin my talk the sooner it will be over, so please go away at once, Pinkerton."
Pinkerton knew Antonia too well to dream of disobeying her. She left the room, slamming the door behind her, and Mrs. Bernard Temple looked up at her resolute daughter with a frown between her brows.
"Now, out with it, whatever it is," she said. "You have got something at the back of your head, and you can say it in ten words as well as twenty. What do you want me to do?"
"You have great influence with Sir John Thornton, haven't you, mother?" asked Antonia, kneeling down as she spoke by the open window, and leaning one pointed elbow on the sill. Mrs. Bernard Temple permitted herself to smile agreeably.
"A man's fiancée has generally influence over him," she said in a sentimental voice.
"That's what I thought," said Antonia. "I'll never be anybody's fiancée—the mere thought would make me ill—but that's neither here nor there. Granted that you have influence over Sir John, I want you to use it in my way—now, do you understand?"
"Really, Antonia, really,"—Mrs. Bernard Temple looked quite alarmed—"Sir John cannot bear erratic people, he tells me so from morning to night. I am afraid you have managed to displease him very seriously, my dear. When you spilt your tea in the garden this evening, he acknowledged, when I pressed him on the subject, that it gave him quite a sense of nausea. You see, Antonia, how careful you ought to be. The comforts of the home I have provided for you may be jeopardised if you are too erratic. You know I did not wish you to come to the Grange until after my wedding. The fact is, Sir John is very much annoyed about you. He has spoken to me most seriously on the subject of your extraordinary manners, and has asked me why I permit you to do the things you do. When I tell him that I have not the smallest scrap of influence over you, he simply does not believe me; and then he has such an aggravating way of drawing comparisons between you and that icy-mannered girl, Hester."
"Oh, I'm not a patch upon Hester," said Antonia; "she is a very nice, well-bred, English young lady. I'm Bohemian of the Bohemians. I'm nobody—nobody at all. I extinguish myself at the shrine of great Art. I love to extinguish myself. I adore being a shadow."
"I think, Antonia, you are quite mad."
"Think it away, my dearest mother, only grant my request; influence Sir John in my way."
"Oh, you terrible, terrible child! Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Now you're becoming reasonable," said Antonia, "and I really won't keep you from your hair a moment longer than I can help. I went to the Towers this morning, mother; it's really a heavenly old place; quite steeped in the best sort of mediæval art. In the house, old china and low ceilings; out of doors, nature untrammelled. Think of a place like the Towers in the possession of Susy Drummond and her father, the ex-coal-merchant. Mother, it is not to be."
"My dear Antonia, I can't listen to you another moment." Mrs. Bernard Temple rose as she spoke. "Pinkerton, come at once," she called.
Pinkerton turned the handle of the door.
"Go away, Pinkerton!" shouted Antonia. "Now, mother, sit down; there's oceans of time."
"Really, really, my dear! Oh, what a trial one's children sometimes are. The Drummonds have bought the Towers. The whole thing is an accomplished fact."
"It is not too late," pursued Antonia. "I have been giving a spice of my mind to Susy, and she hates and detests the place, and will do what she can to get her father to back out of his bargain. Well, the Lorrimers are almost dying at the thought of going. The ugly duckling told me the whole story to-day, and I never listened to anything more piteous; and Squire Lorrimer is hiding in London because of his poor feelings. In short, the moment for strong measures has arrived; and if you won't speak to Sir John, I will."
Mrs. Bernard Temple turned white.
"If you speak to him, Antonia," she said, "he will break off the match, and we shall be ruined—ruined."
"Very well, mother; you must have a conversation with him. One or other of us must have it, that is certain."
"Oh, you most terrible child! What am I to say to him?"
"Say this, and say it firmly. Say that you won't marry him unless he goes to see Squire Lorrimer, and makes an arrangement to lend him sufficient money to stay on at the Towers. The Drummonds will be delighted to get out of their bargain, and the Lorrimers will be saved. That's the plan of campaign. Either I undertake to see it through, mother, or you do. Now, which is it to be?"
"You must give me until to-morrow morning to think over your wild words. Really, my poor head is splitting."
Antonia went up and kissed her mother.
"You can come now, Pinkerton," she called out.