Chapter 27 Red Rose and Tiger Lily by L. T. Meade
NELL IS IN TROUBLE
All Antonia's plans were carried into effect. She paid Mrs. Martin thirty-two shillings and gave the old woman her address in town, begging of her to forward the ring there without an hour's delay. In due course it arrived, and Annie had it once more in her possession. Poor Annie turned pale when Antonia put the little box which contained it into her hand.
"I could cry as well as laugh," she said, looking at Antonia with tears springing to her eyes. "I have not behaved well about this ring, and I ought not to have it back like this. I ought to be properly punished. It does not seem fair that I should have the ring returned to me again in this easy manner."
"Undoubtedly you have been deceitful," replied Antonia, "and your conscience must feel ruffled. I can stand most things, but a ruffled conscience, I confess, is too much for me. I suppose you will soothe it in the only possible way?"
"What do you mean?" asked Annie.
"Confession is good for the soul," replied Antonia, in a sing-song voice. She went to the window as she spoke and looked out into the sunlit street.
The two girls were standing in the room which Antonia was pleased to call her studio. It was an attic at the top of the house, and had a dormer window with a north light. The dormer window had sides which were curtained with green. In Annie's opinion this room was simply hideous. Huge canvasses covered with great daubs of colour occupied the walls. A skeleton stood in one corner, and one or two draped figures were in others. Antonia had lured Annie up here for the purpose of taking her likeness in a white kerchief. Antonia was fired with an idea that Annie would look well as Marie Antoinette on her way to execution. She was not quite sure whether to make her Charlotte Corday or Marie Antoinette; but, on reflection, decided that the latter character would suit her best, as she did not think that Annie could ever get sufficient tragedy into her eyes for the former.
"I am going to paint myself some day for Charlotte," exclaimed Antonia. "I'll study before the glass whenever I've an odd moment, and I believe I shall do the fixity of purpose stare after another week of hard practice. Now, do stand still Annie—the bother of the ring is at an end, so you can forget it. Just turn your head a little to the left, I want to get a peep at your ear—you have got a good ear, quite shell-like. Now, for mercy's sake look tragical! Think of the guillotine, and the crowd looking on, and La Belle France and the Tuileries, and the horrid feeling when your head is separated from your trunk. Now, then, realise it—get it into your eyes. Are you realising it?"
"Frankly, I'm not," replied Annie. "I can't sit for Marie Antoinette any longer to-day. I really can't, Antonia. This room is so stiflingly hot, and I want to go out. I want to get into one of the parks. Are there any near this?"
"Oh, yes! Hyde Park is quite close; but you'll find it as dry as chips. Remember, it is September now. Hyde Park is not pretty in September."
"I wonder anyone can live in London," replied Annie.
"Do you? I don't. I hate this poky little house in the centre of detestable fashion; but if I could have an atelier, or a studio, I ought to say, in Gower Street, it would be nearly as good as Paris. Well, if you won't sit any longer, I suppose you won't. Now let us come downstairs."
The girls left the studio and entered the drawing-room. Here they found Mrs. Bernard Temple and Nora. Nora was lying on a sofa looking tired and pale, and Mrs. Bernard Temple was moving about the room in a bustling sort of fashion arranging flowers. The drawing-room was small and crowded with knick-knacks. Antonia seldom swept across this room without knocking a table over or flicking a paper on to the floor.
"Now, my dear, be careful!" exclaimed her parent. "That papier-mâche table on which I have just arranged these lovely late roses, sent to me by dear Sir John, will not stand one of your lunges. I cannot imagine how you have got that peculiar walk, Antonia; its exactly as if you were on board ship."
Antonia lounged towards a chair, into which she flung herself.
"Dear me, it is hot!" she exclaimed, pushing back her thick black hair from her forehead. "Never mind about my walk, mother; let me hear the news. What did Sir Henry Fraser say of Nora?"
Mrs. Bernard Temple sank into another chair.
"The dear child!" she exclaimed. "She had a trying morning."
"Pray don't talk of it!" exclaimed Nora from her sofa. "It was too desperate."
"Why, did he hurt you?" exclaimed Antonia.
"Oh, no! he was kindness itself; but we had to wait so long before we saw him."
"Pooh!" answered Antonia. "Was that the dreadful part? Tell me what he said when you did see him? Are you likely soon to be quite well again?"
"With care," interrupted Mrs. Bernard Temple, "dear Nora will recover perfectly. Her back is still very weak, but there is no injury. She may walk a little daily, but must lie down a good deal."
"You're quite sure he wasn't anxious about you?" asked Antonia, fixing her eyes on Nora.
Nora started.
"No; what do you mean?" she said. "You quite startle me. Why should he be anxious?"
"Well, I almost wish he were. It would suit my purpose to have him anxious for a day or two. However, if he isn't, he isn't, and there's an end of it. Nora, don't you want to see your father very badly?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Nora. Her face grew pink and red. "Of course I'd like to see him, but I have not an idea where he is."
"He's in London, close to you, you goose."
"Antonia!" interrupted Mrs. Bernard Temple.
"Mother, she is a goose not to remember that Squire Lorrimer is in town. You ought to write to him, Nora, and ask him to come to see you."
"If he's in London I don't know his address," answered Nora.
"You can write to his club—the Carlton. Here, I'll find you paper and pen, or, if you are too tired to write after the doctor's examination, you can dictate a letter to me. Here, what do you want to say? I'm not a good hand at letter-writing, but you must know the sort of thing. You had better ask him to dinner to-night; there's not an hour to be lost."
"You forget that we are going to the theatre to-night," said Mrs. Bernard Temple.
"Oh, what does that matter. Nora can't go, with her weak back."
"Yes she can. I have taken a box, and she shall have my air-cushion to lean against."
"And I want to go to a theatre awfully," said Nora.
"Well, well, so much for filial affection. Ask him to come to lunch to-morrow. Write any way—show that you're a daughter, a loving daughter."
"Of course I'm a loving daughter, but I——"
"For goodness sake don't have any more buts. Write or dictate, whichever you please."
"I'll write if I must, but really—I don't suppose father will care to come."
"Doesn't he care for you, then?"
"Care for me? What a thing to say. Of course he cares for me."
"Then he'll come. Now, I give you five minutes. Write the letter, and I'll take it out and post it."
Nora muttered and grumbled, but Antonia's perfectly motionless figure, as she sat in an easy chair facing her, was too much to be resisted. She took up a pen, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
"Do it lovingly," said Antonia; "put heart into it; show that you're a daughter."
Mrs. Bernard Temple motioned Annie to come and sit near her.
"Really," she said in a whisper, "poor Antonia becomes more peculiar and trying each day. She simply bullies us all. Look at that poor dear little Nora, submitting to her caprice as gently as a lamb. I don't know why she wants Squire Lorrimer to come here. I am not acquainted with him, and it will be really painful for me to see him in his present afflicted condition. I am a very cheerful person by nature, and hate depressing circumstances."
"I am sorry you are not sympathetic," answered Annie.
Mrs. Bernard Temple raised her brows.
"Sympathetic," she exclaimed; "my dear, I'm the soul—the very soul of sympathy; but where's the use of wasting emotion? I can do nothing for Squire Lorrimer, and it will only pain poor Nora to see him. Really, really, Antonia is beyond anything afflicting. Now, my love, where are you going?"
The latter part of this speech was addressed to Miss Bernard Temple, who was leaving the room. "Where are you going, Antonia, my love?" repeated her mother.
"Out, mother; to post this letter."
"I beg of you to do nothing of the kind. I can send it by William, when next he goes for a message."
William was a very diminutive, and much overworked, page-boy.
"Thanks," said Antonia; "but I prefer to go myself."
She left the room, shutting the door rather noisily; and Mrs. Bernard Temple looked for sympathy to the two girls.
"Is not she trying?" she repeated. "With my mind so preoccupied with thoughts of my approaching marriage, and of dear Sir John, and those sweet girls, Hester and Nan; it is really too much to be worried by Antonia's whims."
"Oh, but she means everything splendidly," said Annie. "I admire her beyond anything. If you will let me, Mrs. Bernard Temple, I will go out with her."
"Oh, certainly, my dear. I see you are under her spell, so I have nothing to say. Dear Nora and I will try to make ourselves happy together."
Annie left the room, and met Antonia in the hall.
"Wait one moment, Antonia," she said; "I'll go with you."
She ran upstairs, fetched her hat and gloves, and joined Antonia. The two girls went into the street.
"I'm determined that no pranks shall be played with this letter," said Antonia; "so I intend not to post it, but to take it to the Carlton myself."
"Antonia, is that right?"
"Right—what can there be wrong in it? There is no one who will eat me at the Carlton. I shall simply give the letter to the hall-porter, and desire him to put it into Mr. Lorrimer's hands the moment he appears. Now, come on, if you are coming. You can stay in the street while I interview the porter."
"But the post seems safer and easier," said Annie.
"Well, I don't think so. Come, come; what are you loitering for?"
As was universally the case, Antonia's strong will prevailed.
She knew London thoroughly, and followed by the somewhat breathless Annie, in due course reached the Carlton Club.
She had run up the steps, entered the hall, interviewed the porter, delivered her letter, and once more joined Annie, when the latter said to her in a voice of suppressed excitement—
"There is Squire Lorrimer; that man with the bent head and hat pushed over his eyes. He passed the club while you were within. There he is, just turning the corner."
"Run after him and stop him," exclaimed Antonia. "Quick, quick—I'll fetch the letter out while you're catching him up."
"Oh, I don't like to," said Annie.
"What a goose you are—then I'll do it—he'll be lost to view if we wait another instant arguing. Is it that rather old man who walks slowly? Yes, yes, I see him. Stay where you are and I'll bring him back to you."
Before Annie could interfere, Antonia had hastened forward with long strides, which she soon quickened into a run. She reached Mr. Lorrimer, and gave one of his coat sleeves a fierce tug.
He started, took off his hat instinctively, and then stared in amazement at the wild-looking girl, whose face was completely unknown to him.
"Oh, yes, you think I'm mad," said Antonia, "but I'm not. I'm about as sane as anyone in England. You are Mr. Lorrimer, and you're afraid to go home, and your family are in dreadful trouble. I'm Antonia Bernard Temple; yes, it's a long unwieldy sort of name, but I have the misfortune to own it. If I'm a diamond at all, I'm a rough sort; very rough and uncouth, but I mean well. My mother is engaged to Sir John Thornton, and we have been staying at the Grange, and I have seen your magnificent untrammelled old place, with its briars, and dragon china, and I, in short—I have seen Nell. Nell is in trouble, and my heart has gone out to her; and Nora is in town staying with us, with my mother and me, and she wants to see you, naturally; so please come home with me now. Please turn round and come to the Carlton first. There's a letter there for you from Nora. Come and see her, and hear about Nell and Molly."
There was the queerest mixture of every sort of emotion in Antonia's wild, disjointed speech; but above it all was an overpowering earnestness, which somehow attracted the poor, forlorn-looking Squire.
"You are a very queer young lady," he said.
"Oh, they all say that," exclaimed Antonia clasping her hands. "I beg of you not to be commonplace; do come home with me."
"But somehow you seem to know all about my people," he continued. "Is it possible that Nora is in town? Yes, I'll go and see her. Where is she?"
"Come with me and I'll take you to the house. It's in a most poky, fashionable part—an odious locality, where poor Art hides her head. Just walk back with me to meet Annie Forest, and to get your letter. You know Annie Forest, don't you?"
"I have met her."
"Well, she's waiting close to the Carlton Club for us both; and we can't leave her there, you know; come quickly."
The Squire turned.
His step was slow. The look of depression on his face was painful; his grizzled hair was nearly white, and his once keen, hawk-like blue eyes were now dim and dull. Antonia had never seen him before, but Annie started when he held out his hand to her.
He walked in almost silence back with the two girls, and in a little more than half an hour, Antonia had the pleasure of introducing him to her mother and Nora, who were enjoying afternoon tea together in great contentment and peace of mind. Nora uttered a little shriek when she saw her father. He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. Annie did not follow the Squire into the drawing-room.
"Come, mother," said Antonia, going up to her parent.
"Where?" asked Mrs. Bernard Temple in astonishment.
"Out of the room—come."