TRUTH AND FIDELITY.
Hester and her party returned to the Grange in time for lunch. All the
way back Antonia was silent. They drove home by another road; they
passed a bog of extreme desolation, and some larger and wilder briars
than ever; they skirted a melancholy common, but Antonia never made an
observation; her whole gaze was turned inward; she was looking so
intently at the picture of a sorrowful child, that she was blind to
everything else. Susy was decidedly in a bad temper; Hester's brave
heart was full of aches, doubts, and fears; and Annie was again going
back to that unsolved problem of how she was to get back the ring for
Mrs. Willis.
The return party was, therefore, a dull one; although no one noticed the
other's dulness, each being so occupied with her own thoughts.
Mrs. Willis was to leave the Grange immediately after lunch, and Hester
and Annie were to accompany her to Nortonbury in the landau.
Just as the carriage drove up to the house, Mrs. Willis remembered the
ring and spoke to Annie.
"My dear," she said with a smile, "I am leaving the house without my
ring. It is too late now to send it to Paris to be copied; but as I see
you never wear it, I may as well take it back with me to Lavender House.
You know, my love, how much I value that ring. I feel quite lonely
without it."
Annie's pretty face turned pink.
"But I should like to wear it before I go back to school," she said,
"and you promised that I might have it during the holidays."
"So I did; well, I will say nothing more. Be sure you take good care of
it and give it back to me on the day of your return to Lavender House."
Annie promised with a light heart. The holidays were to last for another
week, and what might not happen in a week? She laughed quite gaily, and
springing lightly into the carriage, seated herself by Hester's side. As
she did so, her eyes encountered the grave dark ones of Antonia fixed
fully upon her. There was a curious expression round Antonia's mouth
which puzzled Annie and gave her a momentary sense of discomfort.
The drive, however, through the pleasant summer air revived her spirits,
and on the way home she had so much to talk over with Hester that she
naturally forgot the ring and her anxieties with regard to it.
When the girls returned to the Grange they found the whole party out of
doors enjoying afternoon tea on one of the lawns. Susy was swinging
backwards and forwards in a large American chair. Nora was lying on a
low couch slowly fanning herself. Mrs. Bernard Temple, looking very
handsome and stately, was pouring out tea for the rest of the party and
looking down at Sir John, who was lounging on the grass. Antonia was
sitting with her back straight up against an oak tree, her eyes were
half shut, and a very full cup of tea was on her lap--the tea was in
extreme danger of being spilt, but Antonia cared nothing for any of
these things.
As soon as ever Annie and Hester appeared in view Miss Bernard Temple
sprang suddenly to her feet. Of course the cup of tea came to instant
grief. Sir John uttered an exclamation of decided annoyance; Nora
exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Bernard Temple, what a mess you have made of your
dress!" and Susy roused herself sufficiently to shake a playful finger
at Antonia.
"Oh, Tony, Tony, how killing you are," she said; Mrs. Bernard Temple
looked aggrieved but said nothing, she knew Antonia too well.
"How am I killing?" exclaimed Antonia; "this will shake off: that is the
good of a shabby black dress--it stands anything. Miss Forest, I
particularly want to speak to you; I am glad you have come home."
She went straight up to Annie and tucked one bony hand through her arm.
"Come," she said, "let us retire somewhere--I am anxious to talk to
you."
"But I want my tea first," said Annie. "I am really very thirsty."
"How material," exclaimed Antonia; "well, I'll wait--be quick."
She marched a step or two away, and leant against the wide trunk of the
oak tree.
Annie felt provoked. Antonia's queer glance returned uncomfortably to
her memory.
She took her tea, therefore, in greater haste than usual and then, going
up to Miss Bernard Temple, told her she was ready to listen to anything
she had to say.
"Come, then," said Antonia; "we must have solitude. Where is the most
solitary spot?"
"We can walk up this rise," said Annie--"here, where the path is. There
is a summer-house at the top of this hill, where we can sit. But I
cannot imagine what you have to say to me."
"It's simple enough," said Antonia; "I wish just to inform you that I
know something."
"I expect you do," said Annie, with a light laugh; "several things, most
probably."
"Something about you," pursued Antonia, in a firm, hard voice.
"Indeed? How interesting!" Annie's tone was not quite so comfortable
now.
"I'll tell you what it is," continued Antonia, standing still, facing
round and turning her melancholy gaze full on Annie: "you have not got
the ring."
"What ring? What do you mean?"
"The ring Mrs. Willis asked you to return to her. You did not return it,
because you had not got it You would have returned it if you had it--you
are not the girl to care enough about rings just to keep it for the sake
of wearing it. I know what has happened--you have sold or pawned the
ring."
"How can you know?" exclaimed Annie, in a voice almost of fear; "how is
it possible for you to tell? You don't know anything whatever about
me--how can you tell?"
"Intuition," replied Antonia, in a light voice. "I can see farther than
most people when I choose to see. Intuition and experience. Do you
imagine that I, in my chequered career, have never had to part with a
jewel. Once, when in Paris, I sold my hair. I had no money to buy canvas
and colours, so I went to a barber, and he cut it quite short and gave
me a napoleon for it. Ah! that nap, that darling nap, how I loved it!"
"You are a very queer girl," said Annie.
"That's neither here nor there," replied Antonia. "I didn't take you
away from the others to speak of myself. I have watched you since I came
here, and I can see that you are a very bright, clever girl; also, that
you are pretty, according to modern ideas. You are not true art, by any
means; but what of that? I know that you are in trouble about that ring,
so you may as well confide in me."
"But will you tell?" asked Annie.
"Tell!" said Antonia, with scorn. "I don't ask for confidences to repeat
them again--that is not Antonia Bernard Temple. Art is my mistress--art
exacts both truth and fidelity from her disciples. You need not fear
that I will tell."
"You are a queer girl," replied Annie. "I'm sure you will not tell. Yes,
I am in trouble about the ring, and I don't mind confiding the trouble
to you."
"Sit down here, then, on the bank," said Antonia, flinging herself on
the grass as she spoke, "and state the case as briefly as possible.
Where and when did you pawn the ring?"
"Oh, I didn't pawn it--it wasn't done by me; and, as things have turned
out, it wasn't really pawned at all. This is the story."
Annie told it in a few forcible words; Antonia listened attentively,
taking in all the facts.
"And thirty-two shillings would get you out of this scrape?" she said,
in conclusion, looking fixedly at Annie.
"Oh, yes, indeed. If I had thirty-two shillings, I would pay Mrs. Martin
and get the ring back, and when I return to Lavender House I would tell
everything to Mrs. Willis. I would tell her what I have done, and how
badly I have acted. At present there is a cloud between us; and she is
my best, my kindest, my most valued friend. What I cannot bear to
do--what I cannot stand--is to have to tell her that I pawned what was
not my own, and at the same time not to be able to give her back the
ring."
"I partly understand," said Antonia in a slow voice; "I partly grasp
your meaning. The pawning of the jewel is to me a mere nothing. I have
had chequered times when the tea-pot and even the coffee-pot have been
sold for the sake of a quarter of a cake of cobalt or of rose-madder,
but then the tea-pot and the coffee-pot and the hair which grew on my
head were undoubtedly my own. I cannot understand your taking another's
property, nor your being deceitful about it. The paths of deceit are
shut doors to me, naturally, who am a disciple of the great and divine
Art. I mention this as an incident, but whether I understand you or not
scarcely affects the case. I am willing to help you if you will help me.
I can manage to get you thirty-two shillings, perhaps not to-day and
perhaps not to-morrow, but certainly before you return to your school."
"Oh, you are good!" exclaimed Annie, whose pretty cheeks were like
peonies, for Antonia had managed to make her feel terribly small and
contemptible.
"No, I am not good," replied Miss Bernard Temple, "and I am not doing
this in any sense for you. I do it because I wish to be in your
confidence, as I think you can be a useful ally. I have a delicate
mission before me, and I see that you may be very useful."
"A mission?" said Annie, looking up in surprise.
"Yes; there is a great deal at stake, but I believe that, difficult as
the undertaking is, I may be permitted to succeed. I want to wrest the
Towers from the hand of the Philistines."
"What _do_ you mean?" exclaimed Annie.
"In other words," continued Miss Bernard Temple, "I want to keep the
Lorrimers in the home of their ancestors and to make those shallow
Drummonds stay in their own place."
"I suppose we all want that," said Annie; "but how can you possibly do
it? You have no power."
"So you think, but you are mistaken; I have a great deal of power. Now,
will you help me?"
"To do this? Yes. With all my heart and soul."
"That is good. I don't wish to say anything to Hester Thornton nor to
Nora Lorrimer, nor to any of the Lorrimers, nor least of all to Susan
Drummond. I think I can manage Susy, for I am up to some of her pretty
little vagaries. I can also manage mother, and mother has a good deal of
influence in a certain quarter just now. You are a sort of outsider, and
yet you are very friendly with everybody, so you can render me very
important help; but, of course, you clearly understand that fidelity is
my motto, and you know also that your mission will be one of extreme
delicacy."
"I have plenty of tact," said Annie. "I most faithfully promise to
reveal nothing, and I will do everything in my power for you. I begin to
believe in you. I think you are a wonderful girl."
"Don't say that," said Antonia, with solemn impressiveness; "if there is
one thing more than another that gives me intense pain, it is praise. I
am but the meanest disciple of great Art. I am doing this in the cause
of Art. Now, I am not going to tell you what my plan of campaign is, at
least, not to-day, but I want you to make certain inquiries for me. I
want you to try and discover all you can from Hester with regard to her
father's wealth, and all you can from Molly with regard to the
Lorrimers' difficulties; and you are somehow or other to get the address
in London where Squire Lorrimer is now staying. Have all this
information ready for me by to-morrow morning. Now you can return to the
others; I am going back to the house."