THE LION AND MOUSE.
No one could be in a more terrible state of complete collapse than poor
Mr. Lorrimer. The blow he had most dreaded had overtaken him. He had
been as plucky an English gentleman as ever walked. As true-hearted and
affectionate a husband and father, as kind and considerate a
landlord--as honourable as man could be in all his dealings--a keen
sportsman, a lover of horses--in short, an ideal squire of the old
school; but the Towers had been his backbone; now that circumstances for
which he was scarcely to blame deprived him of the home of his fathers,
he found himself unable to stand up against the blow. He had made a
gallant fight up to the last moment, but when he saw plainly that the
tide had set in dead against him, he ceased to fight and allowed himself
to drift. He made up his mind that his last memory of the Towers should
be that evening when the old ball-room was full of light and movement,
and when two little fairy-like figures had flitted across the lawn to
greet him. That fairy and that brownie had comforted him on that night
of keen desolation, and their memory lingered with him still. He lived
in cheap lodgings near his club, ate what was put before him, read
nothing, moped away the long hours, and was fast reaching a stage when
serious breakdown of some sort or other was imminent. He desired all
letters to be sent to him to the Carlton, and not only refused to allow
his wife to come to him, but would not let her know where he was
lodging. He promised, however, to join his family when the move from the
Towers had been made.
On the day when Antonia met him, he was feeling more wretched even than
usual. He had never hitherto been a weak or undecided man, but now he
was completely limp--there was no other word to describe his condition.
Antonia's firmness compelled him to obey her, and he found himself
against his will in Nora's company. Nora was not his favourite child;
she was not like Molly to him, nor like Nell and Boris, still she was
one of his children, and his heart throbbed with a great wave of pain
when he saw her.
"My poor little girl," he said, kissing her tenderly, "my poor dear
little girl. I have been a bad father to you, my little Nora."
"Oh, no, no, father," said Nora, sobbing now, and much overcome. "No,
no, dear, darling father; I'm so delighted, so delighted to see you
again."
The Squire sat down on the sofa near Nora, and putting his arm round
her, drew her pretty head to rest on his breast.
"So you are staying in town," he said, "quite close to me; and how--how
are the others, my dear?"
"Quite well," replied Nora "only fretting about you."
"About me? They needn't do that--I'm not worth it. You're sure your
mother is quite well, Nora?"
"Yes."
"And Molly?"
"Yes, quite well."
"And the young 'uns, Nell and Boris?"
"Oh, they're well, only Nell frets a good bit."
"Poor child, poor child; bless her, she's a loving little soul. I
suppose Guy is awfully cut up, eh, Nonie?"
"Oh, father, indeed he's not. Guy is too much of a man--he's splendid,
he is, really. I wish you'd go back again, father, that's all they want.
It's you they want, not the Towers--you are more to them than the
Towers."
"You're a good child to say so," said the Squire; "but I can't go back
at present. When I think of that place going out of the family, I feel
like an unfaithful steward. It was committed to me to keep and to hand
on intact to my boy, and I've lost him his inheritance. You none of you
know what it means; but I can't go back--not at present."
"May I write and tell mother where you are?"
"No; she writes to me to the Carlton--I'm all right; don't you worry
about me, pet."
"You don't look all right--you look very ill."
"See here, Nora, don't you write home and tell them that--promise."
The Squire's manner grew quite fierce. He looked at Nora out of his
bloodshot eyes. "Promise," he said. "I won't have it done--do you hear?"
"No, father, of course I won't if it vexes you."
"It does, my child, it does," the Squire's manner became tenderer than
ever. "I'm worried and in trouble at present, and I am best alone; I am
best all by myself for a bit. God knows, I suppose I shall pull round
after a bit, and face you all--that poor boy whom I've ruined, and the
rest of you--but I must get time--that's only reasonable--I must get
time. Now I'm off; I'm glad to see you looking well, Nora."
"But you'll come and see me again, father; you promise, do promise that
you'll come and see me again."
"Yes, my child, if you wish it."
"To-morrow; promise you'll come to-morrow. Antonia made me write to ask
you to come to lunch, and I sent the letter to the Carlton. Will you
come to lunch to-morrow?"
"No; I can't do that, but I'll look in some day. Good-bye, Nora,
good-bye, my pet."
The Squire put his arms again round Nora, kissed her on her lips and
brow, and left the house.
Antonia, who was trying to keep her mother quiet in the dismal
dining-room, heard him slam the hall door after him, and rushed to the
window to watch him down the street.
Mrs. Bernard Temple went and peeped over her daughter's shoulder.
"I am glad he has gone," she said. "It's so trying to be turned out of
one's drawing-room. He's very seedy about his clothes, but he has an
aristocratic walk. I suppose I may go back now, Antonia, to finish my
cup of tea."
"Oh, yes, mother, all in good time. What does tea signify when you see a
man broken with an awful grief of that sort? Why, he looks like a
captive lion. Mother, cant you get enthusiastic on the subject? Can't
you try?"
"I'm sure, my dear, I have tried, but I cannot really see that it will
injure the Lorrimers for me to finish my tea. With all I am undergoing
on my own account at present--but of course, Antonia, you have no
sympathy for your mother."
"Oh, yes, I have when you need it, but you don't just now; you are
perfectly happy. However, you must of course have your tea, and I won't
worry you any more after you have sent off the telegram."
"The telegram! Oh, you erratic, perverse child; what next?"
"You have to telegraph to Sir John, mother, to beg of him to come here
immediately. Things have gone much farther with Squire Lorrimer than I
had the least idea of. He must be put out of his pain as quickly as
possible or something bad will happen. We must get my new father that is
to be on the spot to-night, and if you don't telegraph for him I shall
myself take the next train to Nortonbury, and tackle him on the subject.
I don't in the least mind which it is, but one or other must be done
directly."
"Antonia, you quite terrify me. Sir John will be seriously angry."
"What of that. Let him be angry."
"But I assure you, my dear, he is not a man to be trifled with."
"Oh, I'll manage him, mother, if you're nervous."
"I really think you must. I have not the courage to make or meddle in
this matter; in short, I wash my hands of it."
Antonia clapped hers.
"Hurrah!" she said. "I can manage much better all by myself. All I ask
you now, dear, good mother, is to trust me. Be sure that nothing
whatever will happen to injure you, and simply give me leave to say,
when I am telegraphing, that you would like to see Sir John."
"Well, naturally, I always like to see him, dear, devoted fellow."
"That's all right. Now you shall go back to your tea, and I'll be as
mum as a mouse for the rest of the day."
Mrs. Bernard Temple left the room, relieved at any sort of truce with
her troublesome daughter. Antonia addressed the telegraph form to ...
_Sir John Thornton, The Grange, Nortonbury_, and filled in the following
words:--
"Mother wants to see you without fail this evening. Take next
train. Important. Antonia. Reply paid."
The words went hard with the enthusiastic girl, for her precious eight
shillings were nearly exhausted, and she knew that she must deny herself
some sadly-needed cobalt if she sent that telegram.
"Never mind," she said, as she let herself out of the house, and rushed
off to the nearest post-office. "You must do without that background of
blue sky which I so wanted for your picture, Marie Antoinette. It is
odd, but I never did think that I would allow Art to suffer in the cause
of an ugly duckling."
Antonia sent off her telegram and watched anxiously for the reply. It
came in the course of an hour and a half, and was addressed to her
mother.
"Expect me by the train which reaches Waterloo at nine o'clock,"
wired the gallant Sir John.
"There, now, Antonia," said Mrs. Bernard Temple, "you have only yourself
to blame. What is to be done? We shall be at the theatre at nine
o'clock."
"Nothing could possibly be better, mother; I shan't go. I shall wait
here for Sir John; we'll have a nice quiet time."
"My dear, I'm afraid he'll be terribly offended."
"No, mother, he won't; at least, not with you. Now, do go the theatre
and be happy. Take Annie and Nora, and let them enjoy themselves. I
promise you that you shall have serene skies on your return. Can't you
trust me? Did you ever find me fail you yet when I promised you
anything?"
"No, I never did, you queer, queer creature."
Mrs. Bernard Temple was restored to good humour. Dinner passed off
pleasantly, and immediately afterwards a cab conveyed three of the party
to the Lyceum.
Antonia had donned her rusty brown velveteen dress, and sat with her
hands folded in front of her in a deep armchair.
Her black hair was combed high over her forehead; her eyes were bright.
Anxiety had brought a slight colour into her cheeks; she looked almost
handsome.
At about twenty minutes past nine a cab was heard to stop at the door,
and a moment later Sir John Thornton was ushered into the drawing-room.
"How do you do?" he said, in a stiff voice, to Antonia. "Where is your
mother? Her telegram has startled me a good deal."
"It was my telegram," said Antonia, in a calm voice.
"Well, that does not matter. Will you have the goodness to inform your
mother that I am here?"
"I can't very well at the present moment, for she is enjoying herself at
the Lyceum."
Sir John's face grew scarlet. He drew himself up to his stiffest
attitude, and compressed his lips firmly together.
"Perhaps you feel annoyed," said Antonia, "and I don't think I am
surprised. Will you sit down and let me explain matters?"
"Pray do nothing of the kind. I can wait until Mrs. Bernard Temple comes
home. When is the play likely to be over?"
"I expect mother and Annie and Nora back about half-past eleven. It is
now half-past nine. Have you had dinner?"
"No."
"Will you come downstairs, and let me give you something to eat?"
"No, thank you. As your mother is not at home, I shall dine at my club,
and come back later on."
"No, you won't," said Antonia.
She started up, and placed herself between Sir John and the door. He
felt himself groaning inwardly. Was that awful girl mad? What did her
strange telegram mean? And why, if Mrs. Bernard Temple sent for him in a
hurry, had she not the civility to wait at home to see him? This was
really taking matters with a free-and-easy hand with a vengeance. The
proud Sir John had never felt more thoroughly angry in his life. He
stalked up to Antonia now, and endeavoured to pass her, but she dodged
him successfully.
"I know you are a gentleman," she said; "and a gentleman always listens
to what a lady has got to say, even when he is angry with her. I'm an
awful personage in your eyes, but if you will listen to me to-night, I
will promise to be as good and unobtrusive as girl can be in the future.
I'll even wear ordinary dresses when I come to visit you, and I won't
talk of my sacred Art when you are in the room. There, can girl promise
more?--can she?"
"Will you have the goodness to let me pass?" said Sir John.
"I will in a moment or two. You shall go and dine at your club after you
have heard why I sent for you."
"Why _you_ sent for me?" exclaimed Sir John.
"Oh, yes; it was all my doing."
"But the message certainly came in your mother's name."
"Yes, because you would not have come otherwise. It was I, Antonia, who
really sent for you. You have come up to town in this violent hurry on
my account. Now, will you come down to eat a very nice little dinner
which has been prepared, and which the cook is waiting to send upstairs,
and let me talk to you while you are enjoying it? Or will you listen to
me here, and then go afterwards to your club? You must do one or other,
unless you are rude enough to take me by main force and move me away
from the door."
Sir John Thornton might be very angry, but he was the pink of propriety,
and the idea of lifting the bony Antonia from the neighbourhood of the
door was too repellent even to be thought of for a moment.
"You have got me into a trap," he said, "and I am deeply offended. Your
mother must explain the position of affairs to me when she chooses to
return home. I suppose I must listen to you, whether I wish it or not. I
only beg of you to be brief."
"Now you are delightful," said Antonia. "Won't you sit down?"
"I prefer to stand."
"Well, I'll sit, if you don't mind, for I've a good deal to say."
"I must again beg of you to be brief."
"Very well; I'll put it into a few words, but they'll be strong, I
promise you."
Sir John made no response. He folded his arms and looked down at
Antonia. His face looked very cold and satirical; his lips were so
tightly shut as to appear like a straight line. Antonia's face, all
enthusiasm and fire, gazed up at him.
"Can I melt that iceberg?" she said inwardly. "Now for the tug of war."
"This is the heart and kernel of my reason for wishing to see you," she
said. "I have taken up the cause of the Lorrimers. The Lorrimers are
leaving the Towers because Squire Lorrimer has got into money
difficulties. I don't know how, and I don't know why. He is obliged to
sell the beautiful and noble home of his ancestors to clear himself of
these difficulties. The children are all sorry to go--Molly loses the
freshness of her youth when she leaves the Towers; Guy loses his
rightful inheritance; the younger children are embittered by an
unnatural feud which I need not trouble you about, but which will sour
their characters; Nell is not strong, and simple grief may shorten her
days; and the Squire, the Squire himself is so cut up, so heart-broken,
that he cannot bring himself to say good-bye to the old place. He is in
town, here, close to us; he is hiding somewhere near us because his
proud old heart is broken. His hair is white ... his head is bowed and
his eyes are dim."
"What does all this mean?" interrupted Sir John.
"What does it mean?" exclaimed Antonia, springing like a young lioness
from her chair. "It means that you are to come to the rescue. Why should
all that family be made wretched? and why should the Towers go to
strangers when you can put things right? Take your money out of the
bank, or wherever you have placed it--it will be the finest deed you
ever did in your life--and buy back the Towers and give it to Squire
Lorrimer and to Guy for their own place again. Yours is the talent
buried in the ground. Take it out and save the Squire, and you'll be so
happy you won't know yourself. Why, you'll be all on fire and alive with
gladness. There, that's what I telegraphed to you for; you know now.
You'll do it ... of course you'll do it. I have spoken now. You know
what I want."
Antonia sank down into her chair again. She was trembling visibly
through all her slender figure. Sir John gazed at her in amazement. Her
eyes met his fully, and then her heart gave a leap in her breast. He was
not angry. She guessed then that she had won her cause.
"You certainly are a queer girl," he said, sitting down near her. "You
amaze me. I never heard of a girl who would take up a thing in this way
... and the Lorrimers are not even your friends. Oh, no! I am not angry
... not now. Hester frets morning, noon, and night, at the thought of
parting with Molly; but Hester never thought of this. It is fine of
you--quite impossible, of course; but I always admire real bravery when
I see it."
"Never mind praising me," said Antonia; "tell me why you call it
impossible."
"My dear young lady, do you think for a single moment Squire Lorrimer
would accept a gift of this sort from me? Do you think the Towers would
be of the least value to him won back in such a way? _Noblesse oblige_
would prevent his accepting such an offer."
"I have thought of all that," said Antonia. "I guessed that there would
be a good deal of pride to overcome. Fortunately I am not bothered with
_noblesse oblige_; but I guessed that you county people would worry over
it. We art lovers never think of it; we rise above it; we go back to the
old, old, _old_, times, when those who loved each other had all things
in common."
"As long as we live in the world," said Sir John, "the men of the world
must adhere to its usages. It is not the custom for one man to present
another with the sort of gift you propose that I should favour Squire
Lorrimer with."
"Then you must not give it in the form of a gift. You must go to your
solicitor and consult him about the matter. I happen to know that Susy
Drummond hates the Towers, so I am quite sure that Mr. Drummond would be
very glad to be out of his bargain. The Squire wants a certain sum of
money; you must lend it to him on very easy terms. Oh! of course you
know how to manage! You must make it possible for him to stay at the
Towers whatever happens. Oh! I know you'll do it! I know you'll be
clever enough and kind enough to do it. You'll think of a way, and in
all the world no man will ever have a more faithful daughter than I'll
be to you. Dear me! how dead tired I am! Are you going out to your club
to dinner? If so, I'll go to bed."