"It will kill father," she said suddenly, in a smothered voice.
She swayed herself backwards and forwards as she spoke, in an ecstasy of pain. Strange to say, she seemed to understand Antonia, and, still stranger, Antonia understood her.
The priestess of art dropped her palette.
"Tell me about your father," she said, quickly; "tell me about yourself.
You and your people have lived here for years--centuries--and it breaks your hearts to go? It"s wonderfully artistic--it savours of mediaeval romance. And you go for a creature like Susan Drummond--shallow as a plate--no soul anywhere about her? She gets your rooms replete with memories, and your dear briary avenues and your fir trees, and this uncultured waste?"
"It"s a paddock," interrupted Nell, who could not quite follow Antonia"s imagery.
"It"s a waste," said Miss Bernard Temple, with fire. "The Towers is untrammelled by man"s vulgar restraint. Child, I do not even know your name, but I think I understand your grief."
"You cannot," said Nell, with gentle dignity--"you are not a Lorrimer.
But I"m glad I didn"t vow to hate you round the bonfire. Now I"m afraid I must go."
"One minute first," said Antonia. "Did you say that leaving this place would kill your father?"
"I"m afraid it will," said Nell. "He won"t come home--mother can"t get him to come back. He came the night he had sold the Towers, and Boris and I saw him; but I don"t think he"ll ever come back again. I think his heart is broken. But I cannot speak of it any longer, please--it hurts me so dreadfully here."
Nell had risen from the gra.s.s--she stood tall and thin and pale by Antonia"s side. When she uttered the last words, she pressed her hand against her heart.
"Good-bye," she said solemnly. "Jane Macalister said I was to be in at twelve o"clock to help her with some darning. Good-bye."
Antonia held out one of her very long, very bony hands. She slipped it round Nell"s waist, and drawing her close, kissed her gently between her eyebrows, then she let her go.
Nell left the paddock; but Antonia did not attempt to finish her interrupted sketch. She sat on, lost in a world of musing. At last she uttered some emphatic words aloud.
"I"m not much use," she said to herself; "n.o.body cares about me, and I care for no one. I love art with a divine pa.s.sion; but art does not need such a poor, feeble disciple. Art can still exist and be glorious without Antonia. I am ugly I know, and I have no genius; but I have got one power--I can get my own way. All my life long, through a queer kind of persistence which is in me, I have got my way. I do not get it because people love me, for I don"t honestly think a soul in the wide world loves me, but I get it because--because of something which I don"t myself understand. It"s a power I"ve got; it"s my one gift. Did mother want me to study art in Paris? No; still I went. Did mother wish me to become grotesque, and to wear a dress like this? No; still I wear it.
Did mother intend me to come with her on Sat.u.r.day to the Grange? No, a thousand times no; still I came. I can twist mother round this finger.
She appeals to me; I counsel her; she asks my advice; she is obliged to take it whether she likes or not. Mother is completely under my thumb.
So it was with the professor who taught me; so it was with the students who worked with me; so it will be in the future with Hester, if I still wish it; and with Sir John Thornton, if I ordain it. They think very little of Antonia now; but wait until they feel my power; wait until I choose to direct them, and--hey, presto--they walk in my paths, not their own. Now I have made up my mind on one point. I have not the faintest idea how it is to be managed; but managed it shall be. Susan Drummond and her father are not to desecrate the Towers with their commonplaceness, their shallowness, and vulgarity. The Lorrimers are still to live here; and Nell"s heart is not to be broken. For the sake of the ugly duckling I do this. How, I know not; but I turn all the power that is in me in that one direction from this hour forward.
"Poor, ugly duckling with the pathetic eyes. I do believe Antonia loves you."
CHAPTER XXIII.
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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s. 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?"