Part 43 (1/2)

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.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

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 circ.u.mstances 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.”