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."

"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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sure you, my dear, he is not a man to be trifled with."