DR. WILLETT--THE NUTTING EXPEDITION--THE FIRE.
"So you're Mercy's little daughter?" said the doctor, by way of
greeting.
"Yes," faltered Inna; but she put her hand in his; this Uncle Jonathan,
with whom she had come to live, was all she had in England now, except
Oscar and Mr. Barlow, who was nobody as yet. The doctor pressed her
small hand in his big strong one. Tall--taller than his friend
David--was he, with dark hair and beard--at least, they had been dark,
but were fast turning grey; his eyes were dark, piercing, and observant,
full of fire; still, a kindly face, a kindly manner had he.
"Well, little woman, I've read your mother's letter. I never intended to
be troubled with any more children after Oscar fell to my lot; but for
your mother's sake, and her mother's before her, I can't shut my door
against you. So now stay, and see if you can't open another door on your
own account." This is what he said, still holding her hand in his.
"Do you know what door I mean?" he asked, as the child darted an upward
glance at him.
"Yes," she nodded, "yes." She could not say more, her heart was thumping
so, but her small twining fingers in the doctor's palm told him a great
deal.
He patted her on the head, and let her go; he did not kiss her. Inna
wished he had when, later on, she was in bed, thinking of the many
to-morrows she was to spend in this new uncle's house. Her chamber was
up in one of the gables of the quaint old house; the windows overlooked
the garden and the home orchard, where, in the former, Michaelmas
daisies and sunflowers flaunted in the sunshine when she looked out the
next morning, and apples, rosy and golden, were waiting to be gathered
in the latter. Birds were twittering and peeping at her through the
ivy-wreathed window; away in the stubble fields, under the hills, sheep
were straying, all in a glory of golden light; while rooks cawed and
clamoured in the many-coloured elms by the house and garden, and all
sweet morning freshness was everywhere. You may be sure she soon
dressed, and tripped down the old-fashioned staircase--a dainty midge,
in blue serge frock and white-bibbed apron. Below, she found Mary, the
servant under the housekeeper, laying breakfast in the dining-room; and
while the child stood shyly aloof by a window, in came Mrs. Grant with
the urn, and her master behind her. Inna stepped forward, but her uncle
took no notice of her; he only passed on to his seat at the table, took
up his letters and newspaper, and, as it were, thus stepped into a world
of his own. Oscar stole in like a thief, and began his usual
tea-making--placing a cup by his uncle's plate, upon which he laid
slices of ham, carved as best he could; Inna, at a nod from him, cutting
a piece of bread to keep company with the ham; while Mrs. Grant gave
sundry nods, which the boy understood and returned, then she retired
from the scene. Not a word was spoken during breakfast-time. Oscar
helped himself and Inna to what the table afforded--ham, eggs, rolls,
honey, golden butter--all so sweet and clean and homely.
Before the young people had finished, the doctor rose and went tramping
out.
"Good morning," said he at the door, breaking the spell of silence.
Inna, rising, wished to spring toward him, but he was gone.
"There, he's safe till two o'clock," sighed Oscar.
"Safe?" said Inna.
"Yes; booked with his patients, you know. Some say he has patients on
the brain. I wish them joy of him."
"Don't--don't you like him?" she inquired falteringly.
"Do you?" asked the other, helping himself to an egg.
"I ought."
"Ought! I can't bear that word ought: 'tis dinned into my ears morning,
noon, and night. Now, I tell you what we'll do: we'll fling 'ought' to
the winds, and go a nutting expedition this morning."
In came Mrs. Grant.
"Well, Master Oscar, I should hope you'd go down to Mr. Fane's for
lessons to-day," said she.
"I can't; I've a prior engagement," said he, as loftily as a mouth full
of bread and butter and egg could utter it.
"And what's that, may I ask?"
"I've made a promise to a lady to go elsewhere."
"Oh, Oscar! never mind me; you ought to do your lessons, you know."
"I thought we flung that horrid word to the winds just now. There's no
ought in the case; I had a holiday yesterday, and I mean to to-day. I
mean to take Inna to Black Hole, and round through the woods, on a
nutting expedition--so there!"
This last to Mrs. Grant.
"Very well, Master Oscar; I shall have to set the doctor on to you
again. I hope, Miss Inna, you'll be a good little influence with him and
teach him to obey his uncle."
Oscar laughed, pushed back his plate, and left the table. "Now, Inna,
run and put on your hat and jacket, and we'll be off," said he to the
little girl.
"Go, dear," said the housekeeper, as the child hesitated. "I suppose he
means all right for this once, but he must take the consequence;" and
away went Inna for hat and jacket, wondering if it was right to go.
When she came down, Oscar showed her a packet of sandwiches in the
nutting basket, which Mrs. Grant had cut for them to eat if they were
hungry.
"She isn't a bad sort; her bark is worse than her bite," said Oscar of
her, when the two were well on their way.
On and on--over stubble fields they went, till by-and-by they were
taking a short cut through a carriage drive in Owl's Nest Park, as Oscar
informed Inna. It was a pretty bowery walk, overarched with beeches and
elms in all their autumn glory, and full of the clamour of rooks. Here
they met an old lady in a wheel-chair, pushed by a page-boy--such a
sweet sad-faced old lady was the occupant of the chair, with shining
grey curls peeping out from beneath her black satin hood. She was
wrapped in some sort of fur-lined cloak; and by her side walked two
little dark-faced, shy-looking girls of seven, quaintly dressed in rich
black velvet, very like two wee maidens stepped out of some old
picture, and each wearing a hood similar to that worn by their aged
companion.
[Illustration: "A DONKEY AND CART CAME DRIVING UP."]
"This is Madame Giche--spelt G-i-c-h-e--and her two grand-nieces; a
queer party, all of them," said Oscar, still leading on. "This isn't her
place: she can't live at her own place, they say, all about some trouble
she's had; and so she took the Owl's Nest of Sir Hubert Larch, who never
lives there, on lease."
"Are we intruding here?" inquired Inna.
"Oh, no; there is a right of way: that is, madame gives it, and people
take it. Come on."
He had the grace to raise his hat to the party as they passed them by,
and anon they were out of the park, and on a well-worn road. Here the
sound of wheels greeted them, and a donkey and cart came driving
up--Dick Gregory charioteer, and a girl of about Inna's age seated in
the bed of the cart behind him.
"Why, little friend," cried the boy, recognising Inna, "this is a happy
meeting!" and down he sprang, and seized her hand with a boyish grip.
"How d'ye do, Willett?" this to Oscar, who returned the salutation.
"Now you must be introduced to Trapper. Here, Trapper," said Dick,
turning to the donkey-cart.
"Don't be silly, Dick," cried the pretty little maiden. "You know I'm
not Trapper: at least, only to you, who call me Gin and then Trap and
Trapper. My name is Jenny;" and down she sprang to Inna's side.
"And I am Inna."
"Yes; Dick has told me your name."
"And how is your kitten?" Inna liked the pretty, free, fair-haired,
fair-faced girl.
"Oh, first-rate, thank you, isn't she, Dick?" said she, appealing to her
brother, who was just settling with Oscar.
"Oh yes! We'll just manage a morning of it in the woods; you can show
your cousin Black Hole another time. Isn't what?" he questioned of his
sister.
"Isn't Snowdrop first-rate?"
"Rather," returned he, with a nod at Inna, which made her blush and
laugh.
"I'm glad she's well. And so you call her Snowdrop?"
"Yes; and what do you think of our donkey? We call him Rameses: that's
Dick's choice of a name."
"He's a beautiful creature," returned Inna, stroking the animal's wise
old head.
"Yes," replied Dick, "I'm a lover of old names, so I thought I'd go back
to the Pharaohs. Not a bad idea, was it? though no compliment, I
daresay, to the old fogies."
"No," laughed Oscar; "but never mind about compliments for dead and gone
fogies."
"And what of the fogies of this generation?" inquired ready Dick.
"The same--never mind."
"But come, we must make hay while the sun shines. In with you, you two
girls, into the cart," said Dick, which they did, Jenny helping Inna.
Then up sprang the charioteer, Oscar beside him; crack went the whip,
and off they drove like the wind.
That nutting expedition was like a fairy dream to London-reared Inna;
the lads showed her a squirrel or two, a dormouse not yet gone to its
winter snooze, in its mossy bed-chamber. A snake wriggled past them,
which made her shudder; frogs and toads leaped here and there in dark
places. Then, oh, the whir and whisper of the autumn wind among the
trees! the lights and shadows! Oh, for the magic hand of her artist
father to make them hers for ever in a picture for her bedroom! But the
delight of a morning's nutting must come to an end--so did theirs; the
sandwiches demolished--share and share, as Oscar put it--they bethought
themselves of dinner and the road leading thereto, so once more they
were on their backward way, and parting company.
"Good-bye, mademoiselle!" cried Dick, as Inna stood at Oscar's side,
after she had kissed Jenny, and the two had vowed a girls' eternal
friendship. Then away went the donkey and cart, and our young people
hastened home, just in time for dinner. A meal silent as breakfast was
dinner, so far as they were concerned, for Mr. Barlow and the doctor
kept a learned conversation high above their heads all the time--so
Oscar said; and after it was over the boy vanished, nobody knew where.
As for Inna, she roamed in the orchard all the afternoon in a dream of
beauty, eating rosy apples, followed by tea--she and Mr. Barlow
alone--she making the toast and managing the urn: a living proof of
what can be done by trying, so the surgeon told her. Then he and the
doctor went out, and Inna crept out to the kitchen, to wonder with Mrs.
Grant where Oscar was, and what was keeping him.
"No good, Miss Inna; that boy'll go to the dogs if somebody don't take
him in hand. You try, dearie, what you can do with him," said the
housekeeper.
"I!" cried astonished Inna. She try what she could do with a big boy
like Oscar!
"But hark! that's the fire-bell; there must be a fire somewhere," said
Mrs. Grant, and out she went, with her apron over her head, to listen at
the back gates.
Inna, with no apron over her head, stole out to keep her company.
"Oh my!" said Mrs. Grant to shivering Inna. "I wish Master Oscar was at
home. I'm thinking he's a finger in the pie."
Ah! there was the fire, sure enough; it was a flare and a flame against
the darkening sky.
"What's alight?" inquired Mrs. Grant of a man who went hurrying by.
"Poor Jackson's little farm; they say 'tis going like tinder, and he's
half crazed," came back to them as the man ran on.
"Oh dear! that boy, what he'll have to answer for!" cried the
housekeeper.
"But we're not sure 'tis his work," said sensible Inna.
"No, dear; but there's seldom any mischief going that he don't help in
the brewing of."
Inna was silent, watching the red glare of the fire mounting
heavenwards.