INNA AT THE OWL'S NEST--MORE WRONG STEPS.
But that strong unseen Hand, so often stretched out in our great
extremities, was stretched out now, although only for the saving of one
little girl. It guided the boy to the spot where the poor little
floundering bundle rose to the surface, helped him to play the hero, and
to snatch her from those yawning watery jaws, that would fain have
swallowed her--she was shudderingly near to her end, but after a time he
grasped her tightly, and drew her to him.
At last he was landing after such a brief long struggle, his burden in
his arms, on the dreary bank, little dreaming that any spectator was
watching him play the man. Yet there were four--Madame Giche, her
nieces, and Phil, her page; and all four came bearing down upon him,
chair and all, as he laid Inna down among the rough grass a moment, to
just take breath, shake himself, and then home, or the poor mite would
die of cold. Her eyes were closed, and she looked very death-like, as it
was.
"Take her to the house, to the Owl's Nest," came the command, with the
tone of authority, from the depths of Madame Giche's black hood.
"I thought of taking her home," returned Oscar without ceremony.
"Yes, young people think a great many wrong thoughts; but if you take
her to the house, you'll be glad in an hour's time you did an old
woman's bidding," was the decisive reply.
Oscar caught up the insensible girl in his arms in moody silence; truth
to tell, he would be glad to get her into something dry and warm; she
certainly did look death-like.
"Do you know the short cut to the house?" inquired Madame Giche.
"Yes, thank you; I know."
"Can you carry her, or shall Phil help you?"
At this, he might have been the giant-killer in the old nursery tale,
carrying poor little Jack, by the way he took up his burden, and struck
away for the boundary of the park; a curt "No, thank you," ringing back
over his shoulder in scant courtesy as he went.
Then Madame Giche's party turned and went homeward by a less direct
road, because of her chair, and Black Hole was again deserted. Madame
Giche, however, despatched Phil to run forward with her message to the
servants, that the child was to be taken in and attended to; her nieces
propelling her along at a brisk canter, because she wished to be herself
early on the spot. So Phil and Oscar mounted the north terrace together.
Phil gave the alarm, the servants flocked out, and Long, Madame's own
maid, took possession of Inna, and bore her away to her own little room,
next to her mistress's bedchamber, on the first floor. Of course, Oscar
loitered about outside, on the terrace, like a lad in a book, to wait
for tidings; he was there when Madame arrived, and assisted her up the
steps, he on one side, Phil on the other, because a trembling fit,
brought on by the shock, was upon her. A frail little mite of a
gentlewoman was she between the two sturdy lads, her nieces, like meek
little handmaids, following behind them.
"Now, boy, if you're mad, I'm not. Come in and take off those wet
garments, and put on some of Phil's." So she half commanded half
persuaded him, still grasping his arm with her clinging fingers.
And for once the boy obeyed, and submitted to be so equipped, Phil
taking him under his especial care and leading the way to his bedroom.
Anon, when he descended the stairs, longing for tidings of Inna, Phil
grinning slily behind him at his second self, out stepped Long from
somewhere, and told him the little lady had come out of her swoon, and
they had given her something comforting, and tucked her up in bed.
"Madame Giche's compliments to Dr. Willett, and they would take good
care of her till to-morrow." Then Phil appeared with a cup of steaming
coffee, which Long made him drink before he left; then he set forth
homeward.
Willett's Farm was more dreary that evening than ever before, with
little cheery Inna away, if she had only known it. But she was sweetly
sleeping all the evening, in a bed hastily wheeled in to keep company
with Long's; and when, at midnight, she awoke to find herself there,
Long bending over her, the fire-light rosy on the hearth, a shaded lamp
somewhere behind her, you may be sure she felt like a story-book
heroine, not herself. Still she was herself, and when she had taken some
soup, been told that Oscar had gone home, and she was at the Owl's Nest,
she fell asleep, and woke the next morning to breakfast in bed. After
this she dressed herself, and went down to form the acquaintance of
Madame Giche and her grand-nieces.
"And so you're none the worse for your wetting, my dear?" said her
hostess, drawing her to her, and kissing her, after the little girl had
gone up to her, as she sat by the log fire, and timidly said--
"Good morning, Madame Giche. Thank you for being so good to me."
The child assured her that she was none the worse, her rosy face
testifying to the same.
"Then, dear, don't think about thanks. You are quite a pleasant surprise
visitor to us--lonely people; to me and my two little shy nieces, who
will be the better for having a little girl friend. Let me introduce
you; they're on the very tip-toe of waiting."
Then the two wee maidens came round from behind their aged relative's
chair, and were introduced as Olive and Sybil. Two dark-haired,
brown-skinned damsels were they, in quaintly cut velvet frocks, with
frillings of lace at throat and wrists.
"Now see, dear, it's pouring with rain. Do you think you could be happy
as our guest to-day, or must I send you home in the carriage?"
questioned Madame Giche.
They were in what was called the tapestried chamber, a room lined with
needlework, done by dead fingers of long ago: those of some of the
ladies whose portraits Inna was to see by-and-by in the grand staircase,
and the gallery running round the hall.
"I should like--what would you like me to do, ma'am?" faltered Inna.
"We should much like you to stay, dear," returned Madame Giche, still
holding her hand.
"Then, thank you, I should like to stay."
So it was decided, and Olive and Sybil, the twin sisters, drew away
their guest to look at pretty foreign ornaments, in profusion all about
the room.
"All grand-auntie's own," as they told her, "which we brought from
abroad. You see, this isn't our own home, but grand-auntie took it on
lease from a gentleman we met abroad. Grand-auntie has lived abroad for
years and years, ever since her heart was broken." So they chatted, and
enlightened Inna.
This was in the afternoon, after they had lunched with Madame Giche in
the tapestried room, and had wandered away up into the picture-gallery,
to look at some of the pictures.
"There, that is grand-auntie; isn't it like? That was done abroad," said
Sybil, who was the talker. Olive was sedate and somewhat silent.
There was no mistaking the sweet aged face peering down at them from the
canvas, and Inna said so.
"And that is grand-auntie's son--he who broke her heart, you know. He
disappointed her, went abroad, married, and died," whispered the child.
"Ah! whisper it," so she expressed it, "because it is all so sad.
Grand-auntie was never reconciled to him, you see, and so can never make
it up in this world. He had a wife and a little boy, and grand-auntie
has searched Europe over, she says, and can't find them."
A dark, handsome, wilful young face had Madame Giche's son, as seen in
his portrait--a young man just on the threshold of manhood. Inna stood
to gaze at it, wondering what it was stirring the depths of her
sensitive little heart, and filling it with a lingering pain.
"Grand-auntie says these two pictures have no right here, and calls them
alien pictures among aliens, because the house isn't ours and the
pictures don't rightly belong here; but she took her son's portrait with
her in all her travels, and her own was done abroad, and of course she
brought them here."
"His wife wrote the letter telling of his death, and that he asked
grand-auntie to forgive him--and that was all. She has never been able
to find the wife nor the son."
"'Tis sad," sighed Inna; "because she might have been so fond of the
son."
"Papa's portrait is at Wyvern Court--that's grand-auntie's own place,
you know. Grand-auntie says we shall be twin heiresses by-and-by."
"And your papa is--" here Inna flushed at her inquisitive question.
"Dead; and mamma too," said grave-browed Olive.
"Do you like living at the farm with your uncle?" inquired sprightly
Sybil.
"Yes; only I haven't been there long--and--and a grand-uncle isn't like
a grand-auntie," said Inna.
"And Dr. Willett hasn't got a broken heart," returned Sybil; "I suppose
doctors don't have broken hearts."
Well, the three dined in state at six with Madame Giche; the children
were having a rather free-and-easy time of it, for their governess, Miss
Gordon, was away nursing somebody ill, and so they did very much as they
listed, so long as they did not weary their aged relative.
What a charmed life was that into which Inna took her one day's peep,
and the outcome of it all was that when Miss Gordon returned she was to
go up to the Owl's Nest, and have lessons with the twins. Meantime, she
often spent a day there, and was brought home of an evening in the
carriage; then Sybil and Olive came for tea at the farm, and, after a
delightful evening spent in roasting chestnuts and the like, went back
in their turn in the carriage, the happiest girls, perhaps, alive. Thus
for a time all went merrily as Christmas bells; but one morning Oscar
broke the pleasant spell by announcing, "I'm not going down to Mr.
Fane's to-day," as Inna waited for him at the door to walk as far as the
Rectory gates with him, on her way to the Owl's Nest, her seat of
learning.
"Oh! I wish you were," said Inna.
"Why?" gruffly.
"Because you ought; because 'tis right."
"Oh, bother right! I'm not going; in fact, I can't. Dick Gregory's
coming over; there's to be steam threshing in the yard, no end of fun,
and I can't disappoint him. Besides, it can't be far wrong; doing it
under uncle's very nose;" and away went the boy, out of sight of his
cousin's reproachful eyes.
When Inna came home from the Owl's Nest in the evening, a drizzling rain
had come on. Oscar was absent somewhere with Dick Gregory, the two
gentlemen still out; so after tea the little girl sat down with her
knitting somewhat drearily by Mrs. Grant's side, with tears not far
from her eyes, because her cousin would persist in taking these sudden
and backward steps.
"I know he's to be a farmer, but there, even farmers mustn't be
blockheads of dunces, as Oscar'll be if he don't alter," said Mrs.
Grant.
"To be a farmer?" inquired Inna.
"Yes, dearie, that's why his uncle is keeping on the farm. He talked of
selling or letting it years ago, when it fell to him by heirship, but he
didn't, but kept it on and on; and when his brother's orphan came to
him, he said he'd keep it for him, if I didn't mind seeing to it a few
years longer; and I said I didn't, being a farmer's daughter. I think
I've made a better farmer than--than your uncle," laughed the good
woman. "So the farm is for Master Oscar."
"So Oscar is to be a farmer," mused the little girl, hearkening for his
coming, as she sat by the wood fire, while Mrs. Grant went presently to
attend to the two hard-working doctors, just come in.
In he came at last.
"Well, Master Oscar, I hope you've had your swing," said the
housekeeper, meeting him in the passage.
"Yes, I have; and now I am going at once to make it straight with the
doctor," he peeped into the kitchen to say to Inna. "That's a step in
the right direction, you must confess;" and was gone.