AT THE OWL'S NEST--THE SONG--THE SURPRISE.
Inna now had two new thoughts to ponder over. "Remember, there is no
last remedy with a wise unfailing Providence;" "Oscar in God's good
keeping." They came to her with thrilling freshness one day in the
gallery at Owl's Nest, as she wandered from picture to picture, musing
and dreaming.
She was often at the Owl's Nest. Besides going to and fro to lessons,
Madame Giche invited her to stay there for days together; it was good
for her little nieces to have a child companion, and it was good for the
little girl herself, for, as has been said, she moped and grew pale over
Oscar's disappearance. So, although they missed her at the farm, they
were glad to send her there. Jenny Gregory was invited also: quite a
bevy of young people did the four make, wandering through the old house,
not intruding upon its aged mistress, save at stated times and seasons,
but making a pleasant holiday of it; notwithstanding lessons with Miss
Gordon again, and the strumming through of many scales and exercises on
the piano. They never tired of roaming the terraces, where the peacocks
eyed them askance, and spread out their beautiful tails at them as in
proud disdain--those walking flowers of girls, who seemed to vie with
them and their plumage in their pretty bright spring dresses.
Glorious weather had followed Oscar's disappearance. It was May now, and
the other little girls were out in the park, gathering daisies, and
having a romp with Carlo, who would often come self-invited when Inna
was there. But, Inna had stolen away from them, for the rare treat of
being alone in the gallery, to admire and think about the pictures. That
of Madame Giche's son had a strange interest for her, a stranger picture
in a strange house, save for that of his mother keeping it company, like
loving hearts that could not be separated. Those dark, smiling,
beautiful eyes of his thrilled her through; she could not say why they
always made her think of her father and mother; but then, perhaps, it
was because they were strangers in the land of beautiful pictures. At
any rate, the eyes seemed to belong to her, to follow her, as picture
eyes will, with a strange wistfulness; she could but wonder that the
possessor of such beautiful eyes could ever give his mother pain, part
from her in anger, and break her heart. Of this last he never knew; he
sent her a loving message at the end, begging her forgiveness; and she
gave it to him, so far as it can be accorded to the absent and the
dead--but it broke her heart. Then followed her search for his little
son, whom she had never found. If life had no losses, no mistakes, she
wondered where this missing little one was, in that indistinct shadowy
uncertainty where Oscar was. Would either ever be found?
Outside lay the park, bathed in afternoon sunshine; she could see it all
from the side window, and her young companion idling by the moat, where
the marsh marigolds were blooming bright and yellow in the sunshine.
There came a rustle as of a garment, and Madame Giche, leaning on her
gold-headed cane, appeared, travelling towards her.
"You here, my dear?" said she, in her gentle way, laying her hand on the
little girl's bright head.
"Yes, Madame Giche."
"Wouldn't you be better out in the sunshine with the rest, rather than
up here moping?"
"I wasn't moping, dear Madame Giche. I was looking at the pictures, and
thinking about them;" and the child gave a little forced laugh over her
confession.
"Well, what do you think of them all? Now, which do you think is the
handsomest face here?" And Madame Giche gave a sweeping glance round, as
she stood leaning on her stick.
"This is the face I like best," was the child's reply, glancing up at
that stranger face, "save for that of his mother."
"This is the face I like best, my dear, but he broke my heart. Do you
know who it is?" inquired the mother, a thrill in her voice.
"Yes, dear Madame Giche--your son," returned Inna, with a child's
sensitive shame at having listened to so much from Sybil.
"Then--then, you know his story?"
"Yes; Sybil told me. Forgive me, dear Madame Giche, if I ought not to
have heard it. Sybil said I might; it was no secret, when we were
talking of it." Inna's small fingers grasped Madame Giche's thin ones.
"Yes, dear; it is no secret."
The child stroked the hand she held, wondering what she ought to say
next, a tear trickling down her cheek; and Madame Giche saw it.
"Are those tears for me, little Inna?" she asked gently.
"Yes." A shy "Yes" it was.
"My dear, that will never do--young people's sunshine should not be
overshadowed by old people's clouds. Now, do you know what I want you to
do?"
"No, dear Madame Giche."
"To come down and sing to me."
The beautiful mellow-toned piano from the drawing-room had been removed
to the tapestried chamber, and a new one sent from London to fill its
place. Quite little musical parties did the aged lady have, now and
then, of an evening, in the gloaming, the four children, with lights at
the piano, trilling in their bird-like voices some little snatch of a
juvenile song, duet, trio, and sometimes a quartette, their nimble
fingers wandering among the keys the while in a tangle of melody. But of
all the four, their aged listener loved best to hear Inna sing: her
voice was so plaintive, so expressive. The charm lay in this: that she
was always thinking of her mother at such times, and her heart seemed to
speak in her voice. It did to-night, when she sat down to the piano, her
gentle old friend on the hearth by the smouldering log fire.
"Sing that little thing I heard you practising so nicely yesterday,"
came to her across the room. So, with a tinkling little prelude, she
began--
"A daisy wept in the moonlight pale,
And bowed her beautiful head,
And a little white moth came dancing by--
'Why weep, sweet daisy?' it said.
"'I weep for that which can never be,
I sigh for a wider sphere--
Would, little moth, I had wings like thine!
Instead, I am rooted here.'
"'A moth, my life is a sweet content,
But no worthy life for thee.'
'Change!' cried the daisy; 'take my place;
A little white moth I'd be.'
"And lo! the daisy took silver wings,
And forth from the meadow flew;
The little white moth became a flower,
A daisy-cup dash'd with dew.
"The wide earth blessed the changeling flower,
The heavens smil'd down above;
A boundless life was the daisy's life,
Her mission, a lowly love.
"A little white moth, with broken wings,
Came home, when nights were drear,
To breathe her last on the daisy's breast.
She had missed her rightful sphere."
"Yes, dear; it's not so much what we are, or where we are, but what
we're doing, that makes a life of usefulness and fulness," said Madame
Giche, when the ditty came to an end.
"Yes; in filling others' lives we fill our own. Is that what you mean,
Madame Giche?" inquired Inna, leaving the piano, and coming to kneel on
the hearth.
"Yes. The daisy wasn't thinking of what she was doing, but rather of
herself; seeking great things for herself, not seeing--poor little
thing!--that in just blooming where she was placed she was in a way
blessing heaven and earth, and making her own crown; and missing that,
her life was a failure."
Just then in came the three little girls from the park, Miss Gordon with
them.
"Oh, grand-auntie, we've brought such a lovely bunch of marsh
marigolds," cried Sybil. "Jenny has them;" and Jenny came forward,
dropping on one knee to present them, and tossing her hat on the floor.
The kindly old lady patted the yellow-haired fluffy head, taking the
flowers from her, and touching their petals as in fond reverence.
"Children, at the sight of these flowers I always see myself a child
again," said she, a sweet far-away light in her dark eyes.
"And what do you see, grand-auntie--what were you like?" inquired
nimble-tongued Sybil.
"Yes, dear Madame Giche, what were you like?" echoed Jenny.
"My dear, I was just what Sybil is now. I half fancy, sometimes, that it
must be myself, when I see her running about on the terraces."
"But your home wasn't here, grand-auntie," said Olive, surprised out of
her silence.
"No, dear; 'tis the house recalls me to myself. Wyvern Court was very
different from this."
"Was that the name of your home, Madame Giche?" inquired matter-of-fact
Jenny, out of the silence that followed.
"The dearest spot on earth to you--wasn't it, grand-auntie?" prattled
Sybil.
"Yes; our childhood's home is that, I suppose, be it a cottage or a
castle, revisited in imagination at life's close," sighed the old lady.
"And that was your--your womanhood's home--as well," replied Sybil,
hesitating a little to find a suitable word.
"Yes, dear; there I had all my joys and sorrows."
"And now?" whispered Inna, who was kneeling by her side, stroking one of
her soft wrinkled hands.
"It is life's sweet after-glow with me; peace after pain and sorrow,
like the light in the sky after sunset."
"Oh, grand-auntie, how beautiful that must be to you if it is at all
like that!" cried Sybil, pointing at a distant window. Outside lay the
park, the copse, and surrounding landscape, all aglow with the changeful
tints which follow a fair sun-setting.
"Yes, dear; and life's after-glow is even more beautiful than that; for
instead of being the blending of day and night together, it is the
blending of day with day."
"Day with day?" lisped thoughtful Olive.
"Yes; life's beautiful days here with life's long beautiful day
hereafter," returned Madame Giche, her eyes glistening with her own
sweet thoughts. "But come, dears, the present time is the day with which
you have to do, with all its hopes and opportunities. I want you young
larks to sing me the quartette we were talking of the other day. Where
is Miss Gordon?"
"I am here, Madame Giche," came from a distant window. "Do you require
my services?"
"Do you play the accompaniment, and let me fancy myself--where shall I
say, Sybil?"
"Sailing down the river in the park by moonlight, the same as we and
Miss Gordon did last summer," was the ready answer.
Madame Giche laughed.
"But that would be too romantic. Fancy what it would be to come back
from such fairyland doings to find myself an old woman, sitting on her
hearth, with four magpies chattering around her, asking her to make
herself ridiculous."
"I don't think you could be that," said flattering Jenny.
Then the four swept away to the piano, like a breath of a sweet spring
breeze, where Miss Gordon played, and the quartette was rendered fairly
well, Madame Giche sitting, a listening shadow, on the hearth.
"Thank you, dears," said she, when it came to an end, and a servant
announced, "Mary from the farm is come for the two young ladies,
Madame."
"Was it anything like sailing down the river?" asked Sybil, as they all
clustered round her.
"It was very sweet and beautiful," said the old lady kindly; then she
kissed her two guests "good night," and said, "No; not so late," to her
two nieces, when they pleaded to accompany them as far as the
five-barred gate.
Jenny was really a guest at the farm for a few days, sleeping with Inna,
but spending most of her time at the Owl's Nest.
It was just what Inna needed, with her pale cheeks and troubled heart.
"If I only knew _where_ Oscar was, I think I could bear it better," was
her cry. But Dr. Willett had to bear his ifs and regrets in silence, as
best he could, without change or comfort from anything or anybody, save
the going out among his patients. His fine face grew very grave and
sorrowful, his hair was whitening too, as the days glided on into weeks,
and no tidings came of the missing boy.
Down the quiet shadowy drive from the Owl's Nest went the two little
girls and their attendant. Inna little knew to what she was going,
tripping along and talking to Jenny. Clear of the drive, their path home
lay in the moonlight, and not far had they gone when a little wailing
mew came to them from behind a hedge, and then a small white and black
kitten emerged therefrom, and came and rubbed herself round Inna's feet.
She caught it up and fondled it, the knowing little pleader mewing such
a pleased mew then, that you may be sure it went straight to the little
girl's heart.
"Oh, if I might keep it as my very own!" she cried; "but I'm afraid that
Smut wouldn't like it."
"I'm afraid Mrs. Grant wouldn't like it," said Mary, as a stronger
objection.
"Take the kitten home and ask her," advised Jenny; "and if she says
'No,' you could but ask your uncle, and if he says 'Yes,' she wouldn't
dare to say 'No.'"
"I don't think she would wish to say 'No' to anything that she thought
would make uncle or me happy," mused Inna aloud, and in this happy
confidence she hugged the foundling to her, and went on her way through
the moonlight, just as if she was not going home to the unlooked-for,
that which would stir her poor little heart to its centre.
How would she bear it?