NEW THOUGHTS AND WAYS--THE HEIRESS OF WYVERN COURT.
Spring again, and Oscar and his uncle had been out round the farm. The
boy was somewhat spiritless and weary-looking; he could not be
pronounced to be ill or really weak now, yet there was something wanting
in him which ought to have been there, making him more atune to
spring-time.
His face was not much the worse for its battering on the rocks. He was
still a good-looking youth, as Mr. Barlow told him one day; to which
Inna responded, as the boy was silent, that she was glad, because nice
looks were nice. This made Oscar laugh at last, and remark that nice, as
used in the sense she used it, was only a girl's way of using it. Yet he
could be grumpy still, though there was certainly a change for the
better in him in that way.
As for Inna, she had been like a little shadow about him all through the
winter, sitting by him through the long, cold, snowy days in the
dining-room, he on a couch by the fire, she on a footstool, reading to
him, chatting, working out puzzles--she and he together--and heaping up
the fire till it blazed again. Once they had an earnest talk of that
which was always making Oscar's heart heavy and his brow gloomy, of the
time when he would have to take to the farming.
Thus Oscar was, in a way, prepared for what his uncle said to him after
their walk round the farm that fine spring day.
"Oscar, do you know why I've taken you round the farm to-day?"
The boy had thrown himself listlessly on a couch near the fire.
"Yes, I suppose to remind me of what I'm to be," returned he.
"Well, yes, you have guessed rightly; and, my boy, has it ever struck
you that you're not fitted for what you want to be?" asked Dr. Willett,
doctor-like, going to the point at once, and so saving suffering.
"Yes, I know I'm too big a coward for it; and I suppose other people
know it as well."
"No, not a coward, Oscar--events have proved that not to be correct. For
instance, no coward would have saved that child at the fire; yet they
told me you fainted as soon as 'twas done. The doctor at Bulverton
Hospital wrote me that he thought there was something peculiar in the
formation of your brain: what happened at Swallow's Cliff proves the
same thing, and confirms my opinion of you, formed years ago--that your
head would never do for climbing giddy heights, nor steer you through
dangers in safety to yourself or to others. So, my boy, your sailor
dream will have to be set aside."
"It was more than a dream, it was--it was----" the boy broke down and
sobbed, burying his face among the pillows of the couch.
There was silence for a while, and when Oscar looked up he saw a tear
trickling down his uncle's cheek, as he stood with his back to the fire.
"Uncle Jonathan, is that tear for me?" he asked, in wistful surprise.
"Yes, my boy; because I know what you are feeling. My life has been a
silent one--too silent perhaps--but there are things that I, too, have
missed in that same life. I doubt if there are many lives without the
miss and the loss."
Something prompted the boy to stretch out his hand toward his uncle, and
he took it with such a warm grasp.
"Uncle, I'll be a farmer; I've intended to tell you so for
days--only----"
"Well, never mind, we understand each other now; and let me say this
much, Oscar: the humdrum farm-life, as I've heard you call it behind my
back"--Dr. Willett smiled somewhat sadly--"won't be so humdrum as you
think, if you make of it a life work--a something to be handled nobly,
and made the most of. A tinker's life could be hardly humdrum with that
end in view."
"If I were a tinker, no tinker beside
Should mend an old kettle like me;
Let who will be second, whatever betide,
The first I'm determined to be,"
came jingling through the boy's brain, and made him smile.
"Yes, uncle, I see; thank you for speaking out." He raised his uncle's
hand to his lips and kissed it, as a girl might have done; the distance
between him and his uncle was bridged over at last for ever.
"You see, I never thought Uncle Jonathan cared for me before," he said
to Inna afterward.
And now Inna seemed to walk on air; going here and there about the farm
with Oscar, who was too weak for study still, but trying with all his
might to take an interest in what was going on out of doors.
"A good long voyage would cure him of his sea-fever, and quite set him
up for hard work," remarked Mr. Barlow to the doctor; and both wondered
if it could be managed.
* * * * *
Well, in the midst of all this, home came Mr. and Mrs. Weston one fine
May day, like swallows, to make Inna's summer complete. They arrived
suddenly, as travellers often do, the letter that was sent to announce
them making its appearance the morning after they were at the farm--for
such things do happen now and then.
Now the days followed on indeed like a happy dream to Inna, she and her
mother comparing notes together, and joining the threads of their
divided lives again. Mr. Mortimer spirited her father off to London, for
they all came in a bunch to the farm; Mrs. Mortimer also accompanied the
gentlemen; but when the business which took them there was arranged,
they were to return to keep holiday with Mrs. Weston and Inna.
Meanwhile, the little girl introduced her mother to Madame Giche and her
nieces, and showed her, at her aged friend's request, the fine old
house, took her to the picture-gallery, to hear the story of Madame
Giche's son, who broke her heart; and if Mrs. Weston's very soul was
stirred within her, hearing the sad tale and looking at its poor dead
subject's face, nobody knew it--she kept it to herself. Then back came
the three from London, like happy children, to join the rest.
"With his house full of company, the doctor felt bound to come out of
his shell to entertain them," as Mr. Barlow remarked to Oscar.
But Dr. Willett was quite equal to playing host, and taking the lead in
all the clever talk going on at his table, between his old friend, who
slily looked amused--an artist, a gentleman with a rich wife, and a
beauty--and two ladies; the younger members hearing, and saying
nothing, but wondering at Uncle Jonathan's ease and eloquence. But there
came a break to this; Madame Giche would like Inna to bring her artist
father and his friend to the Owl's Nest, to be introduced to her, and to
see the pictures, some of which were supposed to be good.
So one day they all went, Inna feeling the importance of the part she
had to play, and hoping she should come out of it all gracefully. Ah!
she need not have disquieted herself. Sweetly gracious was Madame Giche,
wrapped about with a black lace shawl, sitting by the wood fire in the
tapestried room, and rising in her stately way when Inna led the
gentlemen in, holding a hand of each, and saying--
"Madame Giche, this is papa, and this is Mr. Mortimer."
Little dreamt she what would follow, nor they either. Inna fancied she
heard her aged friend murmur, like an echo, her last word, "Mortimer!"
as she glided from them, to stand by her side, then----
"Hugh!" they all heard that: 'twas like a musical wail of gladness; and
Madame Giche sank into her high-backed chair--like a snowflake was her
face for whiteness--and fainted.
"She is dead! Madame Giche is dead!" sobbed the little girl, but Long,
whom they hastily summoned, said--
"No, miss; 'tis only a faint," and asked if the gentlemen would carry
her to her chamber, so that she could be revived in quiet.
This Mr. Weston did, lingering with his little daughter and Mr. Mortimer
on the terrace outside, to hear tidings of the poor lady's state before
leaving. Here a servant came to them before many minutes had passed,
though the time seemed long to them in their perplexity. Madame Giche
was better, she said, but begged them to excuse her seeing them now, and
would they come by appointment to-morrow, at ten o'clock?
You may be sure Inna lived in a state of continual excitement and
curiosity, so mysterious was Madame Giche's fainting fit to her, for the
remainder of that day and until ten o'clock on the morrow; and when she
saw the two gentlemen set forth alone for the interview, she not being
needed now, she felt like a very inquisitive little girl, who did not
half like being left behind and so not to see and hear what might
happen next.
In the meantime, the two arrived at the Owl's Nest, and reached the
tapestried room, where Madame Giche, still like a snowflake for
paleness, and sweetly weak and trembling, received them, not rising from
her chair this time. Ah! well, it was no time for ceremony. Question
followed question from the poor old lady's lips as to who was Mr.
Weston's father, when born, his real name, and so forth, until the
artist sat down and told her his story--for he had one.
"My father was a gentleman, and died rather suddenly in Italy, when I
was three years old; my mother followed him three weeks after, of a
broken heart, 'twas said, and I was adopted by a friend of my father's,
an artist, named Welthorp, a great traveller, but kind and good, who
took me to Australia--in fact, almost all round the world--and finally
to London, where he and his wife died--both died while I was a mere lad.
But I had learnt to dabble and paint, and so, making the most of my
knowledge, have managed by degrees to struggle up to what I am."
This was his meagre story.
"My father? no, I never knew who he was, nor his name--not Weston; Mr.
Welthorp knew that much--but my father was a reserved man: he never
mentioned who he was, nor what his position or property, not even to
him. I've heard he sent a message to his mother when dying, but----"
The interruption came from Madame Giche, who suddenly clasped his hand,
crying, "That ring, where did you get it--say?"
"It was my father's ring, all he had to show of his former life, so to
speak;" and Mr. Weston took the ring from his finger like a man in a
dream--a costly gold ring, studded with diamonds.
"It is my dead husband's ring; I gave it to my son to wear in memory of
him when he attained his eighteenth birthday," cried Madame Giche. "See
here"--and her trembling fingers touched a spring--"here are their
initials, my boy's and his father's." Ah! yes, there they were, there
was no denying it.
Denying it! sweet-eyed, eager old lady, she led them to the gallery, and
made them look at that all-convincing portrait of her son, over which
unconscious Inna had dreamt so often, longing for her mother, she
scarcely knew why, while it was her father's face spoke to her mystified
little heart. Ah! it was as clear as the light of day before Mr. Weston
and Mr. Mortimer left the Owl's Nest that morning. Mr. Weston was the
rightful master of Wyvern Court, and Inna its heiress to come
after--Madame Giche's great-granddaughter.
* * * * *
There was a right joyful Christmas keeping at Wyvern Court that year: it
was all joy, peace, and home-coming to Madame Giche; all a fairy dream
to Inna and the twins, to have Dick and Jenny as their guests, Dr.
Willett, Mr. Barlow, and Oscar coming up for the Twelfth Night.
"I say, who would have thought you'd prove to be the heiress of Wyvern
Court that day when I met you in the railway carriage?" said Dick
Gregory--he, Jenny, Inna, the twins, all out on the terrace, in the
moonlight, at the old court, listening to the bells on Christmas
evening.
"I didn't know it myself," returned Inna. "You see, papa's illness and
all was like the cloud with the silver lining."
"Your cloud was lined with gold, Miss Giche," remarked Dick, "and no
mistake!"
"It is _our_ cloud as well--mine and Olive's--isn't it, Inna dear?"
spoke Sybil, clinging to the new little heiress's hand. "We are to be
co-heiresses, all three, and grand-auntie knows how."
"Oh, ay! share and share, like dividing one apple between the three of
you; but Inna is _the_ heiress," said Dick.
THE END
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| |
| Transcriber's notes: |
| |
| Obvious spelling/typographical and punctuation errors |
| have been corrected after careful comparison with other |
| occurrences within the text and consultation of external |
| sources. |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenations (school-boy/schoolboy, fire-light/ |
| firelight, bed-chamber/bedchamber) have been retained. |
| |
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