Chapter 4

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.

"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.