Chapter 6

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.