The Heiress of Wyvern Court | Page 7

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.
[Illustration: "A DONKEY AND CART CAME DRIVING UP."]