The Heiress of Wyvern Court Part 11

"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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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."