The Heiress of Wyvern Court Part 17

"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, n.o.body 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 sh.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed, 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, "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 d.i.c.k.

THE END