The Heiress of Wyvern Court Part 5

"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 ap.r.o.n over her head, to listen at the back gates.

Inna, with no ap.r.o.n over her head, stole out to keep her company.

"Oh my!" said Mrs. Grant to s.h.i.+vering 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.

CHAPTER IV.

OSCAR'S BURNT ARM--BLACK HOLE.

"You see, dearie," went on the housekeeper, "he's playing truant these two days, and I don't like to bother the doctor, and get him into trouble. I hide what I can, in pity for his friendlessness."

"Hasn't he anybody but Uncle Jonathan?" inquired Inna.

"No, dearie; father and mother both dead, leaving him not a penny.

'Twould have been a sad life but for master, as I tell him; but I think that sets him more against the right than ever."

"Suppose you weren't to tell him, but ask him to do his studies, and--and right things, for love of duty and love of pleasing you?"

suggested Inna.

"That's where it is. I think if he had a sister--now, if you were to get him to love you, you'd be able to do anything with him. Love for anybody is a mighty power, though 'tis said to be like a silk thread--something not seen, but felt--you see, 'tis stronger than it seems."

"Yes," sighed Inna; "mamma says a loving heart will find work to do anywhere. Yes, mamma, I will try," said she inwardly, thinking of her last talk with her dear mother, and that only on the evening before yesterday, so short, and yet so long a time ago.

Well, Oscar did not come, so the two went in, leaving the fire to flare itself out. Neither did Dr. Willett and Mr. Barlow return. It was quiet anxious work, sitting there by the log-fire, hearkening to the ticking of the old clock, waiting for someone who did not come--someone up to mischief, as Mrs. Grant said. Out she went again, with her ap.r.o.n over her head.

"Burnt to the ground, dearie--burnt to a tinder, is the farm: so Sam, our carter, says; and 'twas done by some idle boys lighting a bonfire of dry furze near." This was her report when she returned to the kitchen.

Then they heard the master and Mr. Barlow come in, and the housekeeper went to carry them in supper. Ten o'clock, and they were going out again, Inna heard them say. The little girl now stole out herself to the back gates; there, in the shadow of the wall, she saw a moving shadow.

"Oscar!" She spoke his name; and Oscar stepped out into the moonlight beside her.

"Where have you been?" she ventured.

"Where I like."

"Yes; but have you seen the fire?"

"Yes, I suppose I have."

"Did you--did you have----"

"Did I have a hand in setting it alight? Ah yes! there you go--you're all alike."

"No, Oscar; no, but----" her small hands were clinging to his arm.

"Hands off!" cried he, shaking her off, as if he could not bear her even to touch him.

His sleeve was in tatters, she felt, before he shook himself free.

"I want you to do something for me," said he, gloomily enough.

A startled "Yes," was the reply.

"Go and get some oil and some flour, and come up to my room--you know your way in the dark, don't you?"

"Yes, I think----"

"Think! be sure, and be quick!" With this grumpy injunction he swung himself away, hugging the shadows, and so into the house and upstairs.

Tap! tap! Gentle little Samaritan--she had the oil, if not the wine; and when he bade her enter, she saw that she had indeed to bind up his wounds. He stood with his arm bare to the elbow--a poor scorched arm, from which charred skin was hanging.

"Now, see here: mix some flour and oil into a paste in this pomatum-pot, and spread it on this handkerchief; then bind it on to my arm, and hold your tongue. Can you do it, do you think?"

"Yes;" and the small girlish hands soon had the plaster ready.

"Poor arm!" said she, as the boy winced at her kindly but bungling dressing.

"Fudge!" scoffed he.

"Oh, I wish you hadn't had anything to do with it!" tearing a handkerchief into strips to bind it on with.

"Yes, that's all you know about it. What has Mother Peggy been saying about me? I'm the dog with a bad name; I suppose she's hanged me."

"No; she said only kind words of you--at least, what she thought were kind."

"Oh, ay! everybody is kind after that fas.h.i.+on, I suppose. Now, about holding your tongue?"