THE SQUIRE’S HALL.
THE Squire sat in his library, surrounded by his books and papers; and
Dr. Lighton sat opposite to him in earnest conversation. The Manor House
of Arlingham was a fine old mediæval house, picturesque both without and
within. It was built of red sandstone, and its irregular outline,
mullioned windows, and an air of peaceful antiquity, delighted all
lovers of bygone days and their relics, whilst the interior of the old
house was just what would be expected from the appearance it presented
from without. The rooms were low, rather dim and dark, irregular in
shape, yet delightfully cosey and comfortable. The stairs were of
polished oak, as were the floor and walls of the panelled hall. There
was nothing new in that house, nothing bright, staring, or incongruous.
The stained glass windows admitted a rich, dusky light, and the peculiar
stillness and peaceful hush that often rests upon old houses whence all
young life has fled pervaded all the rooms and corridors of the Manor
House at Arlingham to an unusual extent, and no one could step within
the shadows of the hall without being instantly conscious that they had
entered a place whose life was rather a memory of the past than an
active present.
The Squire had lost his wife and all his children many years before.
Arlingham still spoke with bated breath of that terrible year when
cholera visited them, and, whilst the Squire and his lady were doing all
that money and skill and benevolence could accomplish to succor their
poorer neighbors, the awful visitor entered their own doors, and within
a week the sweet lady all had learned to love was lying dead, as well as
her two eldest boys—fine lads, the pride of Arlingham; and before the
death angel had stayed his hand, mother and five children—all her little
ones—lay sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the Squire, a hale man of
but forty summers, was left quite alone in his desolated home.
In one week his hair, which had been black as the raven’s wing, had
turned as white as the driven snow; but otherwise no great outward
change had fallen upon the Squire, and he had taken up the duties of his
position with a strong hand and resolute will, only betraying the depth
of his wound by his increasing distaste for any kind of society save
that of his own people, with whom his duties brought him in contact, and
his increasing shrinking from partaking in any of the amusements and
social relaxations common to those of his position and standing.
It was fifteen years now since the date of the fatal year that had cost
him so terribly dear,—fifteen years, and yet the memory of his loss was
still green in his heart, and, although he never spoke of it, his
servants, and indeed all Arlingham, knew that he had not forgotten, and
never would forget. He had lived his life alone, true to the memory of
those he had loved, and he would live it alone to the end.
He had many friends, but few intimates. He was universally liked and
respected in the county, but distances were long, his habits those of a
recluse, and visitors were rare at the Manor House. Young Mr. Lighton,
who had lately settled in the neighborhood, was a distant connection of
the Squire’s, and partly perhaps on that account, partly from a
similarity in some of their tastes, partly because the elderly man was
sincerely kind-hearted and knew that the place was very dull and quiet,
the young physician had been made more welcome at the Manor House than
any one else had been for many long years; and he had grown to
understand thoroughly the nature and character of the white-headed,
keen-eyed Squire.
He often dropped in after dinner for a little chat, as he had done on
this occasion.
The library was a very comfortable room, with its walls warmly lined
with books, its two great oriel windows, and the wide hearth, where in
the evenings, for the greater part of the year, the great logs blazed
cheerily, sending out showers of sparks that were whirled upwards into
the dark cavern of the huge, old-fashioned chimney.
Dr. Lighton liked this room, with its flickering lights and shadows, and
its central object of interest, the stalwart figure of the Squire, with
his snow-white head, his fine, handsome face stamped with the indelible
lines of a great sorrow heroically borne, and his commanding air that
had lost but little of its youthful strength and firmness,
notwithstanding the years that had rolled over his head.
The young physician enjoyed his evening talks with the Squire as much as
any part of his day’s work, but on this particular occasion his thoughts
were less engrossed by his host than was usual, for he had another more
pressing matter on his mind.
“Undoubtedly a very interesting case, I should say; and a remarkable
one, too,” observed the Squire, after hearing the doctor’s story. “What
do you imagine will be the end of it?”
“The end, if the child is left in his present surroundings, will be that
he will pine away and die,” answered the young man, with a little
impetuosity. “It is plain as daylight that he is a gentleman’s son, and
has been reared up in every luxury. Every day proves more clearly how
utterly unfitted he is for his life; and of course the poor woman cannot
keep him always. The money you kindly sent down has kept her so far from
feeling any loss by her goodness to the child; but she expects her
husband and sons home shortly, and then she must turn out the little
stranger. The cabin is barely large enough for the family as it is;
besides, it would be unreasonable to expect her to adopt the little
waif. She is not in a position to do it.”
“Decidedly not. What is to become of the child? I suppose the parish
will be responsible for him.”
Dr. Lighton looked quickly at the impassive face of his interlocutor.
“It would be absurd to send a boy like that to the workhouse,” he said,
in the same slightly impetuous manner. “He is a gentleman’s son, every
inch of him. His voice, his manner, his appearance, all show it. Any day
he may be able to recall the past,—it may all come back like a flash,
although I admit that the process may be much more tedious,—and it would
be sheer cruelty to have turned the child into a pauper and made him
rough it with a lot of lads no more like himself than chalk is like
cheese. If you were only to see the child, Squire, you would understand
my meaning.”
The Squire turned his gaze full upon the young doctor’s face.
“And why do you tell all this to me? You have some reason. What is it?”
Dr. Lighton knew by the expression of the Squire’s face that the time
had come to speak out and say exactly what he did mean.
“I will tell you,” he said, frankly; “you may think I am taking an
unwarrantable liberty, but, if so, I can only crave your pardon. You are
the great man of the place here, the Squire, and the friend of the
people. A little waif has been cast up almost at your doors, and, until
he is able to remember his past history and assist in his own
identification, somebody must in common humanity give him a home and
look after him a little. He is obviously of gentle birth, and wants the
gentle treatment to which he has been used. You are the only wealthy man
in the place, the only friend to whom I can plead my cause, for you know
what Lady Arbuthnot is like. I thought you might be willing to take an
interest in the boy, to let him come here for a time perhaps, and give
him a temporary asylum until his own home could be found. Rather than he
should go to the parish, I would take him myself; but a bachelor in
small lodgings is at a great disadvantage; whereas this house is large,
and the staff of servants in all ways adequate to the wants of more than
a solitary—”
A quick spasm of pain contracted the Squire’s face. The young man saw it
and paused.
“I hope I have not taken an unwarrantable liberty in making the
suggestion,” he said.
A few minutes of silence ensued before there was any answer.
“You have surprised me a little, I admit,” answered the Squire; “but
there is force in what you say. I believe I am the right person to see
after this waif. Legally, of course, there is no claim upon me; but I
admit the moral claim.”
Dr. Lighton’s eyes brightened.
“You are very good to say so.”
“Not at all. I do not profess I want the child here; I shall not see
much of him if he comes. I have no disposition to look at the case
sentimentally; but you appeal to my sense of justice and hospitality. A
small atom of humanity has been cast up at our doors, and I, as the
Squire of the place, admit that my door is the one that should open to
him.”
“I confess I hoped you might see it in that light,” admitted Dr.
Lighton. “I trust you will not consider I have been intrusive in saying
so much.”
“Not at all. You have only done your duty promptly, whilst I have been
inclined to be slack in the performance of mine. You consider it
probable that the boy’s memory will return shortly?”
“I should be quite inclined to think so, and all the sooner for a return
to civilized life. Some chord can hardly fail to be struck, and at any
moment a flash of memory might bring the whole past back. Nobody can
pronounce a decided opinion in such cases; but my own feeling is that
such a state of mind will only prove a temporary phase, and that he will
soon be able to give a rational account of himself.”
“Very good,” returned the Squire; “the sooner the better for me; but
until that time comes he shall have a home here. I will send for him
to-morrow.”
“You are very good,” answered the young man; “I feel personally
grateful.”
The Squire smiled a little.
“You seem to take an interest in the child.”
“I do. The case is interesting professionally for one thing, and there
is undoubtedly something interesting in the boy himself, as you will see
for yourself when he comes.”
The Squire’s face had put on an expression not easy to read.
“I shall hardly be likely to see much of him myself,” he said, with an
odd intonation in his voice. “Children are not in my line.”
And then he turned to his table, leaned one elbow upon it and his head
on his hand, turning over some papers with an air of deep abstraction.
Dr. Lighton knew by instinct that he was a good deal moved, little as he
betrayed it, by the revival of some memories of the past. He judged it
advisable to take his departure, and he did so at once, the Squire, who
still appeared abstracted and unlike himself, offering no remonstrance
to this early move. Indeed, he hardly seemed to notice his guest’s
departure, and returned his farewell with unusual brevity.
When he found himself alone, he rose from his seat and began pacing the
room slowly backwards and forwards with measured tread.
Presently he paused, and rang the bell with a certain force and decision
of touch, and when the gray-haired butler appeared in answer to the
summons he merely said, briefly,—
“Send Mrs. Pritchard to me.”
Mrs. Pritchard was the housekeeper now. She had been nurse to the
children in bygone days, and had served in the family ever since she was
a slim girl of fifteen. She was a stout, buxom woman now, with a
pleasant face and a respectful manner. Her master trusted her
implicitly, and she never betrayed his trust.
“Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, quietly, “be good enough to be seated for a
few minutes.”
The Squire was sitting himself now in his customary chair. Mrs.
Pritchard did as she was bid, and sat down facing him.
“No doubt you have heard, Mrs. Pritchard, of the little boy at the
fisherman’s cottage, who was washed up after the storm the other day,
and can give no account of himself?”
“Ay, sir, I have, poor lamb! I saw him on the shore the other day with
David. My heart fairly ached for him, that it did.”
The Squire smiled a little.
“Your heart was always tender, Mrs. Pritchard. Well, what did you think
of the child?”
“A little gentleman born, if ever there was one,” answered the worthy
housekeeper, with some warmth. “He was dressed just like the other boy,
in old patched clothes, but the difference between them! Why, the little
one was on his feet almost before he knew I was speaking to them, and
took off his cap as pretty as could be, and answered so gentle, and
quite like as if he’d been used to company all his life. Poor lamb, it
isn’t fitting he should stay in such a place. The look in his eyes
fairly haunts me, it does. I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Well, Mrs. Pritchard, I have been hearing the same story from other
quarters. What should you say to having him here to take care of, until
he can tell us where his own home is?”
The housekeeper’s face brightened visibly.
“Do you really mean it, sir?”
“Certainly. Dr. Lighton has spoken upon the subject, and I agree with
him in thinking that this house should be the one to shelter him until
we can discover something about him. Are you prepared to put up with the
trouble of having a child about the place for a few weeks?”
“Oh, sir,” cried the good woman, clasping her hands together in a sudden
outbreak of feeling, “if there is one thing would make me happier than
another, it would be to have a child to tend and care for again!”
The Squire turned his face slightly away; he took out his keys and began
fumbling in the drawer of the table before him.
“Very good, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said at length, after rather a long
pause, and speaking with manifest effort. “Then you had better make all
necessary arrangements, and get the nurseries ready for him by
to-morrow. He had better live there entirely, except when he is out of
doors. You will arrange all that; but understand that I do not care
about seeing him all over the house.”
“Yes, sir, I will take care of that,” answered Mrs. Pritchard, with
ready comprehension.
“And you must get him whatever he wants in the way of clothes,”
continued the Squire, handing across a crisp bank-note. “You had better
have the dog-cart, and get William to drive you both in to Twing
to-morrow morning. Buy whatever is needful for the present, and order
what you cannot get at once. The child must look as he should whilst he
stays under my roof.”
Mrs. Pritchard rose and curtsied and took the money held out.
“Thank you, sir,” she said; “I will see that your wishes are carried out
to the best of my powers.”
She withdrew, and the Squire was left alone with his books and his dying
fire. The night was merging into day before he roused himself from the
reverie into which he had sunk, and extinguished the lamp that had grown
pale in the feeble glimmer of coming dawn.
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