A LITTLE INTRUDER.
THE Squire’s study had a westerly aspect and as evening drew on the
sunset rays streamed into the quaint, quiet room and flooded it with
golden light. The old calf-bound books upon the long rows of shelves
took all manner of rich hues, and the picture over the fireplace,
representing a beautiful woman with two fair children beside her, seemed
to awake to a new and smiling life.
The Squire had been a little less self-possessed than usual upon this
particular day. Work seemed irksome to him. He had not been able to give
undivided attention to his bailiff’s accounts of the farm and stock, and
shortly after he had finished his lunch he ordered his horse and set out
for a ride over the estate, feeling that air and exercise would be more
congenial to him in his present mood than any sedentary work could be.
He did not examine into his state of mind, nor ask himself why it was
that he was disturbed and unlike himself; but he recognized that such
was the case, and accepted it without comment or question.
He returned home as the sun was slowly sinking in the west, and went
straight to his study as usual, but when he stood upon the threshold he
stopped suddenly short and stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed with
intent scrutiny upon something in the room that appeared to give him the
keenest surprise.
Nothing very remarkable to other eyes was presented by the spectacle
of that quiet room bathed in the golden sunset, only upon the
cushioned seat of the great oriel window sat a little boy with a
delicate-featured, pale face and a pair of wistful dark eyes.
The child leaned his head against the window and gazed intently out upon
the western sky, painted with all the gorgeous hues of sunset; and he
was evidently entirely unconscious of his present surroundings or that
his solitude had been invaded.
The Squire stood for some minutes gazing fixedly at the little intruder.
A frown had quickly clouded his face when his eyes had first fallen upon
the childish figure; but as he stood there in the shadow of the doorway,
and noticed the perplexed and settled sadness of the boy’s expression
and the hungry, unsatisfied longing in his earnest gaze, the frown
slowly faded and a more gentle look came into the weather-beaten face.
Still, discipline was discipline, and orders were orders; the child had
no right to be there, and the Squire was too much the master in his own
house not to feel a passing sense of displeasure at this direct
infringement of his commands.
He walked forward into the room and settled himself in his usual chair,
without taking the least notice of the child perched up in the
window-seat.
Minutes flew by, and still the silence remained unbroken. The Squire
turned over his papers, but he did not master their contents in his
usual rapid way. His ears were keenly alive to the faint sounds that
proceeded from the window behind him, and an impatient wish that Mrs.
Pritchard would come and claim her little charge rose more than once in
his mind.
This ignoring of the child’s presence in the room seemed even to himself
strained and unnatural; and yet he had no business to be there at all,
and the Squire knew that it would never do to encourage such a breach of
discipline.
Suddenly he was aware that a small soft hand was laid upon his own, and
a sweet little voice said, in accents of eager, tremulous surprise,—
“Grandpapa!”
The Squire turned quickly in his chair to meet the pleading, earnest
gaze of those liquid brown eyes fixed upon him with an almost pathetic
intensity.
“Grandpapa!” said the child again, but this time with more of distressed
uncertainty in his tone, and the delicate little lips began to quiver as
the boy glanced up into the unresponsive face before him.
“Why do you call me that, little boy?” asked the Squire, gravely.
The child’s hand was pressed to his forehead, his eyes brightened
unnaturally.
“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly, and a tear gathered upon the long
lashes.
After all, the Squire was a father, and, although that very fact made
the sight of the boy painful to him, he was not on that account
hard-hearted, nor could he look with an unmoved countenance upon the
distress of a little child.
He drew the little fellow gently between his knees, and it seemed as if
there was something in the fatherly touch that went home to the heart of
the lonely child in some overpowering way, for he suddenly laid his head
against the Squire’s shoulder and burst into convulsive weeping.
There was something very touching in the nameless sorrow of the little
lonely child, who was so utterly forsaken in the great world, without
home or kindred or even a name to call his own. His partial realization
of his anomalous position gave a pathos to his distress that raised it
above the level of ordinary childish grief.
The Squire could have found it in his heart to wish that he had not been
the recipient of this burst of sorrow, but he could not for a moment
refuse to comfort the child, who clung to him as to a natural protector.
He put his arm round the sobbing boy, and by and by said, in kindly
accents,—
“There, there, my little man, there, there! Do not cry so bitterly. What
is it all about? Let us see if something can’t be done to make it
better.”
The tone rather than the words seemed to soothe the agitated boy; his
sobs were slowly checked, and, although he did not lift his head from
its resting-place upon the broad shoulder, the little frame ceased to
tremble so convulsively and gradually became still.
When the child’s tears seemed fairly conquered, the Squire put him a
little farther away and looked at him steadily, with an intent
expression upon his fine, commanding face.
The little boy looked up timidly, but he did not seem alarmed by the
glance he encountered. Children have a marvellous instinct in
distinguishing between the sternness of an inflexible yet just and
kindly nature and that of harshness and tyranny.
His wistful glance travelled upwards till it rested upon the snow-white
hair that gave to the Squire a more venerable appearance than his years
indicated, and again a little smile shone out from the sad eyes, and the
same word sprang in a whisper to the lips that quivered yet with the
past fit of weeping,—
“Grandpapa!”
“So that is to be your name for me, is it?” questioned the Squire,
kindly. “Very well, it will do as well as any other. And what am I to
call you?”
The child’s hand went up to his head.
“I don’t know,” he said, pitifully.
“Well, then, I must think of something for myself. You have given me a
name, so I must give you one. What shall it be, I wonder? Shall we say
Bertie? That gives us a certain license, you see, and does not commit us
to anything very definite, eh, Bertie?”
The child smiled a little uncertain, tearful smile. The name did not
appear to arouse any associations; but still it was something to have a
name again.
“And now, Bertie, tell me why it was you came here at all? Where is Mrs.
Pritchard?”
“She is having her tea. She left me in the nursery, and said she should
soon be back. I came down-stairs to go into the garden, and then I saw
the door open, and the books, and I came in to look. I like a library; I
always used”—but here the look of bewilderment swept over the boy’s face
again, and he concluded, confusedly, “I mean, nobody was there, and it
all looked nice and quiet, and so I came in and sat there, and then you
came back, and I thought—”
“Never mind, never mind what you thought,” interposed the Squire,
hastily, for the look in the child’s eyes was painfully bewildered and
strained. “Tell me if you know who I am.”
“You are the Squire,” answered Bertie, promptly, looking more natural
and childlike again. “I saw you ride out on your big brown horse to-day;
and yesterday I saw you walking in the garden and telling the men what
to do. Mrs. Pritchard says that all this big house belongs to you. Are
you ever lonely living here all by yourself?”
The Squire looked down into the child’s upturned face, and a curious
shade passed over his own.
“What do you know about being lonely?” he asked, in an odd, muffled
voice.
Bertie put his hand over his eyes; and then, after a moment’s pause,
looked up again smiling.
“I was lonely down by the sea with David. He was very kind, and I liked
him, and so was his mother. But I was lonely with them. It isn’t half so
lonely here with you.”
“You are not lonely, then, with Mrs. Pritchard in the nursery, I
suppose?”
Bertie hesitated.
“Mrs. Pritchard is very kind,” he said, with a little courtly air that
was almost amusing,—“very kind indeed; but, somehow, this feels more
_natural_, you know.”
The Squire, as he found the child grew more composed and quiet, began to
return to his former state of mind as regarded his position in the
house.
“But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery is your room, and
that this is mine. You must not come here without leave.”
The child’s face put on a look of distress and perplexity.
“Isn’t this a library!” he said.
“Yes; this is my library.”
“I always used to sit in the library when I wanted to,” he said,
appealingly. “I never did any harm. I like the smell of the books, you
know. Ours used to smell just the same.”
“Yours?” interrogated the Squire, hoping to elicit some further
intelligence.
“Grandpapa’s,” was the prompt response; but there Bertie stuck fast. The
moment he _tried_ to recollect anything, everything fled away in painful
confusion; reminiscences sprang unconsciously to his lips, but eluded
him pitilessly the moment he tried to arrange his ideas and seize upon a
memory of the past. The tears again stood in his eyes, and he put up his
hands, crying piteously,—
“Oh, why can’t I remember? Why does it all run away so fast?”
The Squire had to turn comforter again.
“Never mind, little chap, it will all come back of itself some day.
Don’t you worry your head over it; that will make matters worse instead
of better. Ah! and here comes Mrs. Pritchard, looking for her lost lamb.
She will wonder what has brought you here.”
Mrs. Pritchard’s face expressed a good deal of alarm and confusion as
she appeared in the doorway, guided there by the sound of voices.
“Indeed, sir, but I’m truly sorry!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea the
child had left the nurseries. I truly am most—”
“Never mind, never mind, Mrs. Pritchard,” answered the Squire, quietly.
“Children will stray, and I do not expect you to alter your usual
routine on his account. Take him away now; but if he is a good boy, you
may dress him and send him down to dessert. He will be all the better
for a little more change, and will have less time to think.”
Mrs. Pritchard looked deeply gratified, and thanked the Squire as if he
had been conferring some personal favor upon herself.
“We have settled upon a name for him, Mrs. Pritchard,” continued the
Squire. “He is to be Master Bertie, until we know any better. He will be
wanting his tea now; you had better take him away.”
Bertie followed the housekeeper obediently, and the Squire was left
alone to his own meditations, and as he turned to his papers he sighed
once or twice.
“Poor little fellow!” he said; “poor little fellow! Well, I suppose it
will all come right some day soon. Very odd turn of affairs altogether.”
Meantime Bertie was silently discussing his substantial nursery tea,
whilst Mrs. Pritchard sat by, busy with her needle.
By and by the little boy spoke.
“Was it naughty of me to go into grandpapa’s library, Mrs. Pritchard?”
The good woman started visibly.
“The Squire’s library, you mean, dearie?”
“Yes, I know he’s the Squire; but he seems like grandpapa, you know; and
he said I had found a name for him, and then he found one for me.
Grandpapa is a nicer name than Squire, you know. I don’t think I ever
knew a squire before.”
“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to be sure, he is always kind
and good. But, Master Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave.
It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.”
Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said nothing. The look upon
his face touched his kind friend, and she added, reassuringly—,
“It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, dearie, but he’s had a
deal of trouble has the Squire, and there’s some things as it hurts him
to talk of, and one of them is children.”
Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of eager intelligence.
“I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why do children hurt him?”
“Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of his own; and there
came a dreadful sickness here one year, and they all five died within a
fortnight; and the Squire has never been the same man since, and no
child has ever set foot inside the house, till you came three days ago.”
Bertie’s gaze was very intent.
“Did they _all_ die?”
“Ay, that they did, and the mother too; and he was left all alone.”
Bertie looked dreamily out of the window.
“What is dying?” he asked.
Mrs. Pritchard hesitated how to reply; and Bertie gave the answer to his
own question.
“Isn’t it when God takes people away with Him that people say they are
dead?”
The ready tears had started to Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes.
“Ay, indeed ’tis so, Master Bertie dear; but we’re sadly given to forget
that.”
“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Bertie, slowly, “but I can’t remember
who told me.” He looked hard at Mrs. Pritchard and asked, earnestly, “Do
you think God knows all about me?”
“Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.”
“I wish He would let me remember,” said the child, wistfully. “Do you
think He will?”
“Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all He sends us trouble
sometimes. You can ask Him, you know, when you say your prayers
to-night; you can ask Him any time.”
Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes glowed strangely.
“Somebody said—” He paused, and then went on again, “Somebody said that
we must not choose ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t
remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, you know, in the
garden, when He said “Thy will be done,” to everything. I must say “Thy
will be done” too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I know
they said that—I can’t have made it up.”
He was growing distressed, as he so easily did when the vanished memory
eluded his grasp; but Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace
and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child was himself again, and
looked at her with a smile.
“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said,
with a sort of quaint gravity that was very touching in its way. “He is
my Father, isn’t He? even if I’m quite lost, He knows where I am, and He
takes care of me, I’m sure. I don’t think He’ll ever quite forget me,
and p’raps He’ll let me find my real home some day; but I’ll always say
‘Thy will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up into the kind
face above him, he asked, “Perhaps grandpapa will explain it all and
help me. He had to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little
children away, and I suppose that was very hard.”
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