COMING CHANGES.
SO the winter days wore happily away, the bond between the Squire and
his little adopted son growing ever stronger and stronger; and by slow
yet sure degrees the sunshine began to take the golden radiance of
spring, the buds upon the bare trees swelled with the stirring life
within them, the hedges showed a filmy network of tender green, and the
shy wild flowers began to peep out from sheltered sunny corners, smiling
up at the sunshine from beneath the protecting roots of great trees, or
nodding their heads in friendly greeting to passers-by from cosey nooks
in the south slope of a sheltered bank.
Bertie and his friend the Squire welcomed the spring, as all the world
does to a greater or less extent. The winter had been a very happy time
for them both; but the promise of spring seemed to them to be charged
with gladness and brightness for all.
Once when they were crossing the park together, the Squire looked down
at his little companion and said,—
“This is the first time that spring has been spring to me for fifteen
long years.”
Bertie, who was hunting for primroses in a mossy bank, looked up
quickly.
“The years were like one long winter to me,” continued the Squire,
looking out straight before him; and then, lifting his hat for a moment,
he added, reverently, “But, thank God! that has all passed now.”
Bertie came and took one of the hands of his so-called father and laid
his cheek against it.
He knew quite well that this was the Squire’s way of telling him that
his coming there had been a source of comfort and happiness.
“I came here in the spring, didn’t I?” he asked. “I think I’ve been here
nearly a year—David says so.”
“Yes, it is going on now for a year—a year in April since you were
washed ashore. Has it been a happy year to you, my child?”
Bertie glanced up into the face above him with eyes full of love.
“Ever since you let me be your little boy,” he answered, with emphasis,
“I have been quite happy.”
“And before?”
“Before I was happy sometimes—when I was with you; but I was often very
lonely. If I hadn’t felt sure that God would take care of me, I think I
should have been miserable sometimes.”
“But you were sure of that?”
Bertie paused and reflected.
“By and by I was—not just at first—but by and by. And then I found out
something for me to do, and then all the rest came easy.”
“What did you find to do?”
“I found out that you were lonely and unhappy, and I wanted to comfort
you,” answered the child, very softly. “Because you had no little
children of your own left. I didn’t think at first that I could; but by
and by you said I did.”
“Yes, my child. We were given to one another, to fill, as it were, the
blank that God had thought fit to make in both of our lives. We must
trust Him now to leave us to one another, and not to part us unless that
too is a part of His holy will.”
Bertie looked up timidly.
“I could never leave you now, papa.”
The Squire looked down at him with a smile.
“I hope not, my little son; but it is possible you may some day remember
your own parents, and that they may want you back. But whatever happens
we know will be for the best, and we must always be strong and of a good
courage, and do what is right. No happiness ever comes from shirking
duty.”
Bertie looked up wistfully.
“You have not heard anything, have you, about me?”
The Squire smiled reassuringly.
“No, no, my little boy; I am only speaking of a possible future, and one
that we ought perhaps to wish for. But I think it quite possible, under
all the circumstances of the case, that your parents, did we succeed in
tracing them, would allow you to remain in my care as my little adopted
son; and we do not even know that they are living, for they might well
have been lost that stormy night when you were washed ashore at the
fisherman’s hut.”
Bertie’s face was very grave. He did not often speculate now upon the
past, and the Squire rarely alluded to the subject. He was quite content
to dwell in the present, and it seemed highly probable, as Dr. Lighton
had said, that he would never awake to recollection, but that the
oblivion of childhood would sweep away the vanished past, even when the
physical injury had gradually cured itself.
It was impossible for the child to wish for any change. He was so
entirely happy in his new home, and loved his father so devotedly, that
there was no room in his heart for the vague yearnings that had troubled
him once, and he felt as if he belonged by birthright to the place he
now occupied.
And new interests and pleasures were in store for him now in the return
of the Arbuthnots to their long-deserted house.
He did not know they were coming until they had come, and he suddenly
met Queenie in the park, face to face, as she was running up to see him
and tell him all the news.
He was so surprised that he only stood quite still, staring hard at her,
and exclaimed, “Queenie!” in a very astonished voice.
“Bertie!” she answered, mimicking him, and then she began to laugh in
her old merry way.
“Why, Bertie, how astonished you look! Didn’t I say we should be home in
the spring? Aren’t you pleased to see me back?”
“Yes, very pleased,” answered Bertie, recovering himself. “Are the boys
here yet?”
“Not yet. They will be back at Easter. Papa and mamma and I have come
home now. Bertie, is it true that the Squire has adopted you properly?”
“I am his little boy now,” answered the child, simply. “He says so.”
“And do you like it?”
“Yes, very much.”
“You like him?”
“I love him.”
“And you’re not dreadfully dull?”
“Oh no!”
Queenie looked at him critically.
“You don’t look as if you were unhappy. You’ve grown, I’m sure. You look
quite different from what you did. Are you happy?”
“Yes, very.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Queenie. “I like people to have nice
times. I’ve had _such_ fun myself.”
“Have you? Where have you been?”
“Oh, to lots of places. We stayed in ever so many houses, and it was
great fun. Sometimes there were other children, and sometimes there
weren’t. I liked both, but I think I liked it best when there were no
nurseries or schoolrooms; then I was generally with the ladies. I liked
to hear them talk, and they gave me pretty things. I’m never
troublesome, you know, except to nurse,” added Queenie, shaking her
curly head with a merry laugh; “so people like me, and say I’m no
trouble, and then I’m not turned out.”
Bertie laughed too, because Queenie’s mirth was infectious.
“Do you know,” went on the little chatterbox, as Bertie turned and
walked beside her,—“do you know we are not going to live here much
longer? only till midsummer, perhaps not so long?”
“I didn’t know,” answered Bertie. “Why are you going away?”
“Mamma doesn’t like it, nor papa either; and I don’t think _I_ care for
it so very much;” and the little maiden put on her grand air, as if her
wishes had been of very great consequence in the decision of her
parents. “We always used to live in London till papa had this place left
to him, and then we came here for a little while; but nobody cares very
particular for it, and so they have decided to sell it.”
Bertie opened his eyes wide.
“Then will somebody else buy it, and come and live here?” he asked.
Queenie nodded her head mysteriously.
“Somebody has bought it already.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, somebody you know. Guess who it is.”
“Somebody I know,” repeated Bertie, slowly; “but I know so few people.”
“Then you will guess all the quicker!” answered Queenie, with her merry
laugh.
Bertie considered a moment and then said,—
“The Squire?”
“No, not the Squire; he only cares for his own property. Papa says our
land is nothing to his; he wouldn’t care for it. Guess again.”
Bertie was puzzled.
“Dr. Lighton?” he asked, doubtfully; but Queenie’s laugh was answer
enough.
“No, indeed! Where would he get the money from? Guess again.”
“I can’t; there’s nobody else I know. Are you sure I know him?”
“Of course you do! You must guess. You’ve seen him at our house often
and often.”
Bertie paused again, hesitated, and suggested, timidly,—
“Uncle Fred?”
Queenie clapped her hands.
“There! I knew you could guess if you tried. Yes, it’s Uncle Fred. He
likes the place, and he has plenty of money now, so he has bought it,
and he’s going to come and live here very soon, as soon as he can get
married and come over to England.”
Bertie looked mystified.
“Isn’t he in England now?”
“No, he’s in Australia. He likes travelling about, and he went there
almost as soon as he left us in the summer, and now he’s going to get
married.”
Queenie said these words in a voice that implied a great deal. She tried
to excite Bertie’s curiosity by her manner, but he was too simple-minded
to understand her moods, and he only said, quite quietly,—
“Is he?”
“Yes, he is; and if you like I’ll tell you all about it. It’s very
romantic.”
“What is?”
“Why, Uncle Fred’s marriage.”
“What is romantic?”
Queenie tossed her head, but to tell the plain truth she did not exactly
know herself.
“Well, that’s what mamma says when she tells people about Uncle Fred.
She says it’s so romantic, and everybody else says the same—so it must
be so, you know.”
Bertie had never dreamed of disputing this, so, as he had no answer
ready, he merely said,—
“Well?”
“Well,” returned Queenie, settling down to her story with great
animation, “this is what has happened. You know, when Uncle Fred was
quite a young man, he was very fond of a lady he knew very well, and he
wanted to marry her; but he was not very well off, and he did not like
to ask her to marry him till he got some money. So he went away to sea
to make his fortune, and when he came back after a year or two with a
good deal more money, he found that the lady had married somebody
else,—he had never told her how fond he was of her, which I think was
silly,—and had gone away to live in London. Well, poor Uncle Fred was
very sad, for he loved her very much, and he always had fancied that she
liked him too. A friend of his told him that people thought the lady had
married partly to please her father, for she was very fond of him and
very obedient; anyway she was married, and Uncle Fred was too late, so
he went back to sea again and tried to forget all about her.”
Queenie paused here, and Bertie asked,—
“Is that all?”
“Of course it isn’t all!” cried Queenie; “all that happened ten years
ago.”
“Oh!” returned Bertie, who was getting a little puzzled by Queenie’s
romance.
“Yes, all that happened ever so long ago, when Uncle Fred was quite
young, and before he came into his money. But he never married even when
he was quite rich, because he never had cared for any lady except the
one he wanted to marry long ago. Well, last year he went out to
Australia, as I told you. He had made a good many friends there before,
and he thought he would like to go and see them all again. And when he
was at Sydney or Melbourne, or one of those places, he went once to a
great party given by some rich man there, and when he got there, who was
it, do you think, that he met?”
Queenie’s face told its own tale. Bertie was not very well read in
romances, but he could guess the sequel to this one. “I suppose you mean
that he met the lady that he wanted to marry once.”
“Yes,” answered Queenie, very impressively, “the lady he is going to
marry now—at least he has married her, I suppose, already, and perhaps
they are on their way home now.”
“But I thought she had married somebody else,” objected Bertie.
“She did years and years ago, but he died very soon after they were
married; only Uncle Fred had never heard of it. Her old father died too,
by and by, and she was left all alone; and she had some cousins in
Australia who asked her to come and live with them, and so she did. I
don’t think she’s been long in Australia; I don’t think her father died
till last year or something; anyhow, she was there when Uncle Fred found
her last Christmas, and now they will be married and come and live
here.”
Bertie’s interest was now fully aroused.
“That will be nice,” he said. “I’m glad nobody’s coming that we don’t
know. I like Uncle Fred; he was always very kind to me.”
“He always liked you,” answered Queenie. “He took a fancy to you from
the first moment. He will be a nice neighbor for the Squire too; they
always got on very well together. I hope he will have a nice wife. He
must be very fond of her, so I should think she was nice.”
Bertie was less interested upon this point than upon others.
“Will you ever come here after you go away?”
“Oh, yes; we shall be sure to come and see Uncle Fred sometimes.”
Bertie looked pleased.
“That will be nice. We shall be able to play together, and you won’t
forget me. I don’t like people to go right away and forget and get
forgotten; it seems rather sad, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know; I don’t think I ever thought about it; but you won’t have
a chance of forgetting us, any way. And, Bertie, have you forgotten
about the sea-gulls in the Rocky Bay?”
Bertie shook his head and smiled.
“I’ve not forgotten a bit,” he answered, “and I can climb very well now.
I’m ready to go as soon as ever the right time comes.”
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