Drifted ashore;

SUMMER merged into autumn almost before any one was aware of the change, and with the advance of the season came changes in the life of little Bertie.

The Arbuthnot boys went back to school, and Sir Walter took his wife and little daughter away to Scotland, where he possessed a shooting-box, and Queenie told her playfellow that she did not know when they would be back, for her mother had talked of paying a round of visits during the winter months, and, unless they came home for the boys’ Christmas holidays, it was quite possible they might remain away in one place or another until the spring came round again.

Queenie was pleased and excited at the thought of all the changes and amusements in store for her. She had been used to a London life, and had thought the country just a little dull. She liked the idea of going about with her parents and paying visits at country houses, for she always made her way wherever she went, and was quite a pet and plaything to grown-up people, to whose company she was well used.

So she talked a good deal of anticipated delights, and pitied “poor Bertie” a good deal, wondering whatever he would find to do all through the long winter months, with nobody to play with “except that fisher-boy, David.”

Bertie, however, did not seem at all put out by the prospect of his loneliness, as depicted by Queenie. He smiled when she pitied him, and said,—

“Oh, never mind me; I shall be quite happy. I don’t mind being alone. Besides, there is always the Squire, you know.”

“But he doesn’t play with you.”

“No,” answered Bertie, with his grave smile, “he doesn’t play;” and then the little boy smiled again, as if such an idea amused him.

“And he doesn’t talk much either, does he?”

“No, not much.”

“And you don’t see him often?”

“Not very often, perhaps; but I can always sit in his library when I like.”

“Well,” remarked Queenie, tossing back her curly head, “I can’t quite see what good the Squire can be to you, if he doesn’t play, and doesn’t talk, and only lets you sit in his library.”

Bertie smiled again in the way that Queenie never quite understood.

“I like him to be just as he is,” answered the little boy. “I shouldn’t like him to be a bit different. He is just right, I think.”

Queenie looked puzzled.

“You’re a very odd child, Bertie. I often say so, and so do other people.”

“Am I?” he answered, meekly. “I don’t know why.”

“I can’t explain quite,” returned Queenie, nodding her head, “but you are.”

Bertie, however, was not at all disturbed by this opinion, nor did he consider himself such an object of compassion as Queenie evidently did. He certainly missed his little companion when she was really gone, but he did not fret or worry himself over his loneliness, but quietly resumed the solitary habits that he had fallen into before he had found his new friends.

His mind was much clearer and more active now than when he had first recovered from his long sleep of unconsciousness, and, although his memory had not returned, he had lost for the most part that aching sense of loss and blankness that had weighed upon him like a leaden weight at first.

He was beginning to have a little past of his own, on which his thoughts could dwell. He had friends amongst the animals upon the place. A big black Newfoundland dog called Samson was a great source of delight to him, and an Alderney cow, and the Squire’s great bay horse were alike objects of deep interest and affection.

But the child’s love and admiration, as well as his imagination, were chiefly and mainly occupied with the Squire himself. Bertie’s was one of those natures that seem to require a central interest and object in life. He wanted something to think about, something to dream about, somebody to love in his quiet, undemonstrative fashion, somebody who would satisfy the imaginative and poetical side of his temperament. And this object,—strange as it might appear to some, he found in the quiet and matter-of-fact Squire of Arlingham.

During the lengthening autumn evenings, when the lamp in the nursery was lighted early, and the fire attracted Bertie to a cosey position upon the rug, when the kettle sang cheerily upon the hob, and the cat purred contentedly upon the child’s lap, and Mrs. Pritchard’s busy needles clicked together with the pleasant regularity of the practised knitter, then would come a time of deep enjoyment for Bertie, when his kind friend the housekeeper would tell him long stories of the Squire’s boyhood and youth, of his happy married life, and the deep sorrow that had fallen upon him and changed the proud and loving husband and father into the grave, stern, silent man, widowed and childless, that Arlingham knew so well now.

And Bertie listened to this story again and again, until it seemed absolutely to belong to his own past. It seemed to him as if he had always known the Squire. He studied the portraits in the long gallery until he knew each one by heart. He could see the Squire as a curly-headed boy, with his pony and his dog, as a tall, handsome man in his scarlet hunting-coat, with his great whip in his hand; he could see him a year or two later with a pair of fine lads beside him; and, best of all, he knew him as he now was, a white-headed, keen-eyed, silent man, very grave and rather severe, despite his kindness of heart, a man to be reverenced and perhaps a little feared, as well as loved, towards whom the child felt an increasing sense of attraction.

The Squire fascinated his imagination as much as he won his heart, and the central thought in his mind each day was how much he should see of his benefactor, how much he could talk to him, and what he would say when he did talk.

Bertie was very shy of showing his feelings. He had that innate tact and sensibility not uncommon with children, that told him exactly how to speak and act in presence of his elders. He felt by instinct that any open demonstrations of affection would be unwelcome, that he must copy in his childish way the Squire’s quietness and reserve; but he could make little quiet, timid advances from time to time, and these were never repulsed, and the tacit way in which they were accepted often brought a pleasant sense of warmth to the child’s heart, taking away for the moment all his loneliness and isolation.

Then, too, he knew all about the little children who once had made the silent house ring with their merry voices and laughter, who had just begun to develop into big, handsome lads and winning maidens when the call home had come and laid them sleeping side by side in the quiet churchyard. Bertie often felt as if he had actually played with Tom and Charley, had heard Mary and Violet practising their music on the schoolroom piano, and had petted the “baby” of the house, little Donald, as every else petted him, according to Mrs. Pritchard. He knew every event of their lives as detailed to him by the fond old nurse. He studied the crayon heads upon the walls, until each face was like that of some familiar friend and playfellow. He kept their toy cupboards in perfect order, never mixing Charley’s things with Tom’s, or Mary’s with Violet’s; and their story-books, battered and torn as they were, attracted him more than any of the bright new volumes of boys’ tales that arrived for him from time to time from the bookseller’s shop in the town.

Then, too, the “children’s gardens,” away behind the kitchen garden wall, attracted him at this time more than any other part of the garden.

Once they had been neat little plots enough, tended with care, watered and watched over with loving solicitude; but fifteen years of partial neglect had wrought a sad change, and although the gardeners kept the weeds from becoming rampant, and maintained a certain brightness in the little sunny garden, yet it was evidently “nobody’s business” to look after the little plot; and it wore—or so Bertie fancied—a forlorn and desolate look.

“Would the Squire let me keep it in order, do you think?” he asked of Mrs. Pritchard one day, as they stood together beside the attractive spot.

“Why, yes, for sure, dearie,” answered the old housekeeper. “He would as soon your little fingers did the work as the men’s every bit, not to say more. But autumn’s a poor kind of time for garden work? there’s nothing to show for it till the spring comes.”

“There are some chrysanthemums to come on still,” answered Bertie, gravely; “and the verbenas are blooming still, and the marguerites too, and the rose-bushes would look nice if the dead leaves and flowers were picked off. William says we get no frost here till December. I think I could make the gardens look quite nice. Tell me which was whose, if you remember. I should like to keep them all clear.”

Mrs. Pritchard soon managed to recall all that was needful for the identification of each garden. There were four little plots, for the baby of the house had not been promoted to the honor of a garden of his own; but the rest were soon made out clearly enough, and on the very next day Bertie set about his task. He hoed up all the weeds and raked the brown earth nicely over; he trimmed the box edging, and thinned it out a little, so as to have enough to make a division between each separate garden; and he collected a number of white smooth stones from the shore in order to write the name of each proprietor in the dark soil.

It took him some days to get all to his liking; but he worked with a will, and was never wearied of his self-imposed task.

The gardener, who watched him at his toil; helped him with advice and occasional assistance, and gave him some hardy flowering plants from pots, to lend a temporary brightness to his plot.

Bertie was very proud of his handiwork by the week’s end; and his final triumph was the writing of the names in white stones along the edge of each little garden. David had been very zealous in collecting pebbles of suitable size and color, and Bertie set about this final work with great good will. When all was done he brought Mrs. Pritchard to see, and was much edified by her praise of his care and neatness.

“Why, it looks like old times, so it do, for sure,” she exclaimed, as she saw the neatly-weeded plots, each with its own well-trimmed plants still bearing the last of its blooms; but the good woman’s face looked a little grave as she saw the names traced there. “And for what did you do that, dearie?” she asked, a little uneasily.

Bertie looked up quickly.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Pritchard hesitated for a reply.

“Well, I don’t just know why you shouldn’t; only it struck me as perhaps the Squire would not be best pleased. You see, he never names them now, nor never has done. It seems to hurt him like.”

Bertie looked down at his letters and then up at Mrs. Pritchard.

“But he can’t have forgotten,” he said,—“I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Bless your little heart! it isn’t that he forgets, but that he thinks too much.”

“Thinks of them, you mean?” questioned Bertie, indicating the four names he had written.

“Yes, of them as have gone before. Poor man, I doubt if they’re ever long out of his thoughts.”

Bertie looked up very gravely.

“And if he is always thinking of them, he can’t mind seeing their names written. Perhaps he would like it; perhaps he would be pleased that somebody else thought of them and loved them too.”

Mrs. Pritchard wiped her eyes with the corner of her pocket-handkerchief.

“Well, for sure, a child knows best sometimes, as I do always say. We’ll let them stay any way, dearie. I doubt if the poor master ever so much as walks this way now.”

Bertie did not know. He had never seen the Squire in this part of the garden. Perhaps he avoided the plot of ground which his dead children had once frequented so much.

It was Saturday when the gardens were finally put to rights, and Bertie’s week of toil had done him good, and made him feel more of a man. The weather had been bright and fine, and he had been able to be out most of the daylight hours, so he had seen less of the Squire than usual.

But Sunday was Bertie’s best time for making way in that quarter. The Squire was at leisure, for one thing; then he always took the child to church in the morning, and the two dined together after service, as Bertie had once petitioned to do. Not much conversation went on as a rule between this oddly-assorted couple; but Bertie enjoyed his Sundays immensely, and looked forward to them all through the week.

As they sat at table together on this particular day, Bertie asked a question.

“Didn’t the clergyman say that there would be service in the afternoon now, instead of in the evening?”

“Yes; it changes in winter months always.”

“Why?”

“Because the evenings are so dark, and the poor people from the farms, who have a long way to come, can hardly find their way.”

“Do you always go in the afternoon the same as in the evening?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“May I go with you, please?”

The Squire hesitated.

“I think not to-day—not until I have asked Dr. Lighton what he thinks.”

Bertie looked surprised.

“I’m not ill,” he said.

“No; but Dr. Lighton has his own ideas about you. I cannot take you with me this afternoon.”

Bertie never disputed the Squire’s final verdict; he accepted it as an oracle. But he looked a little disappointed, and sat very still, with his eyes upon his plate. Suddenly a bright thought seemed to strike him, and he looked up eagerly.

“Well?” asked the Squire, seeing that a request was trembling on the child’s lips.

“May I come to the church in time to walk home with you afterwards?”

Again Bertie fancied that there was a pause of hesitation before the answer came.

“Do you wish it very much?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very well. I shall be out of church by soon after four; but I am often detained a little. You may meet me by the gate of the path through the wood at twenty minutes past four. Wait for me there if I do not come at once, and we will take a walk together then.”

Bertie’s face flushed with pleasure.

“Oh, thank you, grandpa! That will be very nice indeed!”

A walk with the Squire was a rare treat; and Bertie looked forward to it with a pleasure he could not have explained. He knew beforehand that there would be no conversation. They would walk side by side, he trying hard to emulate the long strides of his big companion. Most children would have done much to avoid so dreary a promenade; but Bertie was delighted at the prospect, and wished he could hurry on the time.

He watched from the staircase window whilst the Squire strode off towards the church; and then he hurried up-stairs to ask Mrs. Pritchard to let him have his overcoat and cap, for he had a plan in his head that he wished to carry out before his appointment with the Squire.