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.