IT was very easy to make it a rule that Bertie should not leave his nurseries without permission, except at stated hours; but it was a rule that appeared impossible to enforce.
It was not that he was defiant, or passionate, or even, as it seemed, wilfully disobedient; but nevertheless he was perpetually slipping away at odd moments to the library window-seat, where he would remain quietly perched up, gazing intently over the stretch of level country and well-timbered park, and when discovered and reproved he would glance up with troubled eyes into the grave face of his nurse, and say in faltering tones that he did not mean to be naughty, but he liked being there.
It seemed, indeed, as if some power more strong than that of mere liking drew him to that spot. It almost appeared that an instinct which he could not resist drove him to the place, and when Dr. Lighton heard of it, he advised that he should be given way to in this matter.
“It is evidently some train of association that attracts him—some link with the past that may in time prove of great value. I should let him alone, Squire, unless he is in your way. He may find out what we want to know, if he is allowed undisturbed leisure for thought in the spot of his own choosing.”
“He does not disturb me,” answered the Squire. “He is the quietest child in the world. He never talks, and he hardly moves. He is welcome to stay, if you think it will be productive of any good results.”
“Well, I hope it may, that is all I can say. The case is an odd one, and perplexes me, I own, but the experiment is worth trying.”
So the order was issued, and Mrs. Pritchard found her duties considerably lightened, for Bertie troubled her with little of his society, and was nearly always to be found perched silently upon the library window-seat, sometimes with a book on his knees, but more often merely resting his chin on his hand and gazing intently either at the Squire in his leather-covered chair before the writing-table, or else out of the window.
His daily walk was always the same—to visit David and the sandhills by the sea, whilst his days were spent in quiet contentment in the old library. It was an odd life for a little child to lead, as odd as the whole strange chain of circumstances that had led him to this new home.
Things were in this state by the time Sunday came round; and the brief interview with Queenie in the churchyard was the first incident that had occurred to rouse the child out of the dreamy state in which he had been sunk ever since his return to conscious life.