Meanwhile a child of five--all unconscious that his quiet refusal toparticipate in the making and breaking of reputations was temporarily amatter of considerable annoyance to a Fellow of the Royal Society--ranthrough a well-kept index of the books in the library of ChallisCourt--an index written clearly on cards that occupied a great nest ofaccessible drawers; two cards with a full description to each book,alphabetically arranged, one card under the title of the work and oneunder the author's name.
The child made no notes as he studied--he never wrote a single line inall his life; but when a drawer of that delightful index had beensearched, he would walk here and there among the three rooms at hisdisposal, and by the aid of the flight of framed steps that ran smoothlyon rubber-tyred wheels, he would take down now and again some book oranother until, returning to the table at last to read, he sat in anenceinte of piled volumes that had been collected round him.
Sometimes he read a book from beginning to end, more often he glancedthrough it, turning a dozen pages at a time, and then pushed it on oneside with a gesture displaying the contempt that was not shown by anychange of expression.
On many afternoons the sombrely clad figure of a tall, gaunt woman wouldstand at the open casement of a window in the larger room, and keep amystic vigil that sometimes lasted for hours. She kept her gaze fixed onthat strange little figure whenever it roved up and down the suite ofrooms or clambered the pyramid of brown steps that might have made sucha glorious plaything for any other child. And even when her son washidden behind the wall of volumes he had built, the woman would stillstare in his direction, but then her eyes seemed to look inwards; atsuch times she appeared to be wrapped in an introspective devotion.
Very rarely, the heavy-shouldered figure of a man would come to thedoorway of the larger room, and also keep a silent vigil--a man whowould stand for some minutes with thoughtful eyes and bent brows andthen sigh, shake his head and move away, gently closing the door behindhim.
There were few other interruptions to the silence of that chapel-likelibrary. Half a dozen times in the first few months a fair-haired,rather supercilious young man came and fetched away a few volumes; buteven he evidenced an inclination to walk on tiptoe, a tendency thatmastered him whenever he forgot for a moment his self-imposed role ofscorn....
Outside, over the swelling undulations of rich grass the sheep came backwith close-cropped, ungainly bodies to a land that was yellow withbuttercups. But when one looked again, their wool hung about them, andthey were snatching at short turf that was covered at the woodside by asprinkle of brown leaves. Then the sheep have gone, and the wood isblack with February rain. And, again, the unfolding of the year is aboutus; a thickening of high twigs in the wood, a glint of green on theblackthorn....
Nearly three cycles of death and birth have run their course, and thenthe strange little figure comes no more to the library at ChallisCourt.