CHAPTER XVI.—"THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY."
"Tell me everything, Aunt Amy," Bertie said, as soon as he could find a voice. "When did it happen? Was it an accident? Oh! why didn't you send for me sooner?"
"It was very sudden, darling," Mrs. Clair replied. "I telegraphed for you at once, for your uncle wished it, and asked for you as long as he was conscious. But the doctor said from the first that there was no hope, and even wondered how he had lived so long. I fancy your uncle knew from the first that the attack would be fatal whenever it came. Do you know why he asked for you so often, Bertie?"
"No, aunt, except that he always loved me, and was very, very good to me."
"Yes, dear, and he trusted you too; almost his last words were, 'Tell Bertie he must take care of you and Agnes: he must be the "head of the family" now!' Uncle Harry's death will make a great difference to us, dear."
"I'm so glad he said that, Aunt Amy; and I will take care of you all," his glance including even Eddie, who sat silent in a corner. "It was good of him to trust me!" and then the remembrance of his other uncle's want of confidence and harshness rushed back on Bertie, and he sobbed bitterly. Aunt Amy made him sit beside her, and comforted him tenderly till his sobs ceased, and then listened with patient, loving sympathy to all his troubles, which Eddie now confided in her.
"Do you think I did very wrong, Aunt Amy? do you think Uncle Gregory should have been so unkind?" he asked, looking at her wistfully.
"I think, dear, that you behaved very well indeed, under the circumstances. Of course, if you could have asked permission it might have been better, but then you would have missed the owner of the bag. What troubles me most is your having slept on the damp grass. I fear you have caught cold."
"Not much, auntie; my throat is a little sore, but it'll be all right again presently. When I wanted to see you so badly yesterday, I did not dream I should be here to-day, and find you all so sad. I was only selfishly thinking of my own trouble, and what a poor, pitiful affair it seems, compared to yours. Oh! auntie, how good and patient you are!"
"No, no, Bertie, I'm very far from good, and not nearly so patient as you think; but as we grow older, dear, we learn to suffer in silence, and some griefs are too deep for words or tears. If we had only our own strength to support us, how could we endure such sudden incurable losses as mine?"
Bertie was silent for a few moments, then he stood up, and laid both his hands on his aunt's shoulders and looked earnestly at her.
"I will take care of you; I will remember every word dear Uncle Harry said. Can I begin now? Can I do anything at all, Aunt Amy, this very day?"
'father's coming.' (See [p. 348].)
"No, dear, except to lie down and rest, and get rid of your cold. I have thought of nothing yet, except to telegraph for Nancy to come down and take the children home, and to Mr. Williams. I have not another friend in the world now, Bertie. We poor Rivers's are left to ourselves!"
"You forget Mr. Murray," Bertie said. "You can't think how kind and generous he is; he will help us in every way; and surely Uncle Gregory will come!"
"I fear not, dear. Uncle Gregory and Uncle Harry were not related, and never very intimate; but indeed, there is nothing any one can do for us. Besides, Uncle Harry's wishes are very plain; his will is not a dozen lines," and Mrs Clair sighed deeply. She knew her husband had died poor—not worth a couple of hundred pounds, perhaps—but she did not know of the many small debts contracted through thoughtlessness, and left unpaid through carelessness, or she would have been still more anxious about the future. It was the sudden feeling of loneliness and desolation, the sudden sense of responsibility and helplessness combined, that seemed almost to stupefy her.
The worst of that first day of her bereavement was that she had nothing to do: strangers performed all needful offices; but it was a comfort to pet and nurse Bertie, because they had all been left in his care—a circumstance Eddie bitterly resented, though he was quite silent on the subject. Though reluctant to lie down, Bertie had not been many minutes on the sofa before he was sound asleep, and when he awoke, he found Nancy, the old housekeeper from Fitzroy Square, had arrived, and was busy making preparations for their departure. Aunt Amy was with her, and just at that moment Mr. Murray entered the room, holding a telegram in his hand, and looking very much excited. As soon as she heard his voice, Mrs. Clair came in, looking very pale, but quite composed. After a few inquiries about Bertie, he placed the message in her hand, and as she read it she smiled sadly.
"Just what I thought, Mr. Murray. Why should Mr. Gregory trouble himself about us in our affliction? Because his sister married my brother gives me no claim on him," she said gently.
"Perhaps not; but sorrow, friendlessness, death, give you a claim on every man who deserves the name. I'm disappointed in Gregory, and I'll take an early opportunity of telling him so."
"I can scarcely blame him, Mr. Murray, when my husband's oldest and dearest friend fails me now; but he says if I let him know when the funeral takes place he will try to attend."
"Very kind and truly considerate of him," Mr. Murray cried, scornfully. "Will you be so good as to tell me the name of this true old friend?"
"It cannot matter much to you, Mr. Murray; but he's called Arthur Williams, a well-known sculptor."
"Hum! I'll see if I can't give him a famous order some day, selfish fellow!" he added, in an undertone. "And now, dear Mrs. Clair, may I ask what you are going to do?"
"I do not know; I have not thought yet. I am so sorely disappointed."
"Then allow me to think for you," Mr. Murray interrupted; "but first answer me one or two painful questions. Did your husband leave a will, or express any wishes?"
Mrs. Clair handed him the half-sheet of note-paper, and he read it twice carefully, then placed it in his pocket-book. "Simple and complete, Mrs. Clair, your husband must have had a great capacity for business. Is there anything else?"
"Nothing, except that he left us all to the care of Bertie. He's to be 'head of the family,' poor child;" and Aunt Amy stroked his hair tenderly. "My husband had great faith in Bertie."
"Perhaps he was right: we shall see some day. Now I suggest that you go up to town this evening, and take those two children with you. Bertie and I will follow by the first train to-morrow morning. We will go direct to Fitzroy Square, and I'll give all necessary instructions for the funeral. Mr. Clair was a gentleman and an artist, and must go to his long rest as such. After that you may tell me as much or as little of your circumstances as you please; but always remember that I am able and willing to help you."
And then Mr. Murray hurried away, and Bertie began his duties as "head of the family" by telegraphing to Fitzroy Square to have fires lighted in the rooms; but even in that Mr. Murray, who seemed to think of everything, had been beforehand with him.