CHAPTER XIII.—MR. GREGORY'S OPINION.
"W
hat do you generally have for your luncheon?" Mr. Murray said, as he led the way to the dining-room. "Something good, I've no doubt. Now, just you tell me what it is."
"Well, sir, a Bath bun and a glass of milk," Bertie replied, looking vainly round the enormous table in search of his favourite dainty.
"Then I'm afraid you must manage with a cutlet to-day," Mr. Murray said, with one of his peculiar smiles, "or some cold roast beef, or ham and chicken," glancing from one to another of the dishes that adorned the table. "Really, boy, I'm afraid we have not such a thing as a Bath bun in the house, or within a quarter of a mile of us; but a glass of milk I dare say James can find you, unless you would prefer some claret and water."
"No, thank you, sir; but plain water will do very well," Bertie replied, feeling a little confused.
"Do you never drink wine of any kind at your Uncle Gregory's?"
"he turned his bull's-eye on bertie." ([p. 285]).
"No, sir; papa made Eddie and I promise we would never even taste it till we grew to be men, and we never have. He said that then we would like it so little that we would not care if we never tasted it a second time."
"He was quite right, boy. And now tell me why you refused my invitation. Were you afraid of offending your uncle?"
"No, sir."
"What, then?" Mr. Murray said, looking stern. "Tell me just the truth."
"I don't think my cousins wanted us to go; I felt that they wouldn't have been kind to us; and I am sure Aunt Gregory would have been displeased. I did not think we should have been happy, sir, I'm sure Eddie would have been miserable after what he said."
"What did Eddie say?" Mr. Murray asked.
"If you please, sir, I'd rather not tell you: he wouldn't like it," Bertie replied, looking quite troubled at the turn the conversation was taking.
"But I want to know, and I must know; tell me this moment what Eddie said. Am I not your father's old friend? Go on, boy."
Mr. Murray looked so angry, and his eyes flashed so under his shaggy knitted brows, that Bertie was quite frightened.
"Eddie said he did not like being poor or seeing people who knew him when he was rich; and he's so clever and so proud; and he would be so miserable if the boys treated him as they do me. So I thought if I came back to town they wouldn't go without me," Bertie said hurriedly. "And now, sir, please may I go back? Uncle will be so angry; he says all office time belongs to him, and any one who wastes a moment of it, or is late, or leaves before the clock strikes, is a thief!" Bertie's voice fell to an awed whisper, and his ruddy cheeks grew quite pale at the bare idea of being thought dishonest, and yet he knew that Mr. Gregory would not spare him a bit more than any one else; and it was half-past two, and Bertie was due back at one o'clock.
"Do you think your time belongs to your uncle?" Mr. Murray asked suddenly.
"Yes, sir, of course; he pays me," Bertie replied. "Please may I go now?"
"One moment. Tell me what reward you expect for having brought that bag here to-day."
"Reward!" Bertie stammered, looking the very picture of confusion. "I don't know what you mean. The bag was not mine, and I managed to give it back to the person it belonged to: that's all, sir. Why should I be rewarded? But the cabman was so grateful, he said, 'Heaven bless the gentleman! he's done a better turn than he knew to-day;' and he kissed the sovereign, sir; and I'm sure there were tears in his eyes, because he said——" Bertie stopped suddenly; perhaps he had no right to repeat the cabby's words, spoken under the influence of sudden and joyful excitement; but Mr. Murray commanded him to go on. "Because he said, 'My poor wife is dyin', and this 'ere precious sov will let me go right 'ome, and spend the rest of the day with her. Heaven bless the gentleman!' Oh, he did look so happy!" and Bertie's own eyes filled with sympathetic tears, though his lips smiled. "I don't think I shall mind Uncle Gregory's scolding a bit when I think of the poor cabby's happiness," he added.
"Bertie, a truly good and honest action is like a pebble thrown in a pool of water: at first it makes a little splash that is not of much account, but the tiny circle widens and widens, till the whole surface is influenced. Life is a limitless pool. Do you know where the circle you started to-day may end? No; neither do I; no human being knows, but God does. Already it has benefited me a little, that unhappy clerk who lost the bag a great deal, that poor cabby with his dying wife a great deal more. Who knows how many more innocent and perfectly unconscious people may have been influenced by the accident, if, indeed, there is such a thing as accident in this world of ours. Just think for one moment what would have been the result if you had carried that bag to your office, put it in your desk, and never said a word about it till to-morrow morning, when there would perhaps have been an advertisement in The Times, offering fifty pounds reward. You might have got the money and been happy, and five thousand people might have been miserable for life. Such was the importance of those papers. Now, my carriage is at the door, and I'll set you down in the City. Tell your uncle the exact truth, and always act, Bertie Rivers, as you did to-day, honestly and promptly: not because it may benefit yourself, but because it's sure to have a beneficial influence on every one else. Remember the pebble and the pool."
Mr. Murray did not speak another word till they reached the top of Mincing Lane; there the carriage stopped and Bertie got out, but in spite of all the kind things the old gentleman had said, in spite of the consciousness of having done quite right from one point of view, in spite of his real pleasure on the clerk's and the cabby's account, he felt positively nervous about entering the presence of his uncle, and actually loitered outside for fully five minutes before venturing to push back the swing doors, and enter the outer office of Gregory and Co. He fancied all the clerks were looking at him in surprised compassion, though in reality not one of them had noticed him, and if they had, they would only think he had been sent on an errand by his uncle. With a loudly-beating heart he entered his uncle's room fairly trembling in every limb, the ominous silence of every one having completely terrified him.
Mr. Gregory was writing, and only raised his eyes for one moment as Bertie took his seat, but he looked very stern, and without doubt there would be a storm in a few moments, for Bertie was not a stranger to the rigid rules of the office. At the end of ten minutes the busy pen was laid aside, a heap of letters pushed into the basket, and by a motion of his hand Mr. Gregory summoned his nephew to stand before him.
"You are just two hours and a quarter late," he said, glancing at his watch. "Will you kindly explain to me where you have been and what you have been doing?"
"Yes, Uncle Gregory;" and in a very quavering voice Bertie recounted every incident that occurred from the moment he left the office for luncheon till he returned, dwelling least on his interview with Mr. Murray and most on the necessity of overtaking the gentleman who had lost the bag. He then explained what he had heard in the train in the morning, and how important it was that the papers should be signed at once. But Mr. Gregory's face grew graver and sterner as he listened, and instead of praising Bertie, he looked as if he could have cheerfully given him a good thrashing.
"You should have brought that bag to me, sir; you should have remembered that during office hours your time is mine. I am very angry with you, Herbert Rivers, and, what is still worse, very much disappointed. I imagined that you were a steady, straightforward boy, who meant to profit by the exceptional opportunities given you. I fancied you were worthy of the kindness I have bestowed upon you, and I find you a clever, artful, designing creature. Why did you say you preferred to come back to business instead of going with your cousins? why did you come, boy? To cross, thwart, annoy me? In my opinion, you came simply to ingratiate yourself with Mr. Murray, and your conduct to-day has proved it. Why should you find his papers? Why should you take them to him instead of to me—your uncle and guardian, as well as your master? I tell you again that it's my opinion you are a bad, artful designing boy, and I'm very sorry I ever set your foot on the high road to fortune, for I'm sadly afraid you will turn out a disgrace to me some day!"
"Not so bad as that, Gregory, I hope," Mr. Murray said, entering the room; he had been standing in the doorway unnoticed for some minutes, and overheard a good deal of the conversation. "Your nephew is not going to disgrace you, because he did what was clearly his duty in a very clever way. Cheer up, Bertie; your uncle will have a better opinion of you presently."
For answer, Bertie hid his face amongst the circulars on his desk, and burst into a passionate fit of crying, none the less bitter because his uncle sternly commanded him to be quiet, and carry a note to a gentleman in Threadneedle Street, and wait for an answer. Meanwhile Mr. Murray sat down, as if he meant to have a long conversation with Mr. Gregory, who looked as if he most cordially wished his visitor sixty miles away, as he thought him in reality to be, before he had heard Bertie's curious story.