CHAPTER XIV.—BERTIE IN DIFFICULTIES.
W
hen he left the office on his uncle's errand, Bertie Rivers felt very miserable. For a minute he seemed almost stunned by his uncle's words, "A disgrace!" Was it possible that merely doing right ever could bring disgrace to anybody? if so, what was the good of doing right at all? But then, Mr. Murray had commended him, had said right always helped the largest number of people, though one might sometimes suffer; but even in a good cause to be called artful, designing, to be suspected of trying to make friends with Mr. Murray, and leading his uncle to suppose that he did not want to even accept his invitation, was too bitterly hard, and for the first time in his life Bertie felt as if he must throw himself down by the wayside, and sob his sorrow out to some one.
"Oh, if I could only see Aunt Amy!" he said aloud as he toiled up the stairs to the address on the note in his hand. "If I could only tell her all!" and then, as the gentleman was out and he was desired to wait, he sat on a form on the landing, and while seeming to watch the never-ending crowd of passers-by in Threadneedle Street, he was really thinking, "I must see my Aunt Amy. I must, I must, I must!"
The passing cabs attuned themselves to the words, the newspaper-boys, crying "Evening Paper, fourth edition," the flower-sellers, the sellers of mechanical toys, revolving purses, performing mice, and other living and dead monstrosities that haunt the vicinity of the Stock Exchange and Bank, all seemed to "cry" the same thing to Bertie, "I must see Aunt Amy. I must, I must, I must!"
Till four o'clock Bertie sat patiently waiting for an answer to his note, then the commissionaire came and told him that there was no chance of the gentleman he wanted being there that day; so he went back to Mincing Lane, only to find the office shut up, and then, for the first time, he glanced at a clock, and saw that it was a quarter after four. He had no very definite idea of how the time had gone, but the one uppermost idea still in his mind was to get to Aunt Amy, and tell her all his troubles, and ask her if she thought he had been so very much to blame.
"bertie was in her arms in a moment" ([p. 288]).
At length Bertie started to walk home; he had no ticket, for he had gone to the office with his uncle before his holiday; and he had no money: his last penny had been spent at Brighton, and Mr. Gregory had not remembered to give him his usual weekly allowance; but there was the savings' bank: he could get some of his own money and go to see Aunt Amy at once. But the "book" was at Kensington, he remembered, and he called to mind, too, that the people at the Post Office wanted notice before paying any deposits, so that would not do. In his sore trouble and impatience he wanted to rush off to the station that moment, and even an express train would be far too slow for his wishes. As he walked towards Kensington he kept thinking all the time how he was to get the money. Whom could he ask to help him? But he did not ask any one, and at last, weary with his walk and his troubled thoughts, hot and dusty, he turned into the Park, and threw himself on the grass in the quietest spot he could find. He was close to Kensington Gardens, and a few minutes would bring him home; but Bertie felt as if he must have a rest before the duties of the evening commenced. For the first time in his life his work seemed distasteful to him, and the idea of being shut up alone with his uncle in the library after what had taken place was almost unbearable. If he only could get away to Aunt Amy and tell her all, it would be such a comfort. Once he pulled out his watch, and for a moment thought of selling it, then with a start he remembered that it was his dear father's last present. Above all things, he could not part with that. It really seemed as if there were no resource but to wait till he got his money from the savings' bank, and by that time Aunt Amy would be just about returning to Fitzroy Square.
"I suppose I may as well wait, and be as patient as I can," he mused; "besides, Uncle Gregory may think differently after what Mr. Murray said to him to-day;" and then he turned over lazily on the grass, pulled his hat over his eyes, and in a very few minutes was sound asleep. He was very tired, and fairly worn out with the excitement as well as the fatigue of the long summer's day, and he slept heavily. How long he did not know, when he started to his feet suddenly, to find himself quite damp from a heavy dew, chilled, stiff, sore, and, worst of all, hungry. The park was quite deserted and very dark, still he knew his way tolerably well, and hurried towards the gate, shivering partly with cold, partly with nervousness, at finding himself quite alone in the dark—everything was so gloomy and weird. When he reached the gates he was really frightened to find them locked, and to see by the lamplight that it was just eleven o'clock. What would Uncle Gregory say when he got home? How was he to get home unless some one came and let him out? for though a tolerably skilful climber, Bertie felt that great swing gate was beyond him; he did not like to venture over the sharp spikes at the top, even if he could get so high. For a few minutes he called loudly, but no one took the least notice, and he was becoming more and more frightened when he saw the friendly gleam of a policeman's lantern. It was some time before he could attract his attention, and when he did the man spoke quite gruffly, and threatened him with all sorts of pains and penalties for being in the park after hours.
"I couldn't help it, indeed!" Bertie cried, earnestly. "I was so tired that I fell asleep, and uncle will be dreadfully anxious about me. Oh, do please find some one to let me out!"
"Who's your uncle? and where does he live?" the policeman said, a little less gruffly, for as he turned his bull's-eye on Bertie he saw he was not a common offender, but a handsome young gentleman, who looked in real, not sham, trouble.
"My uncle is Mr. Gregory, and he lives in Gore House, just close by. Oh, do please, get me out! he will be so anxious!"
The policeman hesitated for a moment, and then directed Bertie to a part of the railing tolerably easy to climb, from which he assisted him carefully to get down, and walked with him to Gore House. There was light in the library and dining-room, but there did not seem to be any fuss or confusion, and it just struck Bertie that perhaps he had not been missed at all. His uncle had seemed very preoccupied all day; perhaps he had forgotten all about him since the time he had sent him to Threadneedle Street. As it happened, that was just the case. Mr. Gregory did not come home till late, when he was accompanied by Mr. Murray; and immediately after dinner both gentlemen went into the library, and had remained there ever since. It was as James the footman opened the door, and the policeman and Bertie entered the hall, that Mr. Gregory and Mr. Murray entered it too from the library.
"I wish you would let me order the carriage," Mr. Gregory was saying, when he stopped suddenly and hurried forward. "What's all this? Bertie Rivers and a policeman! What has he been doing?" he asked, in a tone that made the hearers think he was almost glad to see his nephew in difficulties.
"There's not much amiss, sir," the policeman answered respectfully. "This young gentleman says he was tired, and fell asleep in the park. Of course he got locked in, and I helped him out. That's all, sir; unless he has got cold from sleeping on the grass."
"Why were you in the park? why did not you come straight home? Give an account of yourself," Mr. Gregory said sternly.
"I went to Threadneedle Street, sir, and waited for an answer, as you told me, but the gentleman did not come in; then I went back to Mincing Lane, but the office was shut, and I walked home."
"Why did you walk?" Mr. Gregory interrupted.
"I had no money, sir," Bertie replied defiantly; "and I thought I was to return with you, but you were gone."
"Well, why didn't you come straight home? Why did you loiter in the park? I don't believe a word you have said!"
"He was in the park right enough, sir. I seed him there and helped him out; and any one as walked from the City might fall asleep without much blame on an afternoon like the one to-day," the policeman said, feeling a little indignant at Bertie's reception, and perhaps disappointed at the poor prospect of reward for himself.
"Get about your business!" Mr. Gregory said shortly, and the man turned aside with a muttered exclamation, but Bertie seized his hand and thanked him warmly, and Mr. Murray just then contrived to slip a more tangible reward into his other hand. Then the old gentleman turned to Bertie, and patted him kindly on the shoulder. "Why, dear me, boy! you are quite wet," he cried, starting back, "and you are as white as anything. Had you any dinner? of course not; nor any tea? how very tiresome of you! But then you had no money, and you came up from Brighton this morning, and had a tiresome, exciting day. Better you went in the yacht, boy, far better and pleasanter; and your uncle could have done very well without you;" and Mr. Murray frowned and chuckled in the most extraordinary way as he pushed Bertie before him into the dining-room, and rang the bell just as if the whole place belonged to him, while Mr. Gregory immediately followed, looking very dark and stern.
"James, get this boy a cup of hot cocoa and some cold meat directly, and tell some one to prepare a warm bath for him; and you must give him a holiday to-morrow, Mr. Gregory. He should stay in bed all the day if he's to escape a violent cold. Now I must be off. Good night; good night, boy; take great care of yourself, you are very fortunate that you didn't have to sleep in the park all night."
And with another friendly pat on the shoulder, Mr. Murray departed, leaving Bertie drinking his cocoa with evident enjoyment, and Mr. Gregory frowning with annoyance.
In more ways, and more seriously than he knew, Bertie had caused his uncle loss and disappointment that day, and Mr. Gregory was not inclined to forgive him very easily; least of all was he disposed to overlook the sudden interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, and the conversation that afternoon at the office, and in the evening at Gore House, had been chiefly about the two boys whom fortune had thrown on the world so young, and so little able to help themselves. Mr. Murray asked persistently if something better could not be done for them. Mr. Gregory maintained that they were both well and generously treated, but Bertie's white woe-begone face and evident fear of his uncle spoke little for the happiness of his life in Gore House; and as he walked home in the quiet, sultry August night, Mr. Murray sketched out a plan which he thought would please the boys, and make life more pleasant for the sons of his dead friend, but it would take some time and trouble to mature, and then both boys would have to be fully tried and tested before the idea was made known to them. "I have no fear about Bertie: he's a brave, bright, truthful lad; even the vague suspicion of being false cuts him like a knife. No man should say he doesn't believe a boy like that without positive proof. As for his brother—well, I'm afraid he's a difficult youngster to manage, but he's all right at the bottom. I have no doubt he will stand the test too; and the sooner we get poor Bertie out of his difficulties the better it will be for him."