CHAPTER XV.—BAD NEWS FROM BRIGHTON.
When Mr. Murray left the dining-room at Gore House, Mr. Gregory followed him as far as the hall door, then he returned for a moment, and looked at Bertie angrily. It seemed as if he were going to say something of importance, but suddenly checked himself with a hasty stamp of his foot; then he said, more quietly, "Get to bed as soon as possible, and be down in good time in the morning, and see that you don't fall asleep out of doors again," and left the dining-room.
Bertie was not very long after him, and though he felt much better for his supper, he was still so stiff and chilled that the warm bath was a real luxury. His head was scarcely on the pillow before he was sound asleep, but he was troubled and restless, and awoke in the morning feeling dull and unrefreshed, and with the uncomfortable sense of something having happened that he vainly tried to recall. However, he got up and was downstairs before his uncle.
Mr. Gregory spoke to him coldly, without looking up from his pile of letters, and Bertie ate his breakfast in silence: that is, he drank his coffee, but food seemed to hurt his throat strangely, and in spite of the brilliant sunshine, he shivered nervously once or twice. Just as breakfast was finished there came a telegram for Mr. Gregory, which, when he had read it, he handed over to Bertie.
The message was from Aunt Amy, saying that Uncle Clair was ill, and wished to see Bertie, if his Uncle Gregory would permit him to go. The paper fell from his trembling fingers as he looked at the unconcerned features of his uncle, and he gasped, rather than asked, "May I go, sir?"
"Certainly, if you wish it," was the cold reply, "though I fail to see what possible good you can do. You can come into the City with me, and go down by the noon express; telegraph to that effect when you reach the office."
"Thank you, Uncle Gregory; and if you please, will you let me have some money?" Bertie faltered, blushing, and looking very much confused. "I'm afraid it would take me too long to get my own out of the savings' bank."
Mr. Gregory took a sovereign from his pocket. "That will be sufficient for your expenses. Watts shall get your ticket;" and Mr. Gregory rose from the table, and rang for his hat and gloves. The dog-cart was already at the door, and presently Bertie was beside his uncle driving City-wards.
Mr. Gregory looked very stern and angry, and once or twice seemed on the point of asking Bertie some questions, but always checked himself. The fact was, Mr. Gregory felt very curious as to what Mr. Murray had said to Bertie, whether he had made him any fine promises, or, in short, shown the lad himself the keen interest that he took in him, and how resolved he was to do something to alter his condition. Mr. Gregory had very confidently hoped that one of his own sons would have been the old gentleman's favourite, and but for the unfortunate encounter with the Rivers' lads, he felt quite confident that such would have been the case. Then the finding of the papers and the immediate return of them annoyed Mr. Gregory very much. If he could have kept them back for one day it would have been considerably to his interest; and though he liked and fully appreciated a boy who was quick to think and prompt to act, he liked the quickness and promptitude to be for, not against, himself. In fact, though he would not acknowledge it, even to himself, Mr. Gregory's business affairs just then were in a very critical condition: during the summer many of his ventures had failed; many large firms with which he did business had also failed; and though the credit of his house was as yet above suspicion, trade was very dull, and matters generally looked threatening. It was that that caused Mr. Gregory to court an alliance in any shape with the firm of Murray and Co., that enjoyed a reputation second only to the Bank of England. With one of his sons in the office, and treated as the adopted child of the head of the firm, Mr. Gregory felt as if he could face a financial earthquake; therefore he did not care to see Bertie rendering important services, did not care to hear him praised for exceptional business capacity, least of all did he like to hear his old friend Mr. Murray almost reproach himself for the lad's dependent position, and say sadly that in a great measure he was the cause of their father's ruin. Such a statement from an enormously wealthy, Quixotically generous man meant possible reparation; there was really no telling what he might not do for Bertie and Eddie Rivers; so Mr. Gregory determined very prudently, as he thought, to keep the boys as much as possible out of the old gentleman's way. Therefore he allowed Bertie to go to Brighton, with permission to remain as long as his uncle and aunt required him, and telegraphed to his wife to send his second son Dick up to town without delay.
"Harry must go to Oxford and get into Parliament," he said to himself, "and I must sacrifice Dick to his interest and advancement." It was a singular thing Mr. Gregory never thought it the least sacrifice to place Bertie Rivers in his office, even when he was younger and worse educated than his own son. "Bertie is a smart, industrious lad, with better business capacity than Dick," he reflected, as he watched Bertie go through his morning's work, apparently oblivious to everything outside, forgetful of his stiff limbs, sore throat, hard words, and, worst of all, the terrible telegram from Brighton; he simply crushed the thoughts down and did his work steadily, till his uncle told him it was time to go to the station.
"Good-bye. I hope you will find Mr. Clair better," he said, ungraciously enough. "Watts, get a hansom, and be quick."
Bertie needed no second bidding to go, and as he left the office it was with an earnest wish that he might never have to enter it again. He little knew that his uncle's thoughts at the same moment were, "I hope he may never come back; or if he does, I hope Dick will be with Mr. Murray."
That gentleman meantime had driven round to Gore House about eleven o'clock, with the intention of taking Bertie out for a couple of hours, and so studying his manners and temper, but to his astonishment, he learned the boy had driven into town with his uncle, and was going down to Brighton to see his other uncle, who was dangerously ill. James had consulted the telegram he found on the breakfast-table, and from it and the fragments of conversation he picked up, knew pretty accurately what Master Bertie's movements were going to be. "He's going down by the twelve train, sir, but he looks more fit to be in his bed," James continued. "I believe he's caught a violent cold: he was that hoarse to-day, and his face as white as milk; and he had no breakfast."
Mr. Murray listened in silence, only nodding his head gravely every few seconds, then he told his coachman to drive him at once to London Bridge Station; there he would find out the truth as to whether Bertie was ill or going to Brighton, and act accordingly. But the City was very crowded, his carriage frequently got blocked, and he only reached the station in time to jump into a carriage, where he fancied he caught a glimpse of Bertie's head in a corner. He had not even time to get a ticket or give his servants any instructions; but then, Mr. Murray was known to be eccentric, and he always paid most liberally for his whims.
Bertie, who was alone in the carriage, looked first surprised, and then very pleased. He was terribly low-spirited, his head ached, his throat was sore, worst of all, he was cold, and would probably have sobbed the whole way to Brighton had he been alone, and so made himself very ill. But Mr. Murray cheered him up wonderfully, chatted briskly all the way about everything a boy could be expected to take an interest in, and in fact made the time pass so pleasantly that they were at Brighton long before Bertie thought they were half-way. When they reached the house (for Mr. Murray went too), the blinds were all down, and that gave Bertie a sudden chill; and as he knocked at the door he glanced with terrified, appealing eyes at Mr. Murray, who drew a step nearer, and took Bertie by the hand. It was a firm, reassuring clasp, and the boy glanced at him gratefully, and when the door was opened, thus hand in-hand they went upstairs, and were met just at the drawing-room door by Mrs. Clair. One glance at her face was sufficient to tell them something dreadful had happened. Bertie was in her arms in a moment, while Eddie and Agnes—white, wild-eyed, terror-stricken—clung on either side. It was a heartrending picture of sorrow and despair, and Mr. Murray could not witness it unmoved. He just shook hands with Mrs. Clair, whispered a few words that he would telegraph at once to Mr. Gregory, and would call again in a few hours, to ask if he could be of any service.
"Remember, my dear Mrs. Clair, you are not alone here. I will see to everything for you: Rely on me, command me, and remember I was your brother's dearest friend. I will call as soon as I get Gregory's answer. By the way, that boy Bertie is very ill; he has a violent cold, he has eaten nothing to-day, he is very unhappy; if you can, forget' your own sorrow for an hour in comforting him;" and then Mr. Murray hurried away, having left a ray of sunshine in a very shady place, and cheered and comforted Mrs. Clair, who was alone, helpless, bewildered, in her terrible and sudden affliction. Surely Heaven had sent her a friend in her direst distress, and she was truly grateful.
(To be continued.)
THE FOX AND THE FROG.
Afrog had made himself a home in what he considered a very desirable situation. It was beside a river far away from any human habitations, so that he had no occasion to fear the incursions of rude boys, of whom, owing to their stone-throwing propensities, he had a natural horror.
It was also a very pleasant spot, where reeds and bulrushes and water-plants protected him from the glare of the sun, whilst before him the water-lilies spread their broad leaves upon the water. Food was plentiful in the vicinity, and he congratulated himself upon having found a place where he could dwell without being subject to constant alarms.
A fox had on very much the same principle taken up his residence in a wood near. There were plump young pigeons and hares and rabbits to be had, and very often he came in for waterfowl by the river.
"And no fear of traps here," said he, "or of boys and men with guns. It is far too wild a place for them."
So he made himself as comfortable as possible in his den, and enjoyed himself to his heart's content; never finding it necessary, excepting in winter-time, to make an expedition to more populated parts, though at such seasons he was obliged through hunger to journey to the remote villages for poultry, through scarcity of provisions in his own parts.
One fine day, as he was sauntering along, he happened to observe a movement among the rushes, and to hear a strange cry that he had not heard before.
He paused to listen, and still the sound went on, and still the reeds swayed to and fro.
"Doubtless a bird," said he. And he cautiously advanced to where the noise proceeded from.
Now it happened that the frog was splashing about and performing rotatory movements that caused the swaying of the rushes, and that he was making a curious singing noise on which he prided himself as showing his fine voice. Looking up he perceived the great sharp face of the fox peering down upon him. Not that the fox was looking at him, for he had not perceived him, his thoughts being occupied with the fine young waterfowl he hoped to find there.
The frog, however, made up his mind at once that the fox had come after him.
"Such a fine young frog as I am," he exclaimed, "is never safe for a moment," and with a loud croak of terror he plunged into the water and swam away, determined to put a safe distance between himself and his pursuer.
The fox looked over the rushes, and seeing the frog swimming as for life, laughed quietly to himself.
"How people magnify their own importance!" said he; "as if I were troubling myself to come after him! I was hoping to find prey of a very superior description."
J. G.
the fox and the frog. ([See p. 288]).
THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN NOVEMBER.
N
ovember is a month of very great dulness in Gardening matters, from a practical point of view, and will probably fully justify the epithet of "gloomy" so often applied to it. Familiar floral faces which have been for the past several months brightening us with their cheerful looks have now vanished, and we once more witness Nature in her winter aspect. "A garden," says Douglas Jerrold, "is a beautiful book, writ by the finger of God; every flower and leaf is a letter. You have only to learn them—and he is a poor dunce that cannot, if he will, do that—to learn them, and join them, and go on reading and reading, and you will find yourself carried away from the earth by the beautiful story you are going through."
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One of the best occupations which we can recommend to our young readers during winter evenings is the perusal of various elementary books on gardening, and a few of the best seed catalogues which are issued every spring. Those containing plenty of illustrations should be preferred, as a figure, even if badly executed, will convey a far better idea of a plant than the most elaborate of descriptions. We would, however, remark that mere reading, no matter how wide and varied, will by no means constitute any one a good or even indifferent gardener where experience and knowledge are not acquired by practice. It is probably true that a poet must be born such; but the case is just the reverse with a gardener, who must in fact be made one.
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The present month is one of the best for making additions to our little folk's gardens in the matter of nearly all sorts of hardy perennials, and dwarf-growing shrubs. We would especially name the Christmas rose; if planted now in a light loamy soil close to an east wall, plenty of flowers will be produced in succession from the latter part of December until February, and in order to secure pure white blooms, the plant, when just commencing to flower, should be covered over with a bell-glass. If grown exposed to winds and rain the flowers will be of a very dirty white. The roots of the winter aconite, or, as it is sometimes called, "The New Year's Gift," should now be planted in, if possible, a rather damp and shady situation; its bright yellow flowers will be most welcome throughout the dull months of December and January. It may be grown successfully under the shelter of trees and shrubs.
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Secure nice specimens of the forget-me-not, and plant in any damp, shaded situation. A plentiful supply of flowers from early spring onwards will amply repay any small amount of trouble entailed in their cultivation. As the true forget-me-not (Myosotis palustris) grows in most damp, boggy meadows throughout England it will cost nothing to obtain it—except, perhaps, a pair of wet feet. The winter aconite is likewise a native plant, but is rarely seen in a wild state. Such spring-flowering perennials as the white arabis, herbaceous candytufts, aubretias, primulas, and polyanthuses, should now be placed in situations where it is desired for them to flower. The majority of those just named thrive very well in almost any moderately good garden soil, and under ordinary treatment.
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The hardy annuals required for spring flowering which were omitted to be sown during the previous months should now be done so with all speed; the most suitable position will be in a box of light soil, and the young seedlings may be protected from the severity of winter by the box containing them being placed in a cold frame, which should be covered by straw or other litter during very hard frosts. Although the majority of annuals are of a very ephemeral character, few things are more showy or more floriferous. Among many others we may particularise the fragrant white-flowered alyssum, the blue, dark purple, spotted, and white varieties of nemophila, white and pink virginian stock, and the large yellow buttercup-like flowered limnanthes. Batches of the annuals sown in August and September can now be placed in warm spots in the open border, where, in all probability, they will withstand the winter and flower duly in spring.
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The planting of flower-roots may be still carried on with vigour. As regards the general work to be done now in the garden, we may mention that in dry weather all walks and pathways should be swept and rolled, which latter operation, like that of digging, ought to be done by a labourer, although dragging a garden-roller has been described as an excellent gymnastic exercise. Grass should be mowed on every favourable opportunity; and where turf has been much worn away, or where it is uneven, the objectionable portions must be removed and replaced by better.
STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
By Edwin Hodder ("Old Merry").