CHAPTER IX.—A HAPPY ENCOUNTER.
Brighton in the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter, watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There, at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.
"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight," Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his face.
"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said, advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"
"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed, he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked puzzled.
"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie better than me: he saw him oftener."
"'i remember you quite well,' he said."
"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said. "You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."
For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he—he is dead," he said steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office; Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."
"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean——" then glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in the strangest way.
"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.
"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the office, as usual."
"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray asked.
"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"
"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"
Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr. Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair pleased Mr. Murray.
As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.
Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family, and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers' sons.
"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might have done something better for that fine lad."
"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You should be the last person in the world to object to business."
"I don't object, only the boy is too young—a mere child. Why did not you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"
"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very well."
Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously, but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder; he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.
Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and meant to call at their address the next morning.
(To be continued.)
AN APPLE SONG.
he Autumn sunshine falls so warm,
So warm in the orchard green,
A golden tent is the apple-tree;
And under the leafy screen
Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,
As high as he can go,
Dropping the apples red and brown
To his Cousin Prue below.
Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,
Spreads wide her pinafore,
The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,
By two, by three, by four;
With watchful eye and ready hand
She lets no apple fall—
As fast as Rex can throw them down
She catches one and all.
The blackbird on the topmost bough
Is singing loud and clear,
The children shouting at their task
It does him good to hear.
He watches them with his bead-black eyes,
And blither still he sings;
But clearer than dear blackbird's note
The children's laughter rings.