"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."