Their Road to Fortune

The Story of Two Brothers.

By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c.

Chapter VII.—An Investment.

T

he holidays were over at last; the ten days flew by only too quickly to Bertie, for, compared with Gore House, Fitzroy Square seemed the most delightful place in the world. He was not very artistic in his taste, and thought but little of carving and gilding, soft carpets, and luxurious chairs; therefore the shabby parlour with Aunt Amy seemed far more beautiful than the very grandest apartment in Aunt Gregory's grand house.

"If I could only stay here always, Aunt Amy, how happy I should be!" he had said a dozen times during his stay; and each time, though her heart echoed his wish, she cheered him with loving smiles, encouraged him with hopeful words, begging of him to try and make the best of his Uncle Gregory's home, and be as happy and contented as he could. Eddie often wished that he had such a magnificent residence, for he made no secret of his contempt for the shabby and somewhat dingy comfort of Uncle Clair's house and its dreary surroundings. He thought artists should have everything beautiful and graceful about them, and looked very much astonished when his uncle said, in his sweet low voice, that beauty and grace were certainly essential, but they should be in the artist himself, and then he would see them reflected everywhere. Both Bertie and Agnes endorsed that statement, for they loved the old house, and were quite happy there. Eddie, still longing for something out of his reach, instead of making the most of what was at his hand, grumbled and shook his head; but Uncle Clair only smiled, and said, "You'll be wiser when you are older, my boy. Knowledge comes with years."

Mrs. Gregory's presents caused Mrs. Clair to think that she was sorry for her neglect of Bertie, and meant to be kinder to him in future; besides, Uncle Gregory had said there might be other arrangements when he returned, so that it was with a very hopeful heart that Bertie entered the office punctually at nine o'clock on the 2nd of January, and was taking his old corner to await the arrival of his uncle, when the head clerk conducted him into the inner room, and pointed out a seat at a desk near a window looking into a narrow court.

"Go through all those letters," the clerk said, pointing to a huge heap; "select the circulars, open them, and place them on that stand; arrange all the English and foreign letters on Mr. Gregory's table, and then address those envelopes from that book on your desk."

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied cheerfully. It certainly was much pleasanter in that warm room, with its clear blazing fire, soft carpet, leather-covered chairs, and draughtless windows, than in the large, and often chilly, outer office, but when Mr. Gregory entered with his compressed lips and keen piercing glance all round, Bertie began to think it would not be pleasant to have to sit always within the reach of his critical eyes.

"Good morning. You have not forgotten, I see: that's well," Mr. Gregory said, as he hung up his coat and pulled off his gloves. Then, with a quick glance at his table, he added, "You may go on with your work."

Bertie copied industriously for an hour, never raising his head from his desk; then his master's voice startled him. "Come here, Bertie. I want some conversation with you. How old are you?"

"Nearly thirteen, sir."

"You look more. Do you like business?"

"I think I do, sir. I shall like it more when I understand it better."

"Quite so. Now, Bertie, because you are my nephew, and have been a good, steady lad, I am going to place you in a position of great trust. You are quick, and write a good hand, and I shall train you to be my private secretary. You shall answer all my business letters, from my dictation. Of course I don't mean all my letters," catching Bertie's nervous glance at the table, "only those I have been in the habit of attending to myself. It means several changes: one is, you need not get here till I do in the morning; another is, that I shall require your services for an hour or two every evening in the library at Gore House. You can leave here at four instead of half-past five, and I wish you to take lessons in French and German three times a week. I have engaged a master for you, and you can leave here every other day at half-past three. I will pay you twelve shillings a week, out of which you must pay for your luncheon, and you will dine with us, except when there is a large party. Now sit down, and write exactly as I tell you, and as quickly, as neatly, and accurately as you can."

"Yes, uncle; thank you," Bertie replied, his heart throbbing violently. That was indeed a change from the dull routine of the past five months: he had won his uncle's confidence; he was to have no more solitary evenings; and, best of all, he was to have a salary, and only luncheon to buy out of it.

"Why, I shall only want a Bath bun and a glass of milk every day. I can save nearly all," Bertie whispered to himself at luncheon-time. "Uncle Gregory is good to me, and no mistake!"

Mr. Gregory was good to his nephew, but not before he had thoroughly satisfied himself that the boy fully deserved his confidence, and, what was more, would fully and amply repay it. That twelve shillings a week was a master-stroke of policy, for it made Bertie eternally grateful; and if the young gentleman fancied his Uncle Gregory did not know that nine shillings of it went into the post-office savings' bank regularly every week, he was greatly mistaken. The dining down-stairs was not quite such a success; he was usually completely ignored, and always felt glad when the formal prolonged meal was over, and he was at liberty to follow Mr. Gregory to the library. There, indeed, Bertie had often two, or even three, hours' trying work, copying out prospectuses and share lists, reading aloud a strange jargon he did not half understand about stocks, consols, and dividends, adding up prodigious sums of money, subtracting other sums from them, and, when the result did not quite satisfy Mr. Gregory, having to consign them all to the waste-paper basket, and begin over again. Still, it was better than the long dreary evenings in the deserted school-room, though so much confinement was beginning to tell a little on Bertie's rosy cheeks and healthy young frame. The atmosphere of the Underground Railway, too, was injuring lungs that had never breathed anything but the purest country air, and at last Mr. Gregory noticed his altered appearance, and invited him to drive into the City in the dog-cart with himself every morning. That was indeed a red-letter day,—almost as good as driving to Dr. Mayson's at Riversdale: better, in fact, Bertie began to think later on, for the bustle and confusion, the eager, hurrying, restless life of the City began to have a strange charm for him, and that brisk drive to and from Mincing Lane was a real pleasure. Then he was progressing famously with his French and German. The old professor who gave him his lessons was a sociable, voluble, eloquent gentleman, who waved his hands, rolled his eyes, chattered nonsense that made Bertie laugh, but at the same time interested him so much that he took great pains to listen and remember; and having learned his grammar fairly well at school he was soon able to make his way with tolerable ease through either a newspaper or letter.

But you must not suppose it was all sunshine and smooth sailing for Bertie Rivers. He had a great many trials and troubles, and perhaps the heaviest was his inability to go to Fitzroy Square, except on Sundays, and not always then. Then he missed his runs in the Park and his walks into the country in the early morning, his wood-carving and cork-carving, and all the other amusements with which he was in the habit of filling up his spare time. Then Uncle Gregory was becoming daily more exacting and particular, and Bertie gathered from the letters he wrote that some of the many speculations of the great City merchant were not going on entirely to his satisfaction. Every evening he remained later in the library, and Bertie had more letters to write and circulars to address, and sometimes his head ached sadly, and his eyes were dull and heavy in the morning. But there was one unfailing source of satisfaction—his weekly visit to the post-office savings' bank. Bertie would not have missed that for the world: nine shillings a week, and sometimes even ten—for nothing could tempt him to spend a penny, except on his luncheons and in writing to them at Fitzroy Square—soon mounted up to five pounds, and then Mr. Gregory remarked one day that if Bertie had saved any money he would invest it for him in a company that would pay five times as much interest asthe post-office. So the money was handed over to Uncle Gregory, and Bertie received a very large and formal paper, which he never read, but still was proud of, and in his next visit handed it triumphantly to Mr. Clair. He read it carefully, and then shook his head. "This company promises too much, Bertie," he said; "better have left your money where it was."

"As if Uncle Gregory doesn't know best!" Bertie laughed. "Why, he has hundreds of shares himself."

Chapter VIII.—An Unexpected Pleasure.

"Y
ou may go and spend a few days with your brother," Mr. Gregory said to Bertie one Saturday at the end of July. "I am going away for a week, and so I can spare you; but mind you are back on the Monday after next, and in good time."

"Yes, sir; thank you, uncle," Bertie replied, with a bright smile.

"You may go now, if you wish. I do not require anything further;" and Bertie fairly ran out of the office, jumped into an omnibus, and hurried straight to Fitzroy Square, instead of going home to Kensington. The moment the hall door opened he saw something unusual was about to take place: there were trunks and packages and muffle straps in the hall, and there, amidst them, stood Uncle Clair, looking quite calm, while Aunt Amy, Agnes, and Eddie flew hither and thither in every direction. There was a four-wheeler at the door too, so that evidently the family were going away. For a moment Bertie felt inclined to cry. What possible pleasure could he have in a week's holiday without Eddie and Agnes to share it? But the moment Aunt Amy caught sight of him, her bright face and cordial welcome re-assured him.

"Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your uncle could not spare you to come with us. But where are your things?"

"I haven't brought any. I only just came from the City to tell you Uncle Gregory gave me a week's holiday," Bertie replied, looking very much perplexed. "I did not know you were all going away, auntie, or of course I would not have come."

"Then you did not get the letter I sent you, dear?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission to come with us to the sea-side for a week. But I suppose the letter miscarried some way. However 'All's well that ends well,' Bertie. You are just in time. Come now, help to carry the parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything."

"If we were going to stay a year in a desert island a thousand miles from a shop, I should think we have enough luggage," Uncle Clair said, glancing comically at the numerous packages and trunks; "instead of which, we're only going to Brighton, and can get everything we want there just as well as in London."

"But am I really to go to the sea-side with you, Uncle Harry?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Why, of course, child; you don't suppose we're going to leave you behind."

"Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!" and Bertie executed a sort of war-dance, tossed his hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a dozen times at least before taking his seat in the cab. "You had better go with your aunt in a hansom, Bertie," Uncle Clair said; "Eddie, Agnes, and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the station first, wait for us at the booking-office. Mind you don't get lost," he added, with a smile, as they drove away.

"As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!" Bertie said proudly. "Why, I know the place by heart now; and shan't I be glad to get away from it for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle Gregory to give me a holiday?"

"Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally. Do you know, dear, I am sorry we did not try to persuade Eddie to take his place in the office too: I almost think he would have been happier, and have got on better; he does not seem very contented with us, and, worst of all, he does not make much progress in the profession he has chosen. Agnes is far ahead of him."

"But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do anything if he likes," Bertie cried loyally. "And I do not think he would get on with Uncle Gregory: he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never cared to be told to do anything. Even poor papa used to say, 'Please, Eddie,' or 'Perhaps you will do so, Eddie.' Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to do forty different things in different ways every day, and I don't mind a bit; but Eddie would stand and look at him, and frown so, and just walk away. My brother would never get on with Uncle Gregory, Aunt Amy," Bertie repeated gravely. "Eddie would never make a merchant."

"And your uncle Clair says he will never make an artist, unless he changes greatly," said Aunt Amy, rather sadly. "Poor Eddie! I am really very anxious about his future: he is so like his father: his ideas are quite magnificent, but he has no energy."

"He's clever, though, auntie; papa often said Eddie was a genius," Bertie whispered, "and I can work enough for us both. When I am rich, and can buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy. You don't know how different he will be when he gets back to our beautiful home," and Bertie's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought, for the dream of Bertie's life was to get back Riversdale. The anxieties of the great establishment in Mincing Lane never touched him; he knew nothing of risks, disappointments, or failures; in fact, Bertie never even thought of such things, for he was but a child at heart, and had perfect faith in his uncle's assurance that if he were only a good, obedient, industrious boy he would be very rich some day, and get back his home. But no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office, or the hot library at Kensington troubled him as he took his seat in the train, and was whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie sat silently looking out of the window, envying his brother's high spirits; he could not think what made Bertie so happy when he felt discontented and miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything in the world. Agnes, too, seemed infected with some of Bertie's good humour; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed merrily at the utter nonsense her cousin chattered incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his discontent, and made the most of his misery. And yet he had no real cause to be unhappy: every one was kind, gentle, patient with him; he had not a reasonable wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of the carriage, while the others chatted and laughed, and seemed as if they could not keep still for very enjoyment.

"Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!" Agnes cried, "Look how the sun shines on the trees, and the brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to get away from London, and see the country once more; and such a sky, Bertie! you don't have anything like that in Mincing Lane!"

"No; but though our skies may be somewhat inky, Miss Agnes, they have a silver or a golden lining," Bertie replied, with the air of a judge. "We don't want sunshine in the City, because we have no time to look at it; and besides, we have plenty of gas and electric light."

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something about his brother's want of artistic taste, when Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

"Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite a philosopher as well as a capitalist and man of business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five minutes, and then for a glimpse of the glorious sea."

"Why, Uncle Harry, I've never seen it!" Bertie exclaimed, as if he were very much surprised at not having given the matter a thought before. "All the way down I never seemed to think we were going to the sea-side: I was so glad to get away from London. Will you let us have a boat, Uncle Harry?"

"That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps fine we may go for a sail some day."

"Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little punt on the ocean as we did on the river at home," Eddie said, rather scornfully. "He has no idea what the sea is like."

"Well, well, he will know better presently, for here we are," Uncle Harry said gently; and in a few minutes more they were all in a shabby, shaky, but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

"Oh!" Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy's hand. "Oh, how beautiful! I feel as if I can't breathe, auntie."

"It is jolly!" Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright way. "What a place for a swim, Eddie!"

"The idea of thinking the sea only a place for swimming!" Eddie replied contemptuously. "I——"

"You can't swim a bit: that's the reason you don't care about it," Bertie cried merrily. "But Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle Harry, so you will hear him say presently, 'What a lovely place for a row!' and I do believe it's not a bit rougher than our little river."

"It's very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears a very different aspect, Bertie."

"I don't believe it ever could be really rough, just like Turner's pictures," Eddie grumbled. "It's not a bit like what I thought it would be."

"It's ten times prettier than anything I ever saw," Bertie cried enthusiastically. "Just look at all the boats, and such pretty houses, and the donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have a donkey-ride? and such lots of boys!"

"What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his enemy at home, and he would be as happy as Bertie," Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to Aunt Amy; and she only shook her head and smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though spoken in a very low tone, reached Bertie's quick young ears, and he glanced at his brother in sore perplexity. But at that moment the carriage stopped at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments, and in the bustle of getting in the packets, exploring the rooms, exclaiming at the beautiful view from the balcony, and Bertie's sudden discovery that it was a glorious place to test the powers of a pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot all about Uncle Clair's words and Aunt Amy's sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little, and agreed that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with the bright sun shining on her snow-white sails, was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head on the pillow—he had been running and dancing along the beach for hours—his last waking thought was, "I must find out who's Eddie's enemy; and if he's not a lot a bigger fellow than I am, I'll thrash him!"

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."

"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.)