Chapter 6

It was a long time before Eddie and Bertie Rivers could realise that Riversdale was no longer their home--that they were quite poor lads, dependent on the kindness of their relatives, and that if they wished to win fame and fortune, there was nothing for it but hard work. Bertie was the first to realise the great change in his position. Mr. Gregory was not unkind, but he was stern and cold, and after introducing him to the head clerk (who showed him a corner in the office where he might sit, and explained his work), Mr. Gregory took no more notice of him than of the other lads. After the first day, he found that he would have to go to the City by himself, and return alone; his uncle gave him a second-class season ticket, and desired him to catch the half-past eight train every morning. He also told him where he was to have his dinner, and for the first month desired one of the older clerks to see to him, and pay only a certain sum; then he was to return to Kensington at half-past five every evening, have his tea in the school-room, and read or amuse himself as best he could till bed-time. His aunt, he rarely saw; she was not up when he left in the morning, and always was either entertaining visitors at home or going out to parties in the evening. His two cousins were quite grown-up young ladies, who seldom condescended to notice the little office-boy, as they called him, and two other cousins, about his own age and Eddie's, were away at Eton. So that poor Bertie would not have had a very lively time, had he not possessed a wonderful capacity for enjoyment, and a perfect genius for finding occupation and amusement for himself. He had undisturbed possession of the deserted school-room, and before long it was a sort of little museum. He had a number of pets; then he begged corks from the butler, and manufactured ingenious flower-pots and stands, in which he grew dainty little mosses and ferns; he made cork frames for some of Agnes' pretty little pictures, and his grandest achievement was a boat that he built and rigged entirely himself. Often in the early mornings he would go for a walk as far into the country as he could, and sometimes, before going home in the evenings, he would have a run in the park, and those were all his pleasures. Mr. Gregory scarcely ever thought of him out of the office; there he always observed every one closely, and he saw that Bertie was quiet, attentive, industrious, and, best of all, quick: he never had to be told to do anything a second time. On Saturdays and Sundays he might go and see his brother, provided he returned in good time, for he dined with the family on Sundays; but Eddie was never invited to Gore House, and Uncle Clair was never mentioned without contempt. But to Bertie, the hours spent in the dingy old house in Fitzroy Square were the pleasantest of his life. He was too happy when he got there to notice that Eddie looked gloomy sometimes, but little Agnes was always sweet and happy, and Aunt Amy's welcome was worth anything.

"How I do wish I could come and live here!" Bertie cried one wet afternoon, when they were all gathered round the fire in Mrs. Clair's old-fashioned parlour. "I should not mind being in the office a bit if I could see you all in the evenings; but it is dull at home!"

"It's dull everywhere at times, dear," Aunt Amy said gently, remembering how very gloomy Eddie often looked. "You must try and make the best of it."

"I do, auntie," Bertie replied; "and I suppose I won't have to live with Uncle Gregory always."

"Gore House is pleasanter than Fitzroy Square, I think," Eddie said, a little crossly.

"And Fitzroy Square is ever so much pleasanter than Mincing Lane," Bertie replied. "Why, if you were in our office, Eddie, I don't know what would become of you! You would have to sit on a high stool all day, copying things into big books, or else copying things out of them. Then you have to add up columns of figures till your eyes ache, and if you are even one wrong, Mr. Wilson seems to know just by instinct. I wonder," Bertie added suddenly, "how many columns I shall have to add up, and how many ledgers fill with entries, before I begin to grow rich?"

"I wonder how many pictures I'll have to paint before I begin to grow famous?" Eddie replied; and then, as Aunt Amy left the room, he jumped up impatiently. "I'll never be an artist, Bert, if Uncle Clair keeps me drawing lines and triangles and cubes. Any one can do them; I want to begin to paint!"

"Then why don't you do just as Uncle Harry says; he knows best!" Bertie replied gravely. "I always do exactly as Uncle Gregory says, no matter what it is; and now it's time for me to go back. Oh, I forgot to tell you something: our cousins, Dick and Harry, are coming home in a few weeks; I'll bring them to see you. It won't be so bad when they come, but it is dull at home these long evenings."

"It does me good to see Bertie: he's always so happy and cheerful," Aunt Amy said, after she had kissed him, and watched him a little way down the street. "I wish, Eddie dear, you would try to be contented and happy."

"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"

"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art, and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember, the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work. Just see how Agnes gets on!"

Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself, and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind, gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie, and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune, and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnes begged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian, Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites. Then there were pleasant hours in the British Museum, studying rare old prints and illuminations; visits to the numerous other picture galleries; and, best of all, pleasant hours in other artists' studios, where Eddie heard a good deal of discussion and criticism, and thought himself a very important person. Then there were pleasant evenings at home, when friends dropped in, and the conversation was still of art and artists, of "studies," "designs," "models," and other matters of absorbing interest to painters; and Uncle Clair would sit in his big easy-chair by the fire, and talk in his soft, pleasant voice of the picture he was going to paint for the Academy some day, when he got tired of portrait-painting. He would dwell upon his subject lovingly, describing it in minute detail, and then forget all about it, while some one else went and painted it, and won money and fame thereby. Being of an easy temper, and entirely devoid of ambition, Mr. Clair was unable to sympathise with Eddie's impatience; but though not enthusiastic about art, he had a thorough knowledge of its technicalities, and Eddie might have learned much from him if he would. Meantime, Agnes was studying hard and making wonderful progress, but her aunt one day observed that she was growing thin and pale again, and her sight becoming weaker; so the drawing-materials had to be laid aside, except for one hour a day, and then Agnes and Aunt Amy began visiting the picture-galleries too, and walking through the parks, and enjoying the bright, cold, frosty mornings out of doors, while Uncle Clair worked at his portraits, and Eddie too often sulked in the studio; and Bertie went to his office every day, and in spite of all his efforts, felt very dull and dispirited in the cold school-room during the long winter evenings, cheered only by the thought that his cousins would soon be home, and then he nothing doubted they would spend a great deal of their time with him; for of course he would have a good long holiday too.