Chapter 4

"How I wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried, tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the carriage."

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother through the open French window of the study. They were two bright, handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless, observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger, but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly, restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy, expectation.

"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.

"I wonder if we shall like _her_?" Eddie replied: "that's of more importance, I think."

"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I wonder----"

"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."

"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road, where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study, and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.

"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"

The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed, absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his curiosity, or perhaps concluded that his father's command to ask no questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.

"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."

"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that, Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is coming here!"

Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons concealed in Riversdale.

"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother. "Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak about--very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy do, I wonder?"

"She married some one papa did not approve of--an artist, I think: that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and she has not got any boys or girls."

"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about them. Who told you?"

"Papa. I asked him one day."

"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear the probable reason of that relative's absence.

"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough--too often, I believe--when our mother was alive, and then papa and he disagreed, and he has not come since."

"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you find out, Eddie?"

"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives; you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before deciding. I should like to see a great city--London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the famous places in the world--Italy, Greece, Egypt--see pictures, statues, beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition," Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly. "Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie, who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"

"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles! Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading, though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed in Agnes, but in a different way.