CHAPTER VII.--AN INVESTMENT.

The 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 as the 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."