Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗

It was a desperately hot day. There had been no day like it all the summer. Indeed, Squires, the head gardener at Garden Vale, positively asserted that there had been none like it since he had been employed on the place, which was fourteen years last March. Squires, by the way, never lost an opportunity of reminding himself and the world generally of the length of his services to the family at Garden Vale; and on the strength of those fourteen years he gave himself airs as if the place belonged not to Mr Cruden at all, but to himself. He was the terror of his mistress, who scarcely dared to peep into a greenhouse without his leave, and although he could never exactly obtain from the two young gentlemen the respect to which he considered himself entitled, he still flattered himself in secret “they couldn’t do exactly what they liked with his garden!”

To-day, however, it was so hot that even Squires, after having expressed the opinion on the weather above mentioned, withdrew himself into the coolest recess of his snug lodge and slept sweetly, leaving the young gentlemen, had they been so minded, to take any liberty they liked with “his” garden.

The young gentlemen, however, were not so minded.

They had been doing their best to play lawn tennis in the blazing sun with two of their friends, but it was too hot to run, too hot to hit, and far too hot to score, so the attempt had died away, and three of them now reclined on the sloping bank under the laurel hedge, dividing their time between lazily gazing up at the dark-blue sky and watching the proceedings of the fourth of their party, who still remained in the courts.

This last-mentioned youth, who, to judge by his countenance, was brother to one of those who lolled on the bank, presented a curious contrast to the general languor of the afternoon. Deserted by his companions in the sport, he was relieving himself of some of his superfluous energy by the novel diversion of playing tennis with himself. This he accomplished by serving the ball high up in the air and then jumping the net, so as to take it on the other side, following up his return by another leap over the net, and so on till either he or the ball came to grief. On an ordinary day the exertion involved in this pastime would be quite enough for any ordinary individual, but on a day like the present, with the thermometer at ninety in the shade, it was a trifle too much even to watch.

“For goodness’ sake shut up, Horrors,” said the elder brother. “We might as well be playing ourselves as watch you at that sort of thing.”

The young gentleman addressed as Horrors was at that moment in the midst of one of his aerial flights, and had neither leisure nor breath to answer.

“Do you hear?” repeated the other. “If you want to keep warm, go indoors and put on a great-coat, but don’t fag us to death with that foolery.”

“Eight!” exclaimed the young athlete, scoring the number of times the ball had crossed the net, and starting for another jump. “Shut up, Reg, till I’ve done.”

He soon was done. Even Horace Cruden could not keep it up for ever, and at his tenth bound his foot caught in the net, and he came all fours on to the court.

“There, now you’re happy!” said his brother. “Now you may as well come and sit here out of the cold.”

Horace picked himself up, laughing.

“All very well,” said he. “I’m certain I should have done it twelve times if you hadn’t put me off my jump. Never mind, I’ll do it yet.”

“Oh, Horace,” interposed one of the others, beseechingly, “if you love us, lie down now. I’m quite ill watching you, I assure you. We’ll all vow we saw you do it twelve times; we’ll put it in the Times if you like, and say the net was five feet ten; anything, as long as you don’t start at it again.”

This appeal had the effect of reducing the volatile Horace to a state of quiescence, and inducing him to come and share the shade with his companions.

“Never saw such a lazy lot,” said he, lying flat on his back and balancing his racquet on his finger; “you won’t do anything yourselves and you won’t let any one else do anything. Regular dogs in the manger.”

“My dear fellow,” said the fourth of the party in a half drawl, “we’ve been doing nothing but invite you in to the manger for the last hour, and you wouldn’t come. Can’t you take a holiday while we’ve got one?”

“Bad luck to it,” said Reginald; “there’s only a week more.”

“I don’t see why you need growl, old man,” said the visitor who had spoken first; “you’ll get into the sixth and have a study to yourself, and no mathematics unless you like.”

“Poor Harker,” said Horace, “he’s always down on mathematics. Anyhow, I shan’t be sorry to show up at Wilderham again, shall you, Bland?”

“Depends on the set we get,” drawled Bland (whose full name was Blandford). “I hear there’s a crowd of new fellows coming, and I hate new fellows.”

“A fellow must be new some time or other,” said Horace. “Harker and I were new boys once, weren’t we, Harker?”

Harker, who had shared the distinction of being tossed with Horace in the same blanket every night for the first week of his sojourn at Wilderham, had not forgotten the fact, and ejaculated,—

“Rather!”

“The mischief is,” continued Blandford, “they get such a shady lot of fellows there now. The school’s not half as respectable as it was—there are far too many shopkeepers’ sons and that sort of—”

“Sort of animal, he’d like to say,” laughed Horace. “Bland can’t get over being beaten for the French prize by Barber, the tailor’s son.”

Blandford flushed up, and was going to answer when Reginald interposed.

“Well, and suppose he can’t, it’s no wonder. I don’t see why those fellows shouldn’t have a school for themselves. It’s not pleasant to have the fellow who cuts your waistcoat crowing over you in class.”

Horace began to whistle, as he generally did when the conversation took a turn that did not please him.

“Best way to remedy that,” said he, presently, “is not to get beaten by your tailor’s son.”

“Shut up, Horace,” said the elder brother; “what’s the use of making yourself disagreeable? Bland’s quite right, and you know you think so yourself.”

“Oh, all serene,” said Horace, cheerfully; “shouldn’t have known I thought so unless you had told me. What do you think, Harker?”

“Well,” said Harker, laughing, “as I am disreputable enough to be the only son of a widow who has barely enough to live on, and who depends on the charity of a cousin or some one of the sort for my education, I’m afraid Bland and I would have to go to different schools.”

Every one laughed at this confession, and Reginald said,—

“Oh, but you’re different, Harker—besides, it isn’t money makes the difference—”

“The thing is,” interposed Horace, “was your father in the wholesale or retail trade?—that’s the difference!”

“I wish you’d shut up, Horace,” said Reginald tartly; “you always spoil any argument with your foolery.”

“Now that’s hard lines,” said Horace, “when I thought I was putting the case beautifully for you. Never mind. What do you say to a bathe in the river, you fellows?”

“Too much fag to get towels,” said Reginald; “but if you like to go for them, and don’t ask us to look at our watches and see in how many seconds you run up to the house and back, we’ll think about it.”

“Thanks,” said Horace, and started up to the house whistling cheerily.

“Awfully hot that brother of yours make? a fellow,” said Blandford, watching him disappear.

“Yes,” said Reginald, yawning, “he is rather flighty, but he’ll turn out all right, I hope.”

“Turn out!” said Harker; “why he’s all right already, from the crown of his head to the sole of his boot.”

“Except,” said Blandford, “for a slight crack in the crown of his head. It’s just as well, perhaps, he’s not the eldest son, Reg.”

“Well,” said Reginald laughing, “I can hardly fancy Horace the head of the family.”

“Must be a rum sensation,” said Harker, “to be an heir and not have to bother your head about how you’ll get your bread and butter some day. How many hundred millions of pounds is it you’ll come in for, Reg? I forget.”

“What a humbug you are!” said Reginald; “my father’s no better off than a lot of other people.”

“That’s a mild way of putting it, anyhow,” said Blandford.

And here the conversation ended.

The boys lay basking in the sun waiting for Horace’s return. He was unusually long in coming.

“Seems to me,” said Blandford, “he’s trying how long he can be instead of how quick—for a variety.”

“Just like him,” said Reginald.

Five minutes passed away, and ten, and fifteen, and then, just as the boys were thinking of stirring themselves to inquire what had become of him, they heard his steps returning rapidly down the gravel walk.

“Well,” cried Reginald, without sitting up, “have you got them at last?”

Horace’s voice startled them all as he cried,—

“Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!”

There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who uttered them.

Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the house, towards which his brother had already started.

“What is it, Horace?” he said as he overtook him.

“Something about father—a telegram,” gasped the other.

Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door.

The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog, lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached. Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces.

Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door, and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his hand. It was from Mr Cruden’s coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel’s Hospital.

“Master was took ill driving from City—brought here, where he is very bad indeed. Doctor says no hope.”

One needs to have received such a message oneself to understand the emotions with which the two brothers read and re-read the pitiless words. Nothing but their own hard breathing broke the stillness of those few minutes, and who knows in that brief space what a lifetime seemed crowded?

Horace was the first to recover his self-possession.

“Mother,” said he, and his voice sounded strange and startling in the silence, “there’s a train to the City in five minutes. I’ll go by that.”

And he was off. It was three-quarters of a mile to the station, and there was no time to parley. Even on an errand like this, many would have abandoned the endeavour as an impossibility, especially in such a heat. But Horace was a good runner, and the feat was nothing uncommon for him.

As he flung himself into the train he gave one quick glance round, to see if Reginald had possibly followed him; but no, he was alone; and as the whistle shrieked and the train steamed out of the station, Horace for the