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

for secretary—to superintend the concern for the directors, and be the medium of communication between them and the agents. We want an educated young man, and one we can depend upon. As to the work, that’s picked up in a week easily. Now, suppose—suppose when I go back to Liverpool I were to recommend you for a post like that, what would you say?”

Reginald was almost too overwhelmed for words; he could only stammer,—

“Oh, sir, how kind of you!”

“The directors would appoint any one I recommended,” continued Mr Medlock, looking down with satisfaction on the boy’s eagerness; “you’re young, of course, but you seem to be honest, that’s the great thing.”

“I think I can promise that,” said Reginald, proudly.

“The salary would begin at £150 a year, but we should improve it if you turned out well. And you would, of course, occupy the Company’s house at Liverpool. We should not ask for a premium in your case, but you would have to put £50 into the shares of the Corporation to qualify you, and of course you would get interest on that. Now,” said he, as Reginald began to speak, “don’t be in a hurry. Take your time and think it well over. If you say ‘Yes,’ you may consider the thing settled, and if you say ‘No’—well, we shall be able to find some one else. Ah, here comes lunch—stop and have some with me—bring another plate, waiter.”

Reginald felt too bewildered to know what to think or say. He a secretary of a company with £150 a year! It was nearly intoxicating. And for the post spontaneously offered to him in the almost flattering way it had been—this was more gratifying still. In his wildest dreams just now he never pictured himself sitting down as secretary to the Select Agency Corporation to lunch with one of its leading directors!

Mr Medlock said no more about “business”, but made himself generally agreeable, asking Reginald about his father and the old days, inquiring as to his mother and brother, and all about his friends and acquaintances in London.

Reginald felt he could talk freely to this friend, and he did so. He confided to him all about Mr Durfy’s tyranny, about his brother’s work at the Rocket, and even went so far as to drop out a hint in young Gedge’s favour. He told him all about Wilderham and his schoolfellows there, about the books he liked, about the way he spent his evenings, about Dull Street—in fact, he felt as if he had known Mr Medlock for years and could talk to him accordingly.

“I declare,” said that gentleman, pulling out his watch, after this pleasant talk had been going on a long time, “it’s five minutes past two. I’m afraid you’ll be late.”

Reginald started up.

“So I shall, I’d no idea it was so late. I’m afraid I had better go, sir.”

“Well, write me a letter to Liverpool to-morrow, or Wednesday at the latest, as we must fill up the place soon. Think it well over. Good-bye, my man. I hope I shall see you again before long. By the way, of course, you won’t talk about all this out of doors.”

“Oh, no,” said Reginald, “I haven’t even mentioned it yet at home.”

Mr Medlock laughed.

“Well, if you come to Liverpool you’ll have to tell them something about it. See, here’s a list of our directors, your mother may recognise some of the names. But beyond your mother and brother don’t talk about it yet, as the Corporation is only just starting.”

Reginald heartily concurred in this caution, and promised to act on it, and then after a friendly farewell hastened back to the Rocket office. The clock pointed nearly a quarter past two when he entered.

He was not the sort of fellow to slink in when no one was looking. In fact, he had such a detestation of that sort of thing that he went to the other extreme, and marched ostentatiously past Mr Durfy’s table, as though to challenge his observation.

If that was his intention he was not disappointed.

“Oh,” said the overseer, with a return of the old sneer, which had been dormant ever since the night Reginald had knocked him down. “You have come, have you? And you know the hour, do you?”

“Yes, it’s a quarter past two,” said Reginald.

“Is it?” sneered Mr Durfy, in his most offensive way.

“Yes, it is,” replied the boy, hotly.

What did he care for Durfy now? To-morrow in all probability he would have the satisfaction of walking up to that table and saying, “Mr Durfy, I leave here on Saturday,” meanwhile he was not disposed to stand any of his insolence.

But he hardly expected what was coming next.

“Very well, then you can just put your hat on your head and go back the way you came, sir.”

“What do you mean?” said Reginald, in startled tones.

“Mean? what I say!” shouted Durfy. “You’re dismissed, kicked out, and the sooner you go the better.”

So this was the dignified leave-taking to which he had secretly looked forward! Kicked out! and kicked out by Durfy! Reginald’s toes tingled at the very thought.

“You’ve no right to dismiss me for being a few minutes late,” said he.

It was Durfy’s turn now to be dignified. He went on writing, and did his best to affect oblivion of his enemy’s presence.

Reginald, too indignant to know the folly of such an outburst, broke out,—

“I shall not take my dismissal from you. I shall stay here as long as I choose, and when I go I’ll go of my own accord, you cad, you—”

Mr Durfy still went on writing with a cheerful smile on his countenance.

“Do you hear?” said Reginald, almost shouting the words. “I’m not going to please you. I shall go to please myself. I give you notice, and thank Heaven I’ve done with you.”

Durfy looked up with a laugh.

“Go and make that noise outside,” he said. “We can do without you here. Gedge, my man, put those cases beside you back into the rack, and go and tell the porter he’s wanted.”

The mention of Gedge’s name cowed Reginald in an instant, and in the sudden revulsion of feeling which ensued he was glad enough to escape from the room before fairly breaking down under a crushing sense of injury, mortification, and helplessness. Gedge was at the door as he went out.

“Oh, Cruden,” he whispered, “what will become of me now? Wait for me outside at seven o’clock; please do.”

That afternoon Reginald paced the streets more like a hunted beast than a human being. All the bad side of his nature—his pride, his conceit, his selfishness—was stirred within him under a bitter sense of shame and indignity. He forgot how much his own intractable temper and stupid self-importance had contributed to his fall, and could think of nothing but Durfy’s triumph and the evil fate which at the very moment, when he was able to snap his fingers in the tyrant’s face, had driven him forth in disgrace with the tyrant’s fingers snapped in his face. He had not spirit or resolution enough to wait to see Gedge or any one that evening, but slunk away, hating the sight of everybody, and wishing only he could lose himself and forget that such a wretch as Reginald Cruden existed.

Ah! Reginald. It’s a long race to escape from oneself. Men have tried it before now with better reason than you, and failed. Wait till you have something worse to run from, my honest, foolish friend. Face round like a man, and stand up to your pursuer. You have hit out straight from the shoulder before to-day. Do it again now. One smart round will finish the business, for this false Reginald is a poor creature after all, and you can knock him out of time and over the ropes with one hand if you like. Try it, and save your running powers for an uglier foeman some other day!

Reginald did fight it out with himself as he walked mile after mile that afternoon through the London streets, and by the time he reached home in the evening he was himself again.

He met his mother’s tears and Horace’s dismal looks with a smile of triumph.

“So you’ve heard all about it, have you?” said he.

“Oh, Reginald,” said his mother, in deep distress, “how grieved I am for you!”

“You needn’t be, mother,” said Reginald, “for I’ve got another situation far better and worth three times as much.”

And then he told them, as far as he felt justified in doing so, of the advertisement and what it had led to, finishing up with a glowing description of Mr Medlock, whom he only regretted he had not had the courage to ask up to tea that very evening.

But there was a cloud on the bright horizon which his mother and Horace were quicker to observe than he.

“But, Reg,” said the latter, “surely it means you’d have to go to Liverpool?”

“Yes; I’m afraid it does. That’s the one drawback.”

“But surely you won’t accept it, then?” said the younger brother.

Reginald looked up. Horace’s tone, if not imperious, had not been sympathetic, and it jarred on him in the fulness of his projects to encounter an obstacle.

“Why not?” he replied. “It’s all very well for you, in your snug berth, but I must get a living, mustn’t I?”

“I should have thought something might turn up in London,” persisted Horace.

“Things don’t turn up as we want them,” said Reginald, tartly. “Look here, Horace, you surely don’t suppose I prefer to go to Liverpool to staying here?”

“Of course not,” said Horace, beginning to whistle softly to himself. It was a bad omen, and Mrs Cruden knew it.

“Come,” said she, cheerily, “we must make the best of it. These names, Reg, in the list of directors Mr Medlock gave you, seem all very respectable.”

“Do you know any of them?” asked Reginald. “Mr Medlock thought you might.”

“I know one or two by name,” replied she. “There’s the Bishop of S—, I see, and Major Wakeman, who I suppose is the officer who has been doing so well in India. There’s a Member of Parliament, too, I see. It seems a good set of directors.”

“Of course they aren’t likely all to turn up at board meetings,” said Reginald, with an explanatory air.

“I don’t see myself what business a bishop has with a Select Agency Corporation,” said Horace, determined not to see matters in a favourable light.

“My dear fellow,” said Reginald, trying hard to keep his temper, “I can’t help whether you see it or not. By the way, mother, about the £50 to invest. I think Mr Richmond—”

Mrs Cruden started.

“This exciting news,” said she, “drove it out of my head for the moment. Boys, I am very sorry to say I had a note to-day stating that Mr Richmond was taken ill while in France, and is dead. He was one of our few old friends, and it is a very sad blow.”

She was right. The Crudens never stood in greater need of a wise friend than they did now.