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

Mr Cruden had the reputation of being one of the most respectable as well as one of the richest men in his part of the county. And it is fair to say he took far more pride in the former quality than the latter. Indeed, he made no secret of the fact that he had not always been the rich man he was when our story opens. But he was touchy on the subject of his good family and his title to the name of gentleman, which he had taught his sons to value far more than the wealth which accompanied it, and which they might some day expect to inherit.

His choice of a school for them was quite consistent with his views on this point. Wilderham was not exactly an aristocratic school, but it was a school where money was thought less of than “good style,” as the boys called it, and where poverty was far less of a disgrace than even a remote connection with a “shop.” The Crudens had always been great heroes in the eyes of their schoolfellows, for their family was unimpeachable, and even with others who had greater claims to be considered as aristocratic, their ample pocket-money commended them as most desirable companions.

Mr Cruden, however, with all his virtues and respectability, was not a good man of business. People said he let himself be imposed upon by others who knew the value of money far better than he did. His own beautiful estate at Garden Vale, Rumour said, was managed at double the expense it should be; and of his money transactions and speculations in the City—well, he had need to be the wealthy man he was, said his friends, to be able to stand all the fleecing he came in for there!

Nevertheless, no one ever questioned the wealth of the Crudens, least of all did the Crudens themselves, who took it as much for granted as the atmosphere they breathed in.

On the day on which our story opens Mr Cruden had driven down into the City on business. No one knew exactly what the business was, for he kept such matters to himself. It was an ordinary expedition, which consisted usually of half a dozen calls on half a dozen stockbrokers or secretaries of companies, with perhaps an occasional visit to the family lawyer or the family bank.

To-day, however, it had consisted of but one visit, and that was to the bank. And it was whilst returning thence that Mr Cruden was suddenly seized with the stroke which ended in his death. Had immediate assistance been at hand the calamity might have been averted, but neither the coachman nor footman was aware of what had happened till the carriage was some distance on its homeward journey, and a passer-by caught sight of the senseless figure within. They promptly drove him to the nearest hospital, and telegraphed the news to Garden Vale; but Mr Cruden never recovered consciousness, and, as the doctor told Horace, before even the message could have reached its destination he was dead.

We may draw a veil over the sad scenes of the few days which followed—of the meeting of the widow and her sons at the bedside of the dead, of the removal of the loved remains home, of the dismal preparations for the funeral, and all the dreary details which occupy mourners in the house of death. For some time Mrs Cruden, prostrated by the shock of her bereavement, was unable to leave her room, and the burden of the care fell on the two inexperienced boys, who had to face it almost single-handed.

For the Crudens had no near relatives in England, and those of their friends who might have been of service at such a time feared to intrude, and so stayed away. Blandford and Harker, the boys’ two friends who had been visiting at Garden Vale at the time of Mr Cruden’s death, had left as quietly and considerately as possible; and so great was the distraction of those few sad days that no one even noticed their absence till letters of condolence arrived from each.

It was a dreary week, and Reginald, on whom, as the elder son and the heir to the property, the chief responsibility rested, was of the two least equal to the emergency.

“I don’t know what I should have done without you, old man,” said he to Horace on the evening before the funeral, when, all the preparations being ended, the two boys strolled dismally down towards the river. “You ought to have been the eldest son. I should never have thought of half the things there were to be done if you hadn’t been here.”

“Of course, mother would have known what was to be done,” said Horace, “if she hadn’t been laid up. She’s to get up this evening.”

“Well, I shall be glad when to-morrow’s over,” said Reginald; “it’s awful to have it all hanging over one like this. I can’t believe father was alive a week ago, you know.”

“No more can I,” said the other; “and I’m certain we shall not realise how we miss him for long enough yet.”

They walked on for some distance in silence, each full of his own reflections.

Then Horace said, “Mother is sure to want to stay on here, she’s so fond of the place.”

“Yes, it’s a comfort she won’t have to move. By the way, I wonder if she will want us to leave Wilderham and stay at home now.”

“I fancy not. Father wanted you to go to Oxford in a couple of years, and she is sure not to change his plan.”

“Well, I must say,” said Reginald, “if I am to settle down as a country gentleman some day, I shall be glad to have gone through college and all that sort of thing before. If I go up in two years, I shall have finished before I’m twenty-three. Hullo, here’s mother!”

The boys ran forward to greet Mrs Cruden, who, pale but smiling, came quietly down the garden towards them, and after a fond embrace laid her hands on the arm of each and walked slowly on between them.

“You two brave boys,” said she, and there was a cheery ring in her voice that sent comfort into the hearts of both her sons, “how sorry I am to think of all you have had to go through, while I, like a silly weak woman, have been lying in bed.”

“Oh, mother,” said Horace, with a face that reflected already the sunshine of hers, “how absurd to talk like that! I don’t believe you ought to be out here now.”

“Oh yes, I ought. I’ve done with that, and I am strong enough now to stand beside the boys who have stood so bravely by their mother.”

“We’d be a nice pair of boys if we didn’t, eh, Reg?” said Horace.

Reginald’s reply was a pressure of his mother’s hand, and with a rainbow of smiles over their sorrowful hearts the three walked on lovingly together; the mother with many a brave, cheery word striving to lift her sons above their trouble, not only to hope of earthly comfort, but to trust in that great Father of the fatherless, beside whom all the love of this world is poor and fleeting.

At length they turned to go in, and Mrs Cruden said,—

“There is a letter from Mr Richmond, the lawyer, saying he will call this evening to talk over some business matters. I suppose he will be here by now.”

“Couldn’t he have waited till after to-morrow?” said Horace.

“He particularly asked to come to-night,” said the mother. “At any rate, I would like you both to be with me while he is here. We must not have any secrets from one another now.”

“I suppose it’s about the will or the estate,” said Reginald.

“I suppose so. I don’t know,” said Mrs Cruden. “Mr Richmond always managed your father’s business affairs, you know, so he will be able to tell us how matters stand.”

They reached the house, and found Mr Richmond had already arrived and was awaiting them in the library.

Mr Richmond was a solemn, grave personage, whose profession was written on his countenance. His lips were so closely set