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

Chapter Sixteen. Visitors at Number 13, Shy Street.

The concluding sentences of Horace’s long letter, particularly those which referred to his mother’s poor health and the straitened circumstances of the little household, were sufficiently unwelcome to eclipse in Reginald’s mind the other exciting news the letter had contained. They brought on a fit of the blues which lasted more than one day.

For now that he had neither companion nor occupation (for the business of the Select Agency Corporation had fallen off completely) there was nothing to prevent his indulgence in low spirits.

He began to chafe at his imprisonment, and still more at his helplessness even were he at liberty to do anything. Christmas was still a fortnight off, and till then what could he do on thirteen shillings a week? He might cut down his commissariat certainly, to, say, a shilling a day, and send home the rest. But then, what about coals and postage-stamps and other incidental expenses, which had to be met in Mr Medlock’s absence out of his own pocket? The weather was very cold—he could hardly do without coals, and he was bound in the interests of the Corporation to keep stamps enough in the place to cover the necessary correspondence.

When all was said, two shillings seemed to be the utmost he could save out of his weekly pittance, and this he sent home by the very next post, with a long, would-be cheerful, but really dismal letter, stoutly denying that he was either miserable or disappointed with his new work, and anticipating with pleasure the possibility of being able to run up at Christmas and bring with him the welcome funds which would clear the family of debt and give it a good start for the New Year.

When he had finished his letter home he wrote to Mr Medlock, very respectfully suggesting that as he had been working pretty hard and for the last few days single-handed, Mr Medlock might not object to advance him at any rate part of the salary due in a fortnight, as he was rather in need of money. And he ventured to ask, as Christmas Day fell on a Thursday, and no business was likely to be done between that day and the following Monday, might he take the two or three days’ holiday, undertaking, of course, to be back at his post on the Monday morning? He enclosed a few post-office orders which had come to hand since he last wrote, and hoped he should soon have the pleasure of seeing Mr Medlock—“or anybody,” he added to himself as he closed the letter and looked wearily round the gaunt, empty room.

Now, if Reginald had been a believer in fairies he would hardly have started as much as he did when, almost as the words escaped his lips, the door opened, and a female marched into the room.

A little prim female it was, with stiff curls down on her forehead and a very sharp nose and very thin lips and fidgety fingers that seemed not to know whether to cling to one another for support or fly at the countenance of somebody else.

This formidable visitor spared Reginald the trouble of inquiring to what fortunate circumstance he was indebted for the honour of so unlooked-for a visit.

“Now, sir!” said she, panting a little, after her ascent of the stairs, but very emphatic, all the same.

The observation was not one which left much scope for argument, and Reginald did not exactly know what to reply. At last, however, he summoned up resolution enough to say politely,—

“Now, madam, can I be of any service?”

Inoffensive as the observation was, it had the effect of greatly irritating the lady.

“None of your sauce, young gentleman,” said she, putting down her bag and umbrella, and folding her arms defiantly. “I’ve not come here to take any of your impertinence.”

Reginald’s impertinence! He had never been rude to a lady in all his life except once, and the penance he had paid for that sin had been bitter enough, as the reader can testify.

“You needn’t pretend not to know what I’ve come here for,” continued the lady, taking a hasty glance round the room, as if mentally calculating from what door or window her victim would be most likely to attempt to escape.

“Perhaps she’s Love’s mother!” gasped Reginald, to himself.—“Oh, but what a Venus!”

This classical reflection he prudently kept to himself, and waited for his visitor to explain her errand further.

“You know who I am,” she said, walking up to him.

“No, indeed,” said Reginald, hardly liking to retreat, but not quite comfortable to be standing still. “Unless—unless your name is Love.”

“Love!” screamed the outraged “Venus.”

“I’ll Love you, young gentleman, before I’ve done with you. Love, indeed, you impudent sauce-box, you!”

“I beg your pardon,” began Reginald.

“Love, indeed! I’d like to scratch you, so I would!” cried the lady, with a gesture so ominously like suiting the action to the word, that Reginald fairly deserted his post and retreated two full paces.

This was getting critical. Either the lady was mad, or she had mistaken Reginald for some one else. In either case he felt utterly powerless to deal with the difficulty. So like a prudent man he decided to hold his tongue and let the lady explain herself.

“Love, indeed!” said she, for the third time. “You saucy jackanapes, you. No, sir, my name’s Wrigley!”

She evidently supposed this announcement would fall like a thunderbolt on the head of her victim, and it disconcerted her not a little when he merely raised his eyebrows and inclined his head politely.

“Now do you know what I’m come about?” said she.

“No,” replied he.

“Yes you do. You needn’t think to deceive me, sir. It won’t do, I can tell you.”

“I really don’t know,” said poor Reginald. “Who are you?”

“I’m the lady who ordered the globe and blackboard, and sent two pounds along with the order to you, Mr Cruden Reginald. There! Now perhaps you know what I’ve come for!”

If she had expected Reginald to fly out of the window, or seek refuge up the chimney, at this announcement, the composure with which he received the overpowering disclosure must have considerably astonished her.

“Eh?” she said. “Eh? Do you know me now?”

“I have no doubt you are right,” said he. “We had more than a hundred orders for the globes and boards, and expect they will be delivered this week or next.”

“Oh! then you have been imposing on more than me?” said the lady, who till this moment had imagined she had been the only correspondent of the Corporation on the subject.

“We’ve been imposing on no one,” said Reginald warmly. “You have no right to say that, Mrs Wrigley.”

His honest indignation startled the good lady.

“Then why don’t you send the things?” she demanded, in a milder tone.

“There are a great many orders to attend to, and they have to be taken in order as we receive them. Probably yours came a good deal later than others.”

“No, it didn’t. I wrote by return of post, and put an extra stamp on too. You must have got mine one of the very first.”

“In that case you will be one of the first to receive your globe and board.”

“I know that, young man,” said she. “I’m going to take them with me now!”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” said Reginald. “They are being sent off from London.”

The lady, who had somewhat moderated her wrath in the presence of the secretary’s unruffled politeness, fired up as fiercely as ever at this.

“There! I knew it was a swindle! From London, indeed! Might as well say New York at once! I’m not going to believe your lies, you young robber! Don’t expect it!”

It was a considerable tax on Reginald’s temper to be addressed in language like this, even by a lady, and he could not help retorting rather hotly, “I’m glad you are only a woman, Mrs Wrigley, for I wouldn’t stand being called a thief by a man, I assure you!”

“Oh, don’t let that make any difference!” said she, fairly in a rage, and advancing up to him. “Knock me down and welcome! You may just as well murder a woman as rob her!”

“I can only tell you again your order is being executed in London.”

“And I can tell you I don’t believe a word you say, and I’ll just have my two pounds back, and have done with you! Come, you can’t say you never got that!”

“If you sent it, I certainly did,” said Reginald.

“Then perhaps you’ll hand it up this moment?”

“I would gladly do so if I had it, but—”

“I suppose it’s gone to London too?” said she, with supernatural calmness.

“It has been paid in with all the money to the bank,” said Reginald. “But if you wish it I will write to the managing director and ask him to return it by next post.”

“Will you?” said she, in tones that might have frozen any one less heated than Reginald. “And you suppose I’ve come all the way from Dorsetshire to get that for an answer, do you? You’re mistaken, sir! I don’t leave this place till I get my money or my things! So now!”

“Then,” said Reginald, feeling the case desperate, and pushing a chair in her direction, “perhaps you’d better sit down.”

She glared round at him indignantly. But perhaps it was the sight of his haggard, troubled face, or the faint suspicion that he, after all, might be more honest than his employers, or the reflection that she could get her rights better out of the place than in it. Whatever the reason was, she changed her mind.

“You