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

’Orace’s coat and ’at to see they must be in debt: the poor boy looks a reg’lar scarecrow. It all comes, my dear, of Reginald’s going off and leaving them. Oh, ’ow I pity them that ’as a wild son.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, ma,” said Miss Jemima, firing up. “He’s no more wild than Sam here.”

“You seem to know more about Reginald than most people, my dear,” said her mother significantly.

To the surprise of the mother and brother, Jemima replied to this insinuation by bursting into tears and walking out of the room.

“Did you ever see the like of that? She always takes on if any one mentions that boy’s name; and she’s old enough to be his aunt, too!”

“The sooner she cures herself of that craze the better,” said Sam, pouring himself out some more tea. “She don’t know quite so much about him as I do!”

“Why, what do you know about ’im, then?” inquired Mrs Shuckleford, in tones of curiosity.

“Never you mind; we don’t talk business out of the office. All I can tell you is, he’s a bad lot.”

“Poor Mrs Cruden! no wonder she takes on. What an infliction a wicked son is to a mother, Sam!”

“That’ll do,” said the dutiful Sam. “What do you know about it? I tell you what, ma, you’re thick enough with Number 6. You’d better draw off a bit.”

“Oh, Sam, why so?”

“Because I give you the tip, that’s all. The old lady may not be in it, but I don’t fancy the connection.”

“But, Sam, she’s starving herself, and ’Orace is in rags.”

“Send her in a rump-steak and a suit of my old togs by the housemaid,” said Sam; “or else do as you like, and don’t blame me if you’re sorry for it.”

Mrs Shuckleford knew it was no use trying to extract any more lucid information from her legal offspring, and did not try, but she made another effort to soften his heart with regard to the Widow Cruden and her son.

“After all they’re gentlefolk in trouble, as we might be,” said she, “and they do behave very nice at the short-’and class to Jemima.”

“Gentlefolk or not,” said Sam decisively, spreading a slice of toast with jam, “I tell you you’d better draw off, ma—and Jim must chuck up the class. I’m not going to have her mixing with them.”

“But the child’s ’eart would break, Sam, if—”

“Let it break. She cares no more about shorthand than she does about county courts. It’s all part of her craze to tack herself on that lot. She’s setting her cap at him while she’s making up to his ma; any flat might see that; but she’s got to jack up the whole boiling now—there. We needn’t say any more about it.”

And, having finished his tea, Mr Samuel Shuckleford went down to his “club” to take part in a debate on “Cruelty to Animals.”

Now the worthy captain’s widow, Mrs Shuckleford, had lived long enough in this world to find that human nature is a more powerful law even than parental obedience; she therefore took to heart just so much of her son’s discourse as fitted with the one, and overlooked just so much as exacted the latter. In other words, she was ready to believe that Reginald Cruden was a “bad lot,” but she was not able to bring herself on that account to desert her neighbour at the time of her trouble.

Accordingly that same evening, while Samuel was pleading eloquently on behalf of our dumb fellow-creatures, and Jemima, having recovered from her tears, was sitting abstractedly over a shorthand exercise in her own bedroom, Mrs Shuckleford took upon herself to pay a friendly call at Number 6.

It happened to be one of Horace’s late evenings, so that Mrs Cruden was alone. She was lying wearily on the uncomfortable sofa, with her eyes shaded from the light, dividing her time between knitting and musing, the latter occupation receiving a very decided preference.

“Pray don’t get up,” said Mrs Shuckleford, the moment she entered. “I only looked in to see ’ow you was. You’re looking bad, Mrs Cruden.”

“Thank you, I am quite well,” said Mrs Cruden, “only a little tired.”

“And down in your spirits, too; and well you may be, poor dear,” said the visitor soothingly.

“No, Mrs Shuckleford,” said Mrs Cruden brightly. “Indeed, I ought not to be in bad spirits to-day. We’ve had quite a little family triumph to-day. Horace has had an article published in the Rocket, and we are so proud.”

“Ah, yes; he’s the steady one,” said Mrs Shuckleford. “There’s no rolling stone about ’Orace.”

“No,” said the mother warmly.

“If they was only both alike,” said the visitor, approaching her subject delicately.

“Ah! but it often happens two brothers may be very different in temper and mind. It’s not always a misfortune.”

“Certainly not, Mrs Cruden; but when one’s good and the other’s wicked—”

“Oh, then, of course, it is very sad,” said Mrs Cruden.

“Sad’s no name for it,” replied the visitor, with emotion. “Oh, Mrs Cruden, ’ow sorry I am for you.”

“You are very kind. It is a sad trial to be separated from my boy, but I’ve not given up hopes of seeing him back soon.”

Mrs Shuckleford shook her head.

“’Ow you must suffer on ’is account,” said she. “If your ’eart don’t break with it, it must be made of tougher stuff than mine.”

“But after all, Mrs Shuckleford,” said Mrs Cruden, “there are worse troubles in this life than separation.”

“You’re right. Oh, I’m so sorry for you.”

“Why for me? I have only the lighter sorrow.”

“Oh, Mrs Cruden, do you call a wicked son a light sorrow?”

“Certainly not, but my sons, thank God, are good, brave boys, both of them.”

“And who told you ’e was a good, brave boy? Reggie, I mean.”

“Who told me?” said Mrs Cruden, with surprise. “Who told me he was anything else?”

“Oh, Mrs Cruden! Oh, Mrs Cruden!” said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to cry.

Mrs Cruden at last began to grow uneasy and alarmed. She sat up on the sofa, and said, in an agitated voice,—

“What do you mean, Mrs Shuckleford? Has anything happened? Is there any bad news about Reginald?”

“Oh, Mrs Cruden, I made sure you knew all about it.”

“What is it?” cried Mrs Cruden, now thoroughly terrified and trembling all over. “Has anything happened to him? Is he—dead?” and she seized her visitor’s hand as she asked the question.

“No, Mrs Cruden, not dead. Maybe it would be better for ’im if he was.”

“Better if he was dead? Oh, please, have pity and tell me what you mean!” cried the poor mother, dropping back on to the sofa with a face as white as a sheet.

“Come, don’t take on,” said Mrs Shuckleford, greatly disconcerted to see the effect of her delicate breaking of the news. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Oh, what is it? what is it? I can’t bear this suspense. Why don’t you tell me?” and she trembled so violently and looked so deadly pale that Mrs Shuckleford began to get alarmed.

“There, there,” said she soothingly; “I’ll tell you another time. You’re not equal to it now. I’ll come in to-morrow, or the next day, when you’ve had a good night’s rest, poor dear.”

“For pity’s sake tell me all now!” gasped Mrs Cruden; “unless you want to kill me.”

It dawned at last on the well-meaning Mrs Shuckleford that no good was being done by prolonging her neighbour’s suspense any further.

“Well, well! It’s only that I’m afraid he’s been doing something—well—dreadful. Oh, Mrs Cruden, how sorry I am for you!”

Mrs Cruden lay motionless, like one who had received a stab.

“What has he done?” she whispered slowly.

“I don’t know, dear—really I don’t,” said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to whimper at the sight of the desolation she had caused. “It was Sam, my son, told me—he wouldn’t say what it was—and I ’ope you won’t let ’im know it was me you ’eard it from, Mrs Cruden, for he’d be very— Mercy on us!”

Mrs Cruden had fainted.

Help was summoned, and she was carried to her bed. When Horace arrived shortly afterwards he found her still unconscious, with Mrs Shuckleford bathing her forehead, and tending her most gently.

“You had better run for a doctor, ’Orace,” whispered she, as the scared boy entered the room.

“What is the matter? What has happened?” gasped he.

“Poor dear, she’s broken down—she’s— But go quick for the doctor, ’Orace.”

Horace went as fast as his fleet feet would carry him. The doctor pronounced Mrs Cruden to be in a state of high fever, produced by nervous prostration and poor living. He advised Horace, if possible, to get a nurse to tend her while the fever lasted, especially as she would probably awake from her swoon delirious, and would for several days remain in a very critical condition.

In less than five minutes Horace was at Miss Crisp’s, imploring her assistance. The warm-hearted little lady undertook the duty without a moment’s hesitation, and from that night, and for a fortnight to come, hardly quitted her friend’s bedside.

Mrs Shuckleford, deeming it prudent not to refer again to the unpleasant subject which had been the immediate cause of Mrs Cruden’s seizure, waited till she was assured that at present she could be of no further use, and then withdrew, full of sympathy and commiseration, which she manifested in all sorts of womanly ways during her neighbour’s illness. Not a day passed but she called in, morning and afternoon, to inquire after the patient, generally the bearer of some home-made delicacy, and sometimes to take her post by the sick bed while Miss Crisp snatched an hour or so of well-earned repose.

As for Horace, he could hardly be persuaded to leave the sick chamber. But the stern necessity of work, greater than ever now at this time of special emergency, compelled him to take the rest necessary for his own health and daily duties. With an effort he dragged himself to the office every morning, and like an arrow he returned from it every evening, and often paid a flying visit at midday. His good-natured companions voluntarily relieved him of all late work, and, indeed, every one who had in the least degree come into contact with the gentle patient seemed to vie in showing sympathy and offering help.

Young Gedge was amongst the most eager of the inquirers at the house. He squandered shillings in flowers and grapes, and sometimes even ran the risk of disgrace at the Rocket by lingering outside the house during a doctor’s visit, in order to hear the latest bulletin before he went back to work.

In his mind, as well as in Horace’s, a faint hope had lurked that somehow Reginald might contrive to run up to London for a day or two at least, to cheer the house of watching. Mrs Cruden, in her delirium, often moaned her absent son’s name, and called for him, and they believed if only he were to come, her restless troubled mind might cease its wanderings and find rest.

But Reginald neither came nor wrote.

Since Horace, on the first day of her illness, had written, telling him all, no one had heard a word from him.

At last, when after a week Horace wrote again, saying,—

“Come to us, if you love us,” and still no letter or message came back, a new cloud of anxiety fell over the house.

Reginald must be ill, or away from Liverpool, or something must have happened to him, or assuredly, they said, he would have been at his mother’s side at the first breath of danger.

Mrs Shuckleford only, as day passed day, and the prodigal never returned, shook her head and said to herself, it was a blessing no one knew the reason, not even the poor delirious sufferer herself. Poor people! they had trouble enough on them not to need any more just now! so she kept her own counsel, even from Jemima.

This was the more easy to do because she knew nothing either of Reginald or his doings beyond what her son had hinted, and as Samuel was at present in