Chapter Eleven.
Reginald takes his Fate into his own Hands.
The next day Reginald wrote and accepted the invitation of the directors of the Select Agency Corporation. He flattered himself he was acting deliberately, and after fully weighing the pros and cons of the question. True, he still knew very little about his new duties, and had yet to make the acquaintance of the Bishop of S— and the other directors. But, on the other hand, he had seen Mr Medlock, and heard what he had to say, and was quite satisfied in his own mind that everything was all right. And, greatest argument of all, he had no other place to go to, and £150 a year was a salary not to be thrown away when put into one’s hands.
Still, he felt a trifle uncomfortable about the necessity of going to Liverpool and breaking up the old home. Of course, he could not help himself, and Horace had no right to insinuate otherwise. All the same, it was a pity, and if there had not been the compensating certainty of being able to send up regular contributions to the family purse, which would help his mother to not a few comforts hitherto denied, he would have been more troubled still about it.
“What will you do about the £50?” said Horace next day, forcing himself to appear interested in what he inwardly disapproved.
“Oh,” said Reginald, “I’d intended to ask Richmond to lend it me. It’s not exactly a loan either; it would be the same as his investing in the company in my name. The money would be safe, and he’d get his interest into the bargain. But of course I can’t go to him now.”
“No; and I don’t know whom else you could ask,” said Horace.
“They might let me put in a pound a week out of my salary,” said Reginald. “That would still leave me two pounds a week, and of that I could send home at least twenty-five shillings.”
Horace mused.
“It seems to me rather queer to expect you to put the money in,” said he.
“It may be queer, but it’s their rule, Mr Medlock says.”
“And whatever does the Corporation do? It’s precious hazy to my mind.”
“I can’t tell you anything about it now,” said Reginald; “the concern is only just started, and I have promised to treat all Mr Medlock told me as confidential. But I’m quite satisfied in my mind, and you may be too, Horace.”
Horace did not feel encouraged to pursue the discussion after this, and went off alone to work in low spirits, and feeling unusually dismal.
“By the way,” said Reginald, as he started, “bring young Gedge home with you. I meant to see him last night, but forgot.”
Reginald spent the day uneasily for himself and his mother in trying to feel absolutely satisfied with the decision he had come to, and in speculating on his future work. Towards afternoon, weary of being all day in the house, he went out for a stroll. It was a beautiful day, and the prospect of a walk in the park by daylight was a tempting one.
As he was passing down Piccadilly, he became aware of some one approaching him whom he knew, and whom, in another moment, he recognised as Blandford.
There was some excuse certainly for not taking in his old schoolfellow’s identity all at once, for the boy he had known at Wilderham only a few months ago had suddenly blossomed forth into a man, and had exchanged the airy bearing of a school-boy for the half-languid swagger of a man about town.
“Hullo, Bland, old man!” exclaimed Reginald, lighting up jubilantly at the sight of an old familiar face, “how are you? Who would have thought of seeing you?”
Blandford was surprised too, and for a moment critically surveyed the boy in front of him before he replied.
“Ah, Cruden, that you? I shouldn’t have known you.”
Reginald’s face fell. He became suddenly aware, and for the first time in his life, that his clothes were shabby, and that his boots were in holes.
“I shouldn’t have known you,” he replied; “you look so much older than when I saw you last.”
“So I am; but, I say,” added Bland, reddening as an acquaintance passed and nodded to him, “I’m rather in a hurry, Cruden, just now. If you’re not engaged this evening, come and dine with me at seven at the Shades, and we can have a talk. Good-bye.”
And he went on hurriedly, leaving Reginald with an uncomfortable suspicion that if he—Reginald—had been more smartly dressed, and had worn gloves and a tall hat, the interview would have been more cordial and less hasty.
However, the longing he felt for the old happy days that were past decided him to appear at the Shades at the hour appointed, although it meant absence from home on one of his few remaining evenings, and, still more, a further desertion of young Gedge.
He repented of his resolution almost as soon as he had made it. What was to be gained by assuming a false position for an evening, and trying to delude himself into the notion that he was the equal of his old comrade? Did not his clothes, his empty pockets, the smart of Durfy’s tongue, and even the letter now on its way to Mr Medlock, all disprove it? And yet, three months ago, he was a better man all round than Blandford, who had been glad to claim his friendship and accept his father’s hospitality. Reginald rebelled against the idea that they two could still be anything to one another than the friends they had once been; but all the while the old school saw came back into his mind—that imposition sentence he had in his day written out hundreds of times without once thinking of its meaning: Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.
He reached the Shades a few minutes before seven, and waited outside till his friend arrived. He had not to wait long, for Blandford and a couple of companions drove up punctually in a hansom—all of them, to Reginald’s horror, being arrayed in full evening dress.
“Hullo, Cruden, you’ve turned up then,” said Blandford. “What, not in regimentals? You usen’t to be backward in that way. Never mind; they say dress after seven o’clock here, but they’re not strict. We can smuggle you in.”
Oh, how Reginald wished he was safe back in Dull Street!
“By the way,” continued Blandford, “these are two friends of mine, Cruden—Mr Shanklin and Mr Pillans. Cruden’s an old Wilderham fellow, you know,” he added, in an explanatory aside.
The gentleman introduced as Mr Shanklin stared curiously at Reginald for a few seconds, and then shook hands. Had the boy known as much of that gentleman as the reader does, he would probably have displayed considerably more interest in his new acquaintance than he did. As it was, he would have been glad of an excuse to avoid shaking hands with either him or his empty-headed companion, Mr Pillans. He went through the ceremony as stiffly as possible, and then followed the party within.
“Now, then,” said Blandford, as they sat down at one of the tables, “what do you say? It’ll save trouble to take the table d’hôte, eh? are you game, you fellows? Table d’hôte for four, waiter. What shall we have to drink? I say hock to start with.”
“I wont take any wine,” said Reginald, with an effort.
“Why not? You’re not a teetotaler, are you?”
“I won’t take any wine,” repeated Reginald decisively; and, to his satisfaction, he was allowed to do as he pleased.
The dinner passed as such entertainments usually do, diminishing in interest as it went on. In his happiest days, Reginald always hated what the boys used to call “feeds,” and he found that three months’ altered circumstances had by no means reconciled him to the infliction. He shirked the last two or three courses, and grew heartily tired of the sight of a plate.
“You wondered how I came to be in town?” said Blandford. “The fact is, my uncle went off the hooks a few weeks ago, and as I’m his heir, you know, I came up, and haven’t gone back yet. I don’t think I shall either.”
“No; what’s the use, with the pot of money you’ve come in for?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’re far more comfortable up in town.”
“Yes, and you’re a nice boy to show a fellow about town,” said Blandford, laughing, “Wilderham’s all very well, you know, Cruden,” continued he, “but it’s a grind being cooped up there when you’ve got your chance of a fling.”
“Well, you’ve not wasted your chances, my boy,” said Mr Pillans, who, besides being empty-headed, was unhealthy in complexion, and red about the eyes.
Blandford appeared rather flattered than otherwise by this observation, and told Mr Pillans to shut up and not tell tales out of school.
“I suppose Wilderham hasn’t changed much since last term?” asked Reginald wistfully.
“Oh no; plenty of fellows left and new ones come—rather a better lot, take them all round, than we had last term.”
“Has the football club been doing well again?” asked the old boy.
“Oh, middling. By the way, the fellows growled rather when you only sent them half-a-sov. instead of a sov.”
Reginald coloured up. Little his comrade knew what that half-sovereign had cost him!
He relapsed into silence, and had to derive what compensation he could from the fast talk in which the other three engaged, apparently heedless of his presence.
In due time the meal ended, and Blandford called for the bills.
Until that moment Reginald had never imagined for a moment but that he had been dining as his old schoolfellow’s guest. He had understood Blandford’s request of his company as an invitation, and as an invitation he had accepted it, and as an invitation he had repented of it. What, then, was his embarrassment to find a bill for six shillings and sixpence laid down before him as his share of the entertainment!
For a moment a flush of relief passed across his face. He was glad not to find himself under obligations to Blandford after all. But in another moment relief was changed to horror as he remembered that three shillings was all the money he had about him. Oh, the humiliation, the anguish of this discovery! He would have had anything happen rather than this.
He sat staring at the bill like a being petrified.
“Come along,” said Blandford, “let’s go to the smoking-room. I suppose you fellows will have coffee there. Coffee for four, waiter. Are you ready?”
But Reginald did not move, nor did the waiter.
“What’s the row?” said Blandford to the latter.
The waiter pointed to Reginald’s bill.
“Oh, he’s waiting for your bill, Cruden. Look sharp, old man!”
The colour came and went in Reginald’s face, as though he had been charged with some hideous crime. And it seemed like a deliberate mockery of his trouble that his three companions and the waiter stood silent at the table, eyeing him, and waiting for his answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said at length, bringing up the words with a tremendous effort, “I find I’ve not money enough to pay it. I made a mistake in coming here.”
All four listeners stood with faces of mingled amazement and amusement at the boy’s agitation and the tragic manner in which he accounted for it. Any one else would have carried it off with a jest; but to Reginald it was like passing through the fire.
“Would you mind—may I trouble you—that is, will you lend me three-and-sixpence, Blandford?” he said at last.
Blandford burst out laughing.
“I thought at least you’d swallowed a silver spoon!” said he. “Here, waiter, I’ll settle that bill. How much is it?”
“No,” said Reginald, laying down his three shillings; “if you can lend me three-and-sixpence, that’s all I want.”
“Bosh!” said Blandford, pitching half a sovereign to the waiter; “take it out of that, and this coffee too, and come along into the smoking-room, you fellows.”
Reginald would fain have escaped; but the horrid dread of being suspected of caring more about his dinner than his company deterred him, and he followed dejectedly to the luxurious smoking-room of the Shades.
He positively refused to touch the coffee or the cigar, even though Blandford took care to remind him they had been paid for. Nor, except when spoken to, could he bring himself to open his lips or take part in the general talk.
Blandford, however, who, ever since the incident of the bill, seemed to consider himself entitled to play a patronising part towards his schoolfellow, continued to keep him from lapsing into obscurity.
“Where’s your brother living?” he asked presently.
“He’s in town, too,” said Reginald. “My mother and he and I live together.”
“Where? I’d like to call on your mother.”
“We live in Dull Street,” said Reginald, beginning in sheer desperation to pluck up heart and hang out no more false colours.
“Dull Street? That’s rather a shady locality, isn’t it?” said Mr Pillans.
Reginald rounded on him. Blandford might have a right to catechise him; but what business was it of this numbskull’s where he lived?
“You’re not obliged to go there,” he said, with a curl of his lip, “unless you like.”
Mr Shanklin smiled at this sally, a demonstration which considerably incensed the not too amiable Mr Pillans.
“I’ll take precious care I don’t,” said the latter.
Reginald said “Thanks!” drily, and in a way so cutting that Mr Shanklin and Blandford both laughed this time.
“Look here,” said the unwholesome Pillans, looking very warm, “what do you say that for? Do you want to cheek me?”
“Don’t be a fool, Pillans. It doesn’t matter to you where he lives,” said Blandford.
“Thank goodness it don’t—or whether he pays his rent either.”
“It’s a pity you had to leave Garden Vale,” said Blandford, apparently anxious to turn the conversation into a more pacific channel; “such a jolly place it was. What do you do with yourself all day long in town?”
Reginald smiled.
“I work for my living,” said he, keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mr Pillans, as if waiting to catch the first sign of an insult on his part.
“That’s what we all do, more or less,” said Mr Shanklin. “Blandford here works like a nigger to spend his money, don’t you, old man?”
“I do so,” said Blandford, “with your valuable assistance.”
“And with somebody else’s assistance too,” said Mr Pillans, with a shrug in the direction of Reginald.
Reginald understood the taunt, and rose to his feet.
“You’re not going?” said Blandford.
“I am. I don’t forget I owe you for my dinner, Blandford; and I shan’t forget that I owe you also for introducing me to a blackguard. Good-night.”
And without allowing his hearers time to recover from the astonishment into which these words had thrown them, he marched out of the Shades with his head in the air.
It was a minute before any of the three disconcerted companions could recover the gift of speech. At last Mr Shanklin burst out into a laugh.
“Capital, that was,” he said; “there’s something in the fellow. And,” he added internally, and not in the hearing of either of his companions, “if he’s the same fellow Medlock has hooked, our fortune’s made.”
“All very well,” said Pillans; “but he called me a blackguard.”
This simple discovery caused still greater merriment at the expense of the outraged owner of the appellation.
“I’ve a good mind to go after him, and pull his nose,” growled he.
“Nothing would please him better,” said Blandford. “But you’d better leave your own nose behind, my boy, before you start, or there won’t be much of it left. I know Cruden of old.”
“You won’t see much more of him now,” sneered Pillans, “now he owes you for his dinner.”
“It strikes me, Bland was never safer of a six-and-six in his life than he is of the one he lent to-night,” said Mr Shanklin. “Unless I’m mistaken, the fellow would walk across England on his bare feet to pay it back.”
Mr Shanklin, it was evident, could appreciate honesty in any one else. He was highly delighted with what he had seen of the new secretary. If anything could float the Select Agency Corporation, the lad’s unsuspicious honesty would do it. In fact, things were looking up all round for the precious confederates. With Reginald to supply them with honesty, with easy-going spendthrifts, like Blandford and Pillans, to supply them with money, and with a cad like Durfy to do their dirty work for them, they were in as comfortable and hopeful a way as the promoters of such an enterprise could reasonably hope to be.
The trio at the Shades soon forgot Reginald in the delights of one another’s sweet society. They played billiards, at which Mr Shanklin won. They also played cards, at which, by a singular coincidence, Mr Shanklin won too. They then went to call on a friend who knew the “straight tip” for the Saint Leger, and under his advice they laid out a good deal of money, which (such are the freaks of fortune) also found its way somehow into Mr Shanklin’s pocket-book. Finally, they supped together, and then went home to bed, each one under the delusion that he had spent a very pleasant evening.
Reginald was far from sharing the same opinion as he paced home that evening. How glad he should be to be out of this hateful London, where everything went wrong, and reminded him that he was a pauper, dependent on others for his living, for his clothes, for his—faugh! for his dinner! Happily he had not to endure it much longer. At Liverpool, he would be independent. He would hold a position not degrading to a gentleman; he would associate with men of intellect and breeding; he would even have the joy of helping his mother to many a little luxury which, as long as he remained in London, he could never have given her. He quickened his pace, and reached home. Gedge had been there, spiritless and forlorn, and had left as soon as he could excuse himself.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he had said, with a forced laugh, to Horace when the latter expressed his regret at Reginald’s absence.
Mrs Cruden and Horace both tried to look cheerful; but the cloud on the horizon was too large now to be covered with a hand.
When Reginald announced that he had written and accepted the invitation to Liverpool, there was no jubilation, no eager congratulation.
“What shall we do without you?” said Mrs Cruden.
“It is horrid having to go, mother,” said the boy; “but we must make the best of it. If you look so unhappy, I shall be sorry I ever thought of it.”
His mother tried to smile, and said,—
“Yes, we must try and make the best of it, dear boys; and if we cannot seem as glad as we should like to be, it’s not to be wondered at at first, is it?”
“I hope you’ll get holidays enough now and then to run up,” said Horace.
“Oh yes; I don’t fancy there’ll be much difficulty about that,” replied Reg. “In fact, it’s possible I may have to come up now and then on business.”
There was a silence for a few seconds, and then he added rather nervously,—
“By the way, mother, about the £50. I had intended to ask Mr Richmond to advance it, although I should have hated to do so. But now, I was wondering—do you think there would be any objection to taking it out of our money, and letting it be invested in my name in the Corporation? It really wouldn’t make any difference, for you’d get exactly the same interest for it as you got through Mr Richmond; and, of course, the principal would belong to you too.”
“I see no objection,” said Mrs Cruden. “It’s our common stock, and if we can use it for the common good, so much the better.”
“Thanks,” said Reginald. “If you wouldn’t mind sending a line to Mr Richmond’s clerk to-morrow, he could let me have the cheque to take down or Monday with me.”
The three days that followed were dismal ones for the three Crudens. There are few miseries like that of an impending separation. We wish the fatal moment to arrive and end our suspense. We know of a thousand things we want to say, but the time slips by wasted, and hangs drearily on our hands. We have not the spirit to look forward, or the heart to look back. We long to have it all over, and yet every stroke of the clock falls like a cruel knell on our ears. We long that we could fall asleep, and wake to find ourselves on the other side of the crisis we dread.
So it was with the Crudens; and when at last the little trio stood on the Monday on the platform of Euston Station, all three felt that they would give anything to have the last few days back again.
“I’ll write, mother, as often as ever I can,” said Reginald, trying to speak as if the words did not stick in his throat.
“Tell us all about your quarters, and what you have to do, and all that,” said Horace.
Mrs Cruden had no words. She stood with her eyes fixed on her boy, and felt she needed all her courage to do that steadily.
“Horrors,” said Reg, as the guard locked the carriage door, and the usual silence which precedes the blowing of the whistle ensued, “keep your eye on young Gedge, will you? there’s a good fellow.”
“I will, and I’ll—”
But here the whistle sounded, and amid the farewells that followed, Reginald went out into his new world, leaving them behind, straining their eyes for a last look, but little dreaming how and when that little family should meet again.