Chapter Two.
A Come-down in the World.
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 that it seemed as if speaking must be a positive pain to him, his eyes had the knack of looking past you, as though he was addressing not you but your shadow on the wall, and he ended every sentence, no matter what its import, with a mechanical smile, as though he were at that instant having his photograph taken. Why Mr Cruden should have selected Mr Richmond as his man of business was a matter only known to Mr Cruden himself, for those who knew the lawyer best did not care for him, and, without being able to deny that he was an honest man and a well-meaning man, were at least glad that their affairs were in the hands of some one else.
He rose and solemnly greeted the widow and her two sons as they entered.
“I am sorry to intrude at such a time,” said he, “but as your late husband’s adviser, I considered it right to call and make you acquainted with his affairs.”
Here Mr Richmond smiled, greatly to Reginald’s indignation.
“Thank you,” said Mrs Cruden; “sit down, please, Mr Richmond.”
Mr Richmond obeyed, dubiously eyeing the two boys as he did so.
“These are your sons, I presume?” said he to Mrs Cruden.
“They are,” said she.
Mr Richmond rose and solemnly shook hands with each of the lads, informing each with a smile as he did so that he was pleased to make his acquaintance.
“You wish the young gentlemen to remain, perhaps?” he inquired, as he resumed his seat.
“To be sure,” said Mrs Cruden, somewhat nettled at the question; “go on, please, Mr Richmond.”
“Certainly, madam,” said the lawyer. “May I ask if you are acquainted with the late Mr Cruden’s state of affairs?”
“I wish to hear that from you,” said the widow, “and with as little delay as possible, Mr Richmond.”
“Certainly, madam. Mr Cruden honoured me with his confidence on these matters, and I believe, next to himself, I knew more about them than any one else.”
Here Mr Richmond paused and smiled.
“In fact,” continued he, “I may almost say I knew more about them than he did himself, for your excellent husband, Mrs Cruden, was not a good man of business.”
Reginald could not stand the smile which accompanied this observation, and said, somewhat hotly,—
“Look here, Mr Richmond, if you will say what you’ve got to say without laughing and speaking disrespectfully of my father, we shall be glad.”
“Certainly, Master Cruden,” said the lawyer, a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected interruption. Then turning to the widow he continued,—
“The fact is, madam, the late Mr Cruden was, I fear, under the impression that he was considerably better off than he was.”
Mr Richmond paused as if for a reply, but as no one spoke he continued,—
“I am sorry to say this appears to have been the case to a much larger extent than even I imagined. Your late husband, Mrs Cruden, I believe spent largely on his estate here, and unfortunately kept no accounts. I have frequently entreated him to reckon over his expenditure, but he always replied that it was considerably under his income, and that there was no need, as long as that was the case, to trouble himself about it.”
A nervous movement among his listeners was the only reply the lawyer received to this last announcement, or to the smile which accompanied it.
“Mr Cruden may have been correct in his conjecture, madam, although I fear the contrary.”
“If my father said a thing,” blurted out Reginald at this point, “I see no reason for doubting his word.”
“None in the least, my dear Master Cruden; but unfortunately your father did not know either what his income was or what his expenditure was.”
“Do you know what they were?” said Reginald, not heeding the deprecating touch of his mother’s hand on his.
“As far as I understand the state of your father’s affairs,” said Mr Richmond, undisturbed by the rude tone of his inquisitor, “his income was entirely derived from interest in the stock of two American railways, in which he placed implicit confidence, and in one or the other of which he insisted on investing all capital which came to his hand. The total income from these two sources would in my opinion just about cover Mr Cruden’s various expenses of all kinds.”
There was something like a sigh of relief from the listeners as Mr Richmond reached this point. But it died away as he proceeded.
“In his choice of an investment for his capital Mr Cruden consulted no one, I believe, beyond himself. For some time it seemed a fortunate investment, and the shares rose in value, but latterly they took a turn for the worse, and early this year I am sorry to say one of the railways suspended payment altogether, and Mr Cruden lost a considerable portion of his fortune thereby.”
“I heard my husband say some months ago that he had made some slight loss in the City,” said Mrs Cruden, “but I imagined from the light manner in which he treated it that it was quite trifling, and would be quickly repaired.”
“He did hope that would be the case. Although all his friends urged him to sell out at once, he insisted on holding on, in the hope of the railway recovering itself.”
“And has it recovered?” asked Mrs Cruden, with a tremble in her voice.
“I regret to say it has not, Mrs Cruden. On the contrary, it was declared bankrupt a few days ago, and what is still more deplorable, it has involved in its own ruin the other railway in which the remainder of your husband’s property was invested, so that all the shares which stand in his name in both concerns are now worth no more than the paper they are printed on.”
Mr Richmond came to the point at last with startling abruptness, so much so that for a moment or two his listeners sat almost petrified by the bad news, and unable to say a word. The lawyer finished what he had to say without waiting.
“Your husband heard this lamentable news, Mrs Cruden, on the occasion of his last visit to the City. The only call he made that day was at his banker’s, where he was told all, and there is no reason to doubt that the shock produced the stroke from which he died.”
“Mr Richmond,” said Mrs Cruden, after a while, like one in a dream, “can this be true? What does it all mean?”
“Alas! madam,” said the lawyer, “it would be no kindness on my part to deny the truth of what I have told you. It means that unless you or your late husband are possessed of some means of income of which I know nothing, your circumstances are reduced to a very low point.”
“But there must be some mistake,” said Horace. “Both railways can’t have gone wrong; we shall surely save something?”
“I wish I could hold out any hope. I have all the documents at my office, and shall be only too glad, Mrs Cruden, to accompany you to the bank for your own satisfaction.”
Mrs Cruden shuddered and struggled bravely to keep down the rising tears. A long pause ensued, every moment of which made the terrible truth clearer to all three of the hearers, and closed every loophole of hope.
“What can be done?” said Horace at last.
“Happily there is Garden Vale,” said Reginald, and there was a choking in the throat of the heir as he spoke; “we shall have to sell it.”
“The contents of it, you will, Master Cruden,” said the lawyer; “the estate itself is held on lease.”
“Well, the contents of it,” said Reginald, bitterly; “you are not going to make out they don’t belong to us?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Richmond, on whom the taunt was quite lost; “unless, as I trust is not the case, your father died in debt.”
“Do you mean to say,” said Horace, slowly, like one waking from a dream, “do you mean to say we are ruined, Mr Richmond?”
“I fear it is so,” said the lawyer, “unless Mr Cruden was possessed of some means of income with which I was not acquainted. I regret very much, Mrs Cruden, having to be the bearer of such bad news, and I can only say the respect I had for your late husband will make any assistance I can offer you, by way of advice or otherwise, a pleasure.” And Mr Richmond bowed himself out of the room with a smile.
It was a relief to be left alone, and Mrs Cruden, despite her weakness and misery, struggled hard for the sake of her boys to put a brave face on their trouble.
“Reg, dear,” said she to her eldest son, who had fairly broken down, and with his head on his hand was giving vent to his misery, “try to bear it. After all, we are left to one another, and—”
The poor mother could not finish her sentence, but bent down and kissed the wet cheek of the boy.
“Of course it means,” said Horace, after a pause, “we shall have to give up Garden Vale, and leave Wilderham too. And Reg was sure of a scholarship next term. I say, mother, what are we to do?”
“We are all strong enough to do something, dear boy,” said Mrs Cruden.
“I’ll take care you don’t have to do anything, mother,” said Reginald, looking up. “I’ll work my fingers to the bones before you have to come down to that.” He spoke with clenched teeth, half savagely.
“Even if we can sell all the furniture,” continued Horace, taking a practical view of the situation, “it wouldn’t give us much to live on.”
“Shut up, Horace!” said Reginald. “What’s the use of making the worst of everything? Hasn’t mother had quite enough to bear already?”
Horace subsided, and the three sat there in silence until the daylight faded and the footman brought in the lights and announced that coffee was ready in the drawing-room.
There was something like a shock about this interruption. What had they to do with men-servants and coffee in the drawing-room, they who an hour or two ago had supposed themselves wealthy, but now knew that they were little better than beggars?
“We shall not want coffee,” said Mrs Cruden, answering for all three. Then when the footman had withdrawn, she said,—
“Boys, I must go to bed. God bless you, and give us all brave hearts, for we shall need them!”
The funeral took place next day. Happily it was of a simple character, and only a few friends were invited, so that it was not thought necessary to alter the arrangements in consequence of Mr Richmond’s announcement of the evening before. But even the slight expense involved in this melancholy ceremony grated painfully on the minds of the boys, who forgot even their dead father in the sense that they were riding in carriages for which they could not pay, and offering their guests refreshments which were not theirs to give. The little cemetery was crowded with friends and acquaintances of the dead—country gentry most of them, who sought to show their respect for their late neighbour by falling into the long funeral procession and joining the throng at the graveside.
It was a severe ordeal for the two boys to find themselves the centres of observation, and to feel that more than half the interest exhibited in them was on account of their supposed inheritance.
One bluff squire came up after the funeral and patted Reginald on the back.
“Never mind, my boy,” said he; “I was left without a father at your age. You’ll soon get over it, and your mother will have plenty of friends. Glad to see you up at the Hall any day, and your brother too. You must join our hunt next winter, and keep up the family name. God bless you!”
Reginald shrank from this greeting like a guilty being, and the two desolate boys were glad to escape further encounters by retreating to their carriage and ordering the coachman to drive home at once.
A few days disclosed all that was wanting to make their position quite clear. Mr Cruden’s will confirmed Mr Richmond’s statement as to the source of his income. All his money was invested in shares of the two ruined railways, and all he had to leave besides these was the furniture and contents of Garden Vale. Even this, when realised, would do little more than cover the debts which the next week or two brought to light. It was pitiful the way in which that unrelenting tide of bills flowed in, swamping gradually the last hope of a competency, or even means of bare existence, for the survivors.
Neither Mrs Cruden nor her sons had been able to endure a day’s delay at Garden Vale after the funeral, but had hurried for shelter to quiet lodgings at the seaside, kept by an old servant, where in an agony of suspense they awaited the final result of Mr Richmond’s investigations.
It came at last, and, bad as it was, it was a comfort to know the worst. The furniture, carriages, and other contents of Garden Vale had sufficed to pay all debts of every description, with a balance of about £350 remaining over and above, to represent the entire worldly possessions of the Cruden family, which only a month ago had ranked with the wealthiest in the county.
“So,” said Mrs Cruden, with a shadow of her old smile, as she folded up the lawyer’s letter and put it back in her pocket, “we know the worst at last, boys.”
“Which is,” said Reginald, bitterly, “we are worth among us the magnificent sum of sixteen pounds per annum. Quite princely!”
“Reg, dear,” said his mother, “let us be thankful that we have anything, and still more that we may start life owing nothing to any one.”
“Start life!” exclaimed Reginald; “I wish we could end it with—”
“Oh, hush, hush, my precious boy!” exclaimed the widow; “you will break my heart if you talk like that! Think how many there are to whom this little sum would seem a fortune. Why, it may keep a roof over our heads, at any rate, or help you into situations.”
“Or bury us!” groaned Reginald.
The mother looked at her eldest son, half in pity, half in reproach, and then burst into tears.
Reginald sprang to her side in an instant.
“What a beast I am!” he exclaimed. “Oh, mother, do forgive me! I really didn’t think what I was saying.”
“No, dear Reggie, I know you didn’t,” said Mrs Cruden, recovering herself with a desperate effort. “You mustn’t mind me, I—I scarcely—know—I—”
It was no use trying. The poor mother broke down completely, and on that evening it was impossible to talk more about the future.
Next morning, however, all three were in a calmer mood, and Horace said at breakfast, “We can’t do any good here, mother. Hadn’t we better go to London?”
“I think so; and Parker here knows of a small furnished lodging in Dull Street, which she says is cheap. We might try there to begin with. Eh, Reg?”
Reginald winced, and then replied, “Oh, certainly; the sooner we get down to our right level the better.”
That evening the three Crudens arrived in London.