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.”