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.