Reginald Cruden | Page 4

his carriage--is he better?"
"Will you step in and see the doctor?"
The doctor was not in his room when the boy was ushered in, and it
seemed an age before he entered.
"You are Mr Cruden's son?" said he gravely.
"Yes--is he better?"
"He was brought here about half-past three, insensible, with apoplexy."
"Is he better now?" asked Horace again, knowing perfectly well what
the dreaded answer would be.
"He is not, my boy," said the doctor gravely. "We telegraphed to your
mother at once, as you know--but before that telegram could have
reached her your poor father--"
It was enough. Poor Horace closed his ears convulsively against the
fatal word, and dropped back on his chair with a gasp.
The doctor put his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder.
"Are you here alone?" said he, presently.
"My mother and brother will be here directly."
"Your father lies in a private ward. Will you wait till they come, or will
you go up now?"
A struggle passed through the boy's mind. An instinctive horror of a

sight hitherto unknown struggled hard with the impulse to rush at once
to his father's bedside. At length he said, falteringly,--
"I will go now, please."
When Mrs Cruden and Reginald arrived half an hour later, they found
Horace where the doctor had left him, on his knees at his father's
bedside.
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