"Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!"
There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who
uttered them.
Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the
house, towards which his brother had already started.
"What is it, Horace?" he said as he overtook him.
"Something about father--a telegram," gasped the other.
Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door.
The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the
towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog,
lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached.
Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her
hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with
mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces.
Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door,
and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his
hand. It was from Mr Cruden's coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel's
Hospital.
"Master was took ill driving from City--brought here, where he is very
bad indeed. Doctor says no hope."
One needs to have received such a message oneself to understand the
emotions with which the two brothers read and re-read the pitiless
words. Nothing but their own hard breathing broke the stillness of
those few minutes, and who knows in that brief space what a lifetime
seemed crowded?
Horace was the first to recover his self-possession.
"Mother," said he, and his voice sounded strange and startling in the
silence, "there's a train to the City in five minutes. I'll go by
that."
And he was off. It was three-quarters of a mile to the station, and
there was no time to parley. Even on an errand like this, many would
have abandoned the endeavour as an impossibility, especially in such a
heat. But Horace was a good runner, and the feat was nothing uncommon
for him.
As he flung himself into the train he gave one quick glance round, to
see if Reginald had possibly followed him; but no, he was alone; and as
the whistle shrieked and the train steamed out of the station, Horace
for the first time had a moment to reflect.
Not half an hour ago he had been lying with his brother and companions
on the tennis lawn, utterly unconscious of any impending calamity. What
ages ago that seemed! For a few minutes all appeared so confused and
unreal that his mind was a blank, and he seemed even to forget on what
errand he was bound.
But Horace was a practical youth, and before that half-hour's journey to
the City was accomplished he was at least collected in mind, and
prepared to face the trial that awaited him.
There was something about the telegram that convinced him it meant more
than it said. Still, a boy's hopefulness will grasp at a straw, and he
battled with his despair. His father was not dead--he would recover--at
the hospital he would have the best medical assistance possible. The
coachman who sent the telegram would be sure to make things out at the
worst. Yes, when he got to Saint Nathaniel's he would find it was a
false alarm, that there was nothing much the matter at all, and when his
mother and Reginald arrived by the next train, he would be able to meet
them with reassuring news. It was not more than a ten-minutes' cab-
drive from the terminus--the train was just in now; in twelve minutes
this awful suspense would be at an end.
Such was the hurried rush of thoughts through the poor boy's brain
during that dismal journey. He had sprung from the carriage to a hansom
cab almost before the train had pulled up, and in another moment was
clattering over the stones towards the hospital.
The hopes of a few minutes before oozed away as every street corner
brought him nearer his destination, and when at last the stately front
of Saint Nathaniel's loomed before him, he wished his journey could
never end. He gazed with faltering heart up at the ward windows, as if
he could read his fate there. The place seemed deserted. A few street
boys were playing on the pavement, and at the door of the in-patients'
ward a little cluster of visitors were collected round a flower stall
buying sweet mementoes of the country to brighten the bedsides of their
friends within. No one heeded the pale scared boy as he alighted and
went up the steps.
A porter opened the door.
"My father, Mr Cruden, is here; how is he?"
"Is it the gentleman that was brought in in a fit?"
"Yes, in 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.