Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.Mr Armstrong puts down his Foot.Mr Armstrong, as unconcerned as if he had just returned from a half-hour’s stroll, had little idea of the flutter which his return caused to the Maxfield family. He could hardly know that Raffles was parading the lower regions rubbing his hands, and informing his acquaintance down there that the season for “larks” was coming on; nor, as he was out of earshot, could he be supposed to know the particularly forcible expressions which Captain Oliphant rehearsed to himself in celebration of the occasion. As for the young people, it did afford him a passing gratification to feel his pupil’s arm linked once more in his own, and to encounter the expected boisterous welcome from Tom and Jill. Miss Rosalind was busy, forsooth! and if Mr Armstrong flattered himself she took the slightest interest in his return, he might find out his mistake.“I’ll join you in a minute, Roger,” said he to his ward, “but I must go and pay my respects to your mother.”“Oh, she’ll keep,” said Roger; “I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”“In five minutes,” said the tutor, going to the drawing-room.Mrs Ingleton was there, looking pale and fragile, pouring out afternoon tea for Captain Oliphant.“Why, Mr Armstrong,” said she, “we had given you up for lost; Roger was getting quite melancholy without you.”“I understood,” began the captain, “when you asked leave—”“Mrs Ingleton, I must ask you to excuse my long absence. I went to see a dying friend, and was unable to return earlier.”“You might have written,” said the captain, returning to the charge.Mr Armstrong screwed his eye-glass round and stared at the speaker.“I beg your pardon,” said he.“I say, sir, you might have written. Let me tell you, Mr Armstrong, that, as my dear relative’s co-trustee and guardian—”“I am sorry,” observed the tutor, addressing Mrs Ingleton, “that Roger’s cough is still troubling him. He is waiting for me upstairs, by the bye, but I was anxious to offer you my apologies without delay for my long absence.”“Mr Armstrong,” said the captain, stepping between the tutor and the door, “this will not do, sir. When I speak to you, I expect you to listen.”Mr Armstrong bowed politely.“I repeat, sir, your conduct satisfies neither me nor your mistress. You forget, sir, that you are here on sufferance, and I desire to caution you that it may become necessary to dispense with your services, unless— I am speaking to you, Mr Armstrong.”Mr Armstrong was examining with some curiosity a china group on the mantelpiece. He turned round gravely.“You were saying—?” said he.The captain gave it up.“We shall discuss this matter some other time,” said he.“Pray, pray,” said Mrs Ingleton with tears in her eyes, “let us not forget that my boy’s happiness depends on our harmony. I am sure Mr Armstrong recognises that I depend on you both.”Mr Armstrong bowed again; and finding that the captain had returned to his chair, he quietly left the room.When he entered Roger’s room, humming a tune to himself, he neither looked like a man who had returned from a funeral or from an altercation in the drawing-room. In five minutes he was in possession of most of what had taken place during his absence—of Roger’s cold, of the painting-lessons, of Tom’s reminiscences of Christy’s Minstrels, and most of all of Hodder’s tribulation.“And what sort of an artist are you turning out?” inquired he.“Oh, all right. But I say, Armstrong, I want you to make it right about Hodder before anything. Will you come and see him?”“My dear fellow, Hodder is as safe in his cottage as you are here. Leave that to your responsible guardian. My present intention is to work on the tender mercies of Raffles for some dinner. I have travelled right through from Paris since this morning.”“Your friend died?” inquired Roger.“Yes. I was in time to be of some little help, I think, but he was past recovery. How is Miss Oliphant?”“All right; but in an awful state about old Hodder. I’m afraid to meet her myself. She will be relieved to have you back.”“Will she really?” said the tutor, laughing. “I hardly flatter myself her comfort depends on which particular hemisphere I happen to be in.”Miss Oliphant, as it happened, had taken to a spell of hard work in her studio, and was not visible all the evening. She was, in fact, making a copy of the portrait Roger had lent her, and the work interested her greatly.This bold, fearless, almost insolent, boy’s face fascinated her. She seemed to be able to interpret the defiance that flashed in his eye, and to solve the problem which gathered on his half-mocking lips. She was half afraid, half enamoured of this old piece of canvas.“Why are not you here now?” she muttered as she gazed at it. “You don’t look like the sort of boy to die. Should we be friends or enemies? Heigho! I shouldn’t care much which, if only you were here. Roger minor is a dear boy; but—you are—”She didn’t say what he was, but worked late into the night with her copy.At bedtime Jill came in radiant.“He’s come back, Rosalind. Dear Mr Armstrong’s come back.”“Oh!” said Rosalind shortly.“Aren’t you glad? Oh, I am!”“Why should I be glad? I don’t care two straws for all the Mr Armstrongs in the world. Go to bed, Jill, and don’t be a goose.”Jill obeyed, a little discomfited, and was sound asleep long before the artist joined her. And long before she woke from her dreams next morning Rosalind was astir and abroad. She had resolved to pay an early call on old Hodder, if not to relieve his mind about the eviction, at least to take him some comfort in the shape of a little tea and sugar.The old man was sitting outside the cottage, smoking and moaning to himself. He cheered up a bit at the sight of his visitor, still more at the sight of the tea. But it was a short-lived gleam of comfort, and he relapsed at the earliest opportunity into the doleful.“Little good it’ll do me,” said he, “as have known this place, man and boy, seventy-five years, Missy. Never a word did they say to me till now. The old squire had allers his nod for Hodder, and when times was bad he let the rent stand. And young Master Roger was of the same sort.”“Oh, Roger is your friend still,” said Rosalind; “he’s doing everything to help you.”“I don’t meanhim. He’s good enough; but he’s a boy. But young Master Roger as was, he had a will of his own, Missy. Not one of ’em durst stand up to him.”Rosalind became interested. “Do you mean the one who died?” said she.“Ay, they say he died. They said as much and wrote it on the tombstone.”“Do you mean that there was ever a doubt about it?” said the young lady uncomfortably.“They said he died, so he must have died,” said old Hodder, sipping his tea. “It was all talk to the likes of me. Young Master Roger wasn’t of the dying sort.”“He went abroad, I hear?” she asked.“So they say. It’s a score of years or more since. I tell ’ee, Missy, young Master Roger wouldn’t have stood by to see me turned out like this; he’d have—”Here there was a click at the gate and a long shadow fell on the footpath. It was Mr Armstrong in his flannels. He looked somewhat alarmed to find Miss Rosalind in possession. Still more to perceive that she proposed to remain where she was. His impulse was to make a feeble excuse and say he would call again. But his courage revived on second thoughts.“Ah, Hodder,” said he, after saluting the young lady, “what’s all this about turning you out of your cottage! What a notion to get into your head!”“You may call it a notion, Mr Armstrong,” said the old man, “but what about this here piece of paper?” And he produced a blue legal document.Mr Armstrong put up his eye-glass and read it, with a face which, as Rosalind furtively glanced upwards, seemed inscrutable. When he had finished he coolly put it in his pocket.“I’ll see to this,” said he. “You choose the best time of day for a walk, Miss Oliphant.”“Shall you really be able to settle this for Hodder?” replied she.“I’ve very little doubt about it.”The old man chuckled ungallantly. “He, he,” said he, “Missy, you ladies are good enough for tea and sugar, but it takes a man to put the likes of me right with my masters.”Armstrong flushed angrily at this speech and was about to relieve his mind when Rosalind laughingly interposed—“Poor old Hodder! You’re quite right; I should never have been clever enough to help you. Good-bye. I’m so glad.”To tell the truth, Miss Oliphant was a good deal more engrossed with what the old man had let drop concerning the lost Roger than with the tutor and his knowledge of the law of landlord and tenant.“Suppose he did not die!” she said, half scared at the boldness of the suggestion. “If he were to come back!” And she went back and looked long once more at the picture. Then with less satisfaction she contemplated her own copy. Thus employed Roger found her when he passed her door an hour later.“Still harping on my brother,” said he.“I’ve done with him, thank you,” said Rosalind, handing him back the picture. “See, I have one of my own now.”“Why, it’s better than the original. I like it better.”“That shows how little you know about painting.”“It shows how much you know about my brother,” said he. “But if you like to keep the original and let me have the copy, I should consider I had the best of the bargain.”Rosalind tossed her head and locked her own copy up in her desk.“Roger,” she said when that was done, “where did he die?”“The date is on the picture, if one could only make it out. He was abroad at the time, I believe.”“Where?”“I never heard.”“Have you never tried to find out?”Roger looked at her, startled.“It was before I was born,” said he. “Father never spoke of him. But why do you ask?”“Only a girl’s curiosity. I thought, if any one knew, you would. But there is the bell for lunch.”Armstrong meanwhile had been having an interview of a different kind. He strolled into Mr Pottinger’s office almost at the same time as that worthy lawyer himself.“So you are back?” asked the latter.“Yes, and quite at your service,” said the tutor. “I am afraid my absence has been inconvenient. But I am ready for business now. By the way, I have brought you back a document which must have been left on old Hodder by mistake. I certainly did not sanction it.”The lawyer sat back in his chair and gazed at the tutor through his spectacles. Mr Armstrong, leaning against the chimney-piece, put up his glass and gazed leisurely back. The two men understood one another pretty well already.“The notice is quite in order. I have Captain Oliphant’s instructions.”“And mine?”“You were not here.”“I am here now, and I object to Hodder’s being disturbed. Do I make myself clear?”“But—”“You must excuse me, Mr Pottinger. I shall be glad to discuss the matter with you in the presence of my co-trustees. Meanwhile, good-morning.”The lawyer jumped out of his chair like a man shot.“What, sir—you, an interloper, an adventurer, a nobody, a parasite—do you suppose I am going to be talked to by you as if I didn’t know my own duty. Do you know, Master Usher, that you can any day receive a week’s notice of dismissal—”“A month’s, I think,” observed the tutor, taking up his hat. “In that respect, perhaps, I have the advantage of the solicitor to the trust. However, we won’t talk of that just now. Good-morning again.”Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor, whom he found in an opportune moment at breakfast. The two men had a long chat over their coffee, and finally adjourned for a walk along the shore, ending up with a cool spring dip in Sheephaven Cove. After which, much refreshed, and glad to be once more in his familiar haunts, the tutor strolled cheerfully back to Maxfield for lunch. He was quite aware things had undergone a change. He had two new enemies, but he was not afraid of them. He had a new pupil, but he liked him. He had a devoted new champion, in the shape of a little girl, but that was no hardship, Roger, too, despite his new friends, was still loyal to his tutor; and Mrs Ingleton, by all appearances, still regarded him as a useful friend. What then was the difference! It could hardly have anything to do with a certain young person half his own age, with whom the tutor had not had two hours’ continuous conversation in his life, and of whose behaviour generally he did not at all know whether he approved or not.“Ridiculous!” said Mr Armstrong to himself with a smile, as he strolled up the carriage drive.At that moment the distant hall-door opened, and a light figure stepped out for a moment on to the door-step to pat the great mastiff that lay sleeping on the mat. The apparition, the caress, and the vanishing occupied scarcely half a minute, and when it was past Mr Armstrong was only ten paces nearer the house than he had been when it appeared.But, somehow, in those few seconds the amused smile on his lips faded away, and the eye-glass dropped somewhat limply from his eye, as he repeated to himself more emphatically than before—“Ridiculous!”At lunch, Roger innocently broached the question of Hodder’s eviction.“Mother,” said he, “what do you think that idiot Pottinger has been up to? He’s taken it into his wise head to threaten to turn old Hodder out of his cottage unless he pays a higher rent in future. I went to row him about it, but he’s far too dense to see what a scoundrelly thing it is.”“How shocking!” said Mrs Ingleton. “Poor old Hodder has been in that place all his life. Your father was always fond of him, Roger. I wouldn’t have him disturbed for the world.”“You’ll have to tell Pottinger so yourself,” said Roger. “He says he’s bound to screw all he can out of the old chap in my interests, if you please.”The captain had listened to this parley with anything but comfort, and was about at this point to explain, when Mr Armstrong seeing his chance adroitly stepped in.“You may make yourself easy about the matter, Roger. Evidently Mr Pottinger has acted most unwarrantably on his own responsibility. I have been to see him this morning, and told him in future he is not to take upon himself to do anything about the estate without consulting Mrs Ingleton, and Captain Oliphant, and myself—”“Then Hodder is not to be disturbed?” inquired Rosalind.“I have seen that the notice is withdrawn. I, for one, should certainly never sanction it.”“Oh, how delightful you are,” said the young lady. “How happy you will have made the poor old man. Father, do get that horrid Pottinger sent away. He’s a monster. I told him so yesterday, but he wouldn’t believe me.”“Rosalind,” said her father, whose lunch was not agreeing with him at all, “it vexes me to see you interfere in matters in which you have no concern. It seems to me, my dear Eva,” he added, addressing Mrs Ingleton, whom he had already taken to calling by her Christian name, “that these business questions had much better be left for discussion among ourselves, and not at the family meal.”“Perhaps so,” said Mrs Ingleton; “only we are all so interested in poor old Hodder, we hardly regard this as a business question. However, I am delighted to hear it is all right now. I only wish Mr Pottinger had consulted you, Edward, before he took such a step.”“Oh, he did,” blurted out Rosalind. “But, as I told him, of course papa not knowing what a villain he was, would believe all he said. It was all the more shame of him to go and impose on papa, who hasn’t had time to get to know all the people about the place, instead of going to Auntie or Mr Armstrong, who know all of them. I don’t think he’ll do it again,” said the young lady, firing up like a charming Amazon, at the remembrance of her interview.Captain Oliphant pushed his chair brusquely back from the table and got up, looking, so Armstrong thought, not as proud of his loyal daughter as he should have been.“Eva,” said he drily, “I shall be in the library if you want me. Will you tell Raffles to bring me in theTimeswhen it arrives?”“I’m afraid papa will be very angry with me,” said Rosalind dolefully, as she and Roger walked back across the hall. “But if he won’t stand up for himself some one must. I’m quite sure he would give the impression, to any one who did not know him, that he had purposely been harsh to poor Hodder.”As it happened, Captain Oliphant displayed no anger. The question of Hodder was allowed to drop, and no further reference was made to his threatened eviction. Mr Pottinger during the week meekly submitted an agreement to permit him to remain where he was, which the trustees sanctioned unanimously; and when the old man’s champions at Maxfield rejoiced in the discomfiture of the man of the law.Captain Edward Oliphant said nothing in his defence.After this matters went on quietly, as they will do when one storm has blown over and the next is yet below the horizon. Armstrong settled down to his duties with his two pupils—or rather his three pupils, for Miss Jill made a point of receiving lessons too. Miss Rosalind worked away at her painting, and succeeded in evoking a glimmering interest in art in the Philistine breasts of her two students. The young people divided their leisure between riding, cricket, tennis, and yachting. Mrs Ingleton, as the weeks went by, not only grew more pale, but began to be aware of the attentions of her sympathetic kinsman, and to be sorely perplexed and disturbed thereat. And the Captain himself received his Indian letters regularly by each mail, and confessed to himself that, but for two considerations—one appertaining to love, the other to hate—he had better far have remained in Her Majesty’s service abroad.

Mr Armstrong, as unconcerned as if he had just returned from a half-hour’s stroll, had little idea of the flutter which his return caused to the Maxfield family. He could hardly know that Raffles was parading the lower regions rubbing his hands, and informing his acquaintance down there that the season for “larks” was coming on; nor, as he was out of earshot, could he be supposed to know the particularly forcible expressions which Captain Oliphant rehearsed to himself in celebration of the occasion. As for the young people, it did afford him a passing gratification to feel his pupil’s arm linked once more in his own, and to encounter the expected boisterous welcome from Tom and Jill. Miss Rosalind was busy, forsooth! and if Mr Armstrong flattered himself she took the slightest interest in his return, he might find out his mistake.

“I’ll join you in a minute, Roger,” said he to his ward, “but I must go and pay my respects to your mother.”

“Oh, she’ll keep,” said Roger; “I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”

“In five minutes,” said the tutor, going to the drawing-room.

Mrs Ingleton was there, looking pale and fragile, pouring out afternoon tea for Captain Oliphant.

“Why, Mr Armstrong,” said she, “we had given you up for lost; Roger was getting quite melancholy without you.”

“I understood,” began the captain, “when you asked leave—”

“Mrs Ingleton, I must ask you to excuse my long absence. I went to see a dying friend, and was unable to return earlier.”

“You might have written,” said the captain, returning to the charge.

Mr Armstrong screwed his eye-glass round and stared at the speaker.

“I beg your pardon,” said he.

“I say, sir, you might have written. Let me tell you, Mr Armstrong, that, as my dear relative’s co-trustee and guardian—”

“I am sorry,” observed the tutor, addressing Mrs Ingleton, “that Roger’s cough is still troubling him. He is waiting for me upstairs, by the bye, but I was anxious to offer you my apologies without delay for my long absence.”

“Mr Armstrong,” said the captain, stepping between the tutor and the door, “this will not do, sir. When I speak to you, I expect you to listen.”

Mr Armstrong bowed politely.

“I repeat, sir, your conduct satisfies neither me nor your mistress. You forget, sir, that you are here on sufferance, and I desire to caution you that it may become necessary to dispense with your services, unless— I am speaking to you, Mr Armstrong.”

Mr Armstrong was examining with some curiosity a china group on the mantelpiece. He turned round gravely.

“You were saying—?” said he.

The captain gave it up.

“We shall discuss this matter some other time,” said he.

“Pray, pray,” said Mrs Ingleton with tears in her eyes, “let us not forget that my boy’s happiness depends on our harmony. I am sure Mr Armstrong recognises that I depend on you both.”

Mr Armstrong bowed again; and finding that the captain had returned to his chair, he quietly left the room.

When he entered Roger’s room, humming a tune to himself, he neither looked like a man who had returned from a funeral or from an altercation in the drawing-room. In five minutes he was in possession of most of what had taken place during his absence—of Roger’s cold, of the painting-lessons, of Tom’s reminiscences of Christy’s Minstrels, and most of all of Hodder’s tribulation.

“And what sort of an artist are you turning out?” inquired he.

“Oh, all right. But I say, Armstrong, I want you to make it right about Hodder before anything. Will you come and see him?”

“My dear fellow, Hodder is as safe in his cottage as you are here. Leave that to your responsible guardian. My present intention is to work on the tender mercies of Raffles for some dinner. I have travelled right through from Paris since this morning.”

“Your friend died?” inquired Roger.

“Yes. I was in time to be of some little help, I think, but he was past recovery. How is Miss Oliphant?”

“All right; but in an awful state about old Hodder. I’m afraid to meet her myself. She will be relieved to have you back.”

“Will she really?” said the tutor, laughing. “I hardly flatter myself her comfort depends on which particular hemisphere I happen to be in.”

Miss Oliphant, as it happened, had taken to a spell of hard work in her studio, and was not visible all the evening. She was, in fact, making a copy of the portrait Roger had lent her, and the work interested her greatly.

This bold, fearless, almost insolent, boy’s face fascinated her. She seemed to be able to interpret the defiance that flashed in his eye, and to solve the problem which gathered on his half-mocking lips. She was half afraid, half enamoured of this old piece of canvas.

“Why are not you here now?” she muttered as she gazed at it. “You don’t look like the sort of boy to die. Should we be friends or enemies? Heigho! I shouldn’t care much which, if only you were here. Roger minor is a dear boy; but—you are—”

She didn’t say what he was, but worked late into the night with her copy.

At bedtime Jill came in radiant.

“He’s come back, Rosalind. Dear Mr Armstrong’s come back.”

“Oh!” said Rosalind shortly.

“Aren’t you glad? Oh, I am!”

“Why should I be glad? I don’t care two straws for all the Mr Armstrongs in the world. Go to bed, Jill, and don’t be a goose.”

Jill obeyed, a little discomfited, and was sound asleep long before the artist joined her. And long before she woke from her dreams next morning Rosalind was astir and abroad. She had resolved to pay an early call on old Hodder, if not to relieve his mind about the eviction, at least to take him some comfort in the shape of a little tea and sugar.

The old man was sitting outside the cottage, smoking and moaning to himself. He cheered up a bit at the sight of his visitor, still more at the sight of the tea. But it was a short-lived gleam of comfort, and he relapsed at the earliest opportunity into the doleful.

“Little good it’ll do me,” said he, “as have known this place, man and boy, seventy-five years, Missy. Never a word did they say to me till now. The old squire had allers his nod for Hodder, and when times was bad he let the rent stand. And young Master Roger was of the same sort.”

“Oh, Roger is your friend still,” said Rosalind; “he’s doing everything to help you.”

“I don’t meanhim. He’s good enough; but he’s a boy. But young Master Roger as was, he had a will of his own, Missy. Not one of ’em durst stand up to him.”

Rosalind became interested. “Do you mean the one who died?” said she.

“Ay, they say he died. They said as much and wrote it on the tombstone.”

“Do you mean that there was ever a doubt about it?” said the young lady uncomfortably.

“They said he died, so he must have died,” said old Hodder, sipping his tea. “It was all talk to the likes of me. Young Master Roger wasn’t of the dying sort.”

“He went abroad, I hear?” she asked.

“So they say. It’s a score of years or more since. I tell ’ee, Missy, young Master Roger wouldn’t have stood by to see me turned out like this; he’d have—”

Here there was a click at the gate and a long shadow fell on the footpath. It was Mr Armstrong in his flannels. He looked somewhat alarmed to find Miss Rosalind in possession. Still more to perceive that she proposed to remain where she was. His impulse was to make a feeble excuse and say he would call again. But his courage revived on second thoughts.

“Ah, Hodder,” said he, after saluting the young lady, “what’s all this about turning you out of your cottage! What a notion to get into your head!”

“You may call it a notion, Mr Armstrong,” said the old man, “but what about this here piece of paper?” And he produced a blue legal document.

Mr Armstrong put up his eye-glass and read it, with a face which, as Rosalind furtively glanced upwards, seemed inscrutable. When he had finished he coolly put it in his pocket.

“I’ll see to this,” said he. “You choose the best time of day for a walk, Miss Oliphant.”

“Shall you really be able to settle this for Hodder?” replied she.

“I’ve very little doubt about it.”

The old man chuckled ungallantly. “He, he,” said he, “Missy, you ladies are good enough for tea and sugar, but it takes a man to put the likes of me right with my masters.”

Armstrong flushed angrily at this speech and was about to relieve his mind when Rosalind laughingly interposed—

“Poor old Hodder! You’re quite right; I should never have been clever enough to help you. Good-bye. I’m so glad.”

To tell the truth, Miss Oliphant was a good deal more engrossed with what the old man had let drop concerning the lost Roger than with the tutor and his knowledge of the law of landlord and tenant.

“Suppose he did not die!” she said, half scared at the boldness of the suggestion. “If he were to come back!” And she went back and looked long once more at the picture. Then with less satisfaction she contemplated her own copy. Thus employed Roger found her when he passed her door an hour later.

“Still harping on my brother,” said he.

“I’ve done with him, thank you,” said Rosalind, handing him back the picture. “See, I have one of my own now.”

“Why, it’s better than the original. I like it better.”

“That shows how little you know about painting.”

“It shows how much you know about my brother,” said he. “But if you like to keep the original and let me have the copy, I should consider I had the best of the bargain.”

Rosalind tossed her head and locked her own copy up in her desk.

“Roger,” she said when that was done, “where did he die?”

“The date is on the picture, if one could only make it out. He was abroad at the time, I believe.”

“Where?”

“I never heard.”

“Have you never tried to find out?”

Roger looked at her, startled.

“It was before I was born,” said he. “Father never spoke of him. But why do you ask?”

“Only a girl’s curiosity. I thought, if any one knew, you would. But there is the bell for lunch.”

Armstrong meanwhile had been having an interview of a different kind. He strolled into Mr Pottinger’s office almost at the same time as that worthy lawyer himself.

“So you are back?” asked the latter.

“Yes, and quite at your service,” said the tutor. “I am afraid my absence has been inconvenient. But I am ready for business now. By the way, I have brought you back a document which must have been left on old Hodder by mistake. I certainly did not sanction it.”

The lawyer sat back in his chair and gazed at the tutor through his spectacles. Mr Armstrong, leaning against the chimney-piece, put up his glass and gazed leisurely back. The two men understood one another pretty well already.

“The notice is quite in order. I have Captain Oliphant’s instructions.”

“And mine?”

“You were not here.”

“I am here now, and I object to Hodder’s being disturbed. Do I make myself clear?”

“But—”

“You must excuse me, Mr Pottinger. I shall be glad to discuss the matter with you in the presence of my co-trustees. Meanwhile, good-morning.”

The lawyer jumped out of his chair like a man shot.

“What, sir—you, an interloper, an adventurer, a nobody, a parasite—do you suppose I am going to be talked to by you as if I didn’t know my own duty. Do you know, Master Usher, that you can any day receive a week’s notice of dismissal—”

“A month’s, I think,” observed the tutor, taking up his hat. “In that respect, perhaps, I have the advantage of the solicitor to the trust. However, we won’t talk of that just now. Good-morning again.”

Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor, whom he found in an opportune moment at breakfast. The two men had a long chat over their coffee, and finally adjourned for a walk along the shore, ending up with a cool spring dip in Sheephaven Cove. After which, much refreshed, and glad to be once more in his familiar haunts, the tutor strolled cheerfully back to Maxfield for lunch. He was quite aware things had undergone a change. He had two new enemies, but he was not afraid of them. He had a new pupil, but he liked him. He had a devoted new champion, in the shape of a little girl, but that was no hardship, Roger, too, despite his new friends, was still loyal to his tutor; and Mrs Ingleton, by all appearances, still regarded him as a useful friend. What then was the difference! It could hardly have anything to do with a certain young person half his own age, with whom the tutor had not had two hours’ continuous conversation in his life, and of whose behaviour generally he did not at all know whether he approved or not.

“Ridiculous!” said Mr Armstrong to himself with a smile, as he strolled up the carriage drive.

At that moment the distant hall-door opened, and a light figure stepped out for a moment on to the door-step to pat the great mastiff that lay sleeping on the mat. The apparition, the caress, and the vanishing occupied scarcely half a minute, and when it was past Mr Armstrong was only ten paces nearer the house than he had been when it appeared.

But, somehow, in those few seconds the amused smile on his lips faded away, and the eye-glass dropped somewhat limply from his eye, as he repeated to himself more emphatically than before—

“Ridiculous!”

At lunch, Roger innocently broached the question of Hodder’s eviction.

“Mother,” said he, “what do you think that idiot Pottinger has been up to? He’s taken it into his wise head to threaten to turn old Hodder out of his cottage unless he pays a higher rent in future. I went to row him about it, but he’s far too dense to see what a scoundrelly thing it is.”

“How shocking!” said Mrs Ingleton. “Poor old Hodder has been in that place all his life. Your father was always fond of him, Roger. I wouldn’t have him disturbed for the world.”

“You’ll have to tell Pottinger so yourself,” said Roger. “He says he’s bound to screw all he can out of the old chap in my interests, if you please.”

The captain had listened to this parley with anything but comfort, and was about at this point to explain, when Mr Armstrong seeing his chance adroitly stepped in.

“You may make yourself easy about the matter, Roger. Evidently Mr Pottinger has acted most unwarrantably on his own responsibility. I have been to see him this morning, and told him in future he is not to take upon himself to do anything about the estate without consulting Mrs Ingleton, and Captain Oliphant, and myself—”

“Then Hodder is not to be disturbed?” inquired Rosalind.

“I have seen that the notice is withdrawn. I, for one, should certainly never sanction it.”

“Oh, how delightful you are,” said the young lady. “How happy you will have made the poor old man. Father, do get that horrid Pottinger sent away. He’s a monster. I told him so yesterday, but he wouldn’t believe me.”

“Rosalind,” said her father, whose lunch was not agreeing with him at all, “it vexes me to see you interfere in matters in which you have no concern. It seems to me, my dear Eva,” he added, addressing Mrs Ingleton, whom he had already taken to calling by her Christian name, “that these business questions had much better be left for discussion among ourselves, and not at the family meal.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mrs Ingleton; “only we are all so interested in poor old Hodder, we hardly regard this as a business question. However, I am delighted to hear it is all right now. I only wish Mr Pottinger had consulted you, Edward, before he took such a step.”

“Oh, he did,” blurted out Rosalind. “But, as I told him, of course papa not knowing what a villain he was, would believe all he said. It was all the more shame of him to go and impose on papa, who hasn’t had time to get to know all the people about the place, instead of going to Auntie or Mr Armstrong, who know all of them. I don’t think he’ll do it again,” said the young lady, firing up like a charming Amazon, at the remembrance of her interview.

Captain Oliphant pushed his chair brusquely back from the table and got up, looking, so Armstrong thought, not as proud of his loyal daughter as he should have been.

“Eva,” said he drily, “I shall be in the library if you want me. Will you tell Raffles to bring me in theTimeswhen it arrives?”

“I’m afraid papa will be very angry with me,” said Rosalind dolefully, as she and Roger walked back across the hall. “But if he won’t stand up for himself some one must. I’m quite sure he would give the impression, to any one who did not know him, that he had purposely been harsh to poor Hodder.”

As it happened, Captain Oliphant displayed no anger. The question of Hodder was allowed to drop, and no further reference was made to his threatened eviction. Mr Pottinger during the week meekly submitted an agreement to permit him to remain where he was, which the trustees sanctioned unanimously; and when the old man’s champions at Maxfield rejoiced in the discomfiture of the man of the law.

Captain Edward Oliphant said nothing in his defence.

After this matters went on quietly, as they will do when one storm has blown over and the next is yet below the horizon. Armstrong settled down to his duties with his two pupils—or rather his three pupils, for Miss Jill made a point of receiving lessons too. Miss Rosalind worked away at her painting, and succeeded in evoking a glimmering interest in art in the Philistine breasts of her two students. The young people divided their leisure between riding, cricket, tennis, and yachting. Mrs Ingleton, as the weeks went by, not only grew more pale, but began to be aware of the attentions of her sympathetic kinsman, and to be sorely perplexed and disturbed thereat. And the Captain himself received his Indian letters regularly by each mail, and confessed to himself that, but for two considerations—one appertaining to love, the other to hate—he had better far have remained in Her Majesty’s service abroad.

Chapter Eight.Two Ends of a Rope.The summer passed, and even Captain Oliphant began to grow reconciled to his surroundings. That is to say, he discovered that at present it was his policy to make himself agreeable, even to his co-trustee. Armstrong, with the position he held at Maxfield as Roger’s friend and Mrs Ingleton’s trusted servant, was not to be disposed of quite as easily as the gallant officer had at first anticipated. At the same time, while he remained where he was, the Captain felt himself decidedly embarrassed in the working out of sundry little projects which floated in his ingenious brain. Besides which, time was getting on. Roger would be twenty in November, and a year later—Captain Oliphant had reached this pleasant stage in his meditations one morning, as he sipped his coffee in his own room, when Raffles entered with the letters.“Eightpence to pay on this one, please, sir.”It was a letter with an Indian post-mark, unstamped.The Captain regarded it with knitted brows; then tossing it on the table, said—“Give it back. I won’t take it in, Raffles.” Raffles, reflecting within himself that the Captain must have a vast amount of correspondence if he could afford to chuck away an interesting document like this, took the letter and retired.“Wait a minute,” called the Captain, as the door was closing. “Let me look at it again.”Raffles guessed as much, and brought the missive back triumphantly. The Captain again regarded it with expressions of anything but cordiality, and seemed half inclined to reject it once more. But he took it up again and posed it in his hand.“You can leave it, Raffles,” said he presently; “give the postman the eightpence.”It was some time before Captain Oliphant opened the letter. He sipped his coffee and glared at it viciously, as it lay on the table beside him.“What game is the scoundrel up to now?” muttered he. “I began to hope I was rid of him. What does he want now?”He opened the letter and read—“Dear Comrade,—You have not answered my last three letters, and I feel quite anxious to know of your welfare. You will be pleased to hear that I have arranged to take my leave home during the coming autumn—”The Captain put the letter down with an exclamation which startled the sparrows on the window-ledge, and set the breakfast cup shaking in its saucer.“Coming home!” he gasped. Then he read on.“I look forward to inquiring personally after your health and prospects, in which, as you know, my dear fellow, I am much interested. It would be very nice of you, as the only friend I have in England, to ask your old comrade on a visit to you in your comfortable quarters. A particular advantage in such an arrangement would be that it would prevent my coming without being asked. I am due by the ‘Nile’ about the first week in October. Come and meet me in town. I have no doubt I shall get a line at Southampton to say at which hotel I shall find you. I fear you will find me financially in low water. But I shall have with me papers relating to the regimental accounts previous to your regretted departure from India, which, no doubt, some people would regard as valuable,Au revoir, my dear fellow—“Yours ever,—“R.R.“P.S.—Commend me to your charming family, I look forward with particular pleasure to make the acquaintance of the young ladies, of whom I have heard delightful reports over here.”Raffles, when he came in to remove the breakfast things, could not help being struck with the narrow escape Captain Oliphant had had of throwing away, for the sake of a paltry eightpence, a most interesting and appetising letter.The Captain sat holding it abstractedly in his hand, nor was it till the door opened half an hour later and Rosalind sailed in that he hastily pulled himself together, and crumpled the paper away in his pocket.“Why, papa, what is the matter? Is there any bad news in that letter.”“On the contrary, it announces the arrival from India of a very dear old comrade.”“Oh,” said Rosalind. “You will like to hear all about the people over there. Does he belong to our regiment?”“No, dear. But I shall expect you to be very agreeable to him when he comes here.”“But he’s not cominghere, is he?” she asked, in amazement.“Where else do you suppose he would be likely to come to visit me?”“Oh, but, papa, we cannot—we must not ask people here. As it is, think of all four of us living here on Roger’s money. It isn’t fair.”“Rosalind, you use expressions which, to anyone but your father, would be positively offensive. Rest assured that I do not require my own child to correct me.”“Oh, of course, dear father, I don’t mean that, but—”“But it sounds extremely as if you did mean it.”“I do hope you won’t ask any one here,” said she doggedly.“Rosalind, you offend me. You are incapable, as I have told you before, of appreciating your duty either to me or yourself. Oblige me by going.”“Papa, dear, I am only anxious—”“Go!” said the Captain brusquely.She obeyed. Mr Armstrong, as he met her in the hall and marked the bright colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, thought to himself how uncommonly well she was looking this morning. He might have thought otherwise had he seen her in her studio half an hour later, with the colour all faded, striving miserably to resume her painting at the point where she had left it off.Her good father, meanwhile, naturally put out, continued his meditations.“A most vexing child—no support to me at all. On the contrary, an embarrassment. I might have guessed she would cut up rough. Yet I do so long for a little sympathy. Wonder if I shall get any from my dear cousin Eva some fine day? Hum. I more and more incline to that venture. It would suit my book, to say nothing of my being really almost in love with the dear creature. But I’m so abominably shy. Let’s see, Ratman is due first week in October—a month hence. I shall have to keep him quiet some how. He won’t be satisfied with things as they are, I’m afraid. All very well to be heir-presumptive when there’s little prospect of presuming. Dear Roger is certainly not robust—not at all, poor boy. Still he seems tenacious of what would be very much more useful to me than to him. Yes, it would strengthen my hands vastly if my dear cousin Eva were to give me the right to regard the lad as a father. There would be something definite in that. It would solve the Armstrong question, for one thing, I flatter myself; and as for Rosalind—yes by the way—”He took out the letter again and read the postscript carefully.“Yes—tut, tut—how oddly things do work out sometimes. Evidently it is my duty all round, for the sake of everybody, to cast aside my natural bashfulness and use the opportunities Providence gives me.”With which reflection he lit a cigar, and had a pleasant ramble in the park with little Miss Jill, who had rarely seen her papa more lively or amusing.His spirits were destined to be still further cheered by an occurrence which took place on the following day.Roger, despite his delicate health, had managed to get through a creditable amount of work during the summer under Mr Armstrong’s guidance. He was shortly to go up for his first B.A. in London, and, with that ordeal in view, had been tempted to tax his strength even more than was good for him.At last the tutor put down his foot.“No, old fellow,” said he; “if you work any move you will go backwards instead of forward. You must take this week easy, and go up fresh for the exam. Depend on it, you will do far better than if you tried to keep it up till the last moment.”In vain Roger pleaded, threatened, mutinied. The tutor was inexorable, and, fortified by the joint authority of Mrs Ingleton and Dr Brandram, carried the day. He had also an unexpected ally in Miss Rosalind.“Don’t be obstinate, Roger,” said she. “The three Fates are too many for you; and don’t sulk, whatever you do, there’s a dear boy, but make yourself nice and propose to take Tom and Jill and me across to Pulpit Island to-morrow. If you are so wedded to lessons, you and Tom shall have your art class for once in a way on the Pelican’s Rock instead of my room.”Roger could hardly hold out after this; and Mr Armstrong, a little envious, set the seal of his approval to the programme.“I wish you’d come too,” said Tom; “can’t you?”“Oh, do,” said Jill; “it would be twice as nice.”“Mr Armstrong has enough of all of us on working-days,” said Rosalind rather cruelly, “to forego a chance of being rid of us on a holiday.”“Quite so,” said the tutor, trying to enjoy the situation; “when the mice are away the cat will play—on the piano.”The next day promised well for the picnic; and Roger had sufficiently warmed up to the proposed expedition to be able to enter eagerly into the preparations.The Pulpit Island, a desolate cavernous rock three miles from the coast, dominated by a lighthouse, was a familiar hunting-ground of his in days gone by, and he decidedly enjoyed the prospect of doing the honours of the place to his cousins now—particularly one of them.As not a breath of air was stirring, they decided not to encumber the small boat with mast or sail, but to row leisurely across with just as much energy as suited their holiday humour. The channel was on the whole free from currents, and, as Roger knew the landing-places as well as the oldest sailor in the place, any precaution in the way of a pilot was needless.Armstrong, as he watched the little craft slowly glide over the glassy water, dwindling smaller and smaller, but sending back the sound of voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution, vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces.The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour’s practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book.But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse. The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand.What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so down, so lonely. Surely he could exist a day without his pupil, whatever the temperature. Perhaps he had his doubts about the boy’s success in the coming examination. No; he fancied that would be all right. He would try a stroll in the park. It could not at least be hotter under the trees than in the house.Across the passage a door stood wide open—a familiar door, through which he caught sight of a familiar easel on the floor, and over the fireplace one or two familiar Indian knick-knacks. He couldn’t help stopping a moment to peep in. It seemed cooler in there. What was the picture on the easel? Might he not just look? A view of the park, with the sea beyond-pretty, but—no, not as good as it might be. Landscape was not this artist’s strong point. Ah, there was a portrait on the mantelpiece. That promised better. Why, it was the identical boy’s portrait that had once hung in the old squire’s library. No—it was a copy, but an extraordinary copy, as if the original had suddenly lived while it was being made. Mr Armstrong had rarely seen a portrait which looked so like speaking and breathing. The original in Roger’s room was weak compared with this. And in front of it stood a glass with a rose, whose petals leaned over and just touched the canvas—Mr Armstrong, feeling very guilty, beat a hasty retreat into the hot passage and made his way down-stairs. He was a little jealous of that portrait, perched there in that cool room, with the sweet rose in front of it.“Going out?” said Captain Oliphant in the hall. The Captain, by the way, had taken to being civil to his co-trustee, much to Mr Armstrong’s annoyance, “Warm, isn’t it?”“Yes,” said he.“Beautiful day for those young people.”“Beautiful,” said the tutor.As he spoke, he casually tapped the barometer at the hall-door, as was his habit. To his surprise, the dial gave a great leap downward. Something was wrong with it evidently, for the sky was as monotonously blue as it had been all day, and not a leaf stirred in the trees. However, Mr Armstrong took the precaution to return to his own room for a moment to consult the barometer there. It, too, answered him with a downward plunge.The tutor screwed his glass rather excitedly into his eye, and looked at the clock. Half-past three. He touched the bell.“Tell the groom to saddle ‘Pomona’ for me, Raffles. I will come to the stables in a minute or two and mount there.”“You need a bit of exercise this weather, you do,” remarked Raffles to himself, as he retired, “to keep warm.”A few minutes later the tutor was riding smartly to Yeld. During the half-hour occupied by that journey the signs of the approaching storm became manifest. The blue of the sky took a leaden hue, and out at sea an ominous cloud-bank lifted its head on the horizon, while the sultry air seemed to breathe hot on the rider’s cheek.He pulled up short at Dr Brandram’s door.“What’s the matter now?” asked the doctor. “I hate to see you on horseback. It always means bad news. Is Mrs Ingleton poorly? I am not at all comfortable about her.”“No; nobody’s ill. But I want you for all that. There’s a storm coming on.”“So the glass says. All the more reason for staying indoors.”“The youngsters from the Hall are out in it.”“Well, can I lend you an umbrella?”“Don’t be an ass, Brandram. They are out in an open boat at sea.”The doctor jumped to his feet.“By Jove!” he exclaimed.“They went to the island this morning, and will have started back a quarter of an hour ago.”“They’ve caught it already, then,” said the doctor. “Look!”The horizon was lurid with clouds. Pulpit Island out at sea seemed, instead of three miles distant, to have come in to within a mile. The channel between, still gleaming in the sun, was struck by a bar of shadow which seemed like a scar on the surface. The two men, as they stood in the street looking seaward, could hear already the solemn hum through the breathless air, and feel the first cool whiff of the breeze on their faces, while at their feet there fell with a sudden plash a heavy drop of rain.“Had they a sail?” asked the doctor.“No.”“It’s coming south-east. They will drive in this side of Sheep Head.”“That’s what I thought. An awful coast, and not a boat there.”“Get the horse in the gig,” said Dr Brandram, “while I put together what we are likely to want. Look sharp.”Armstrong wanted no encouragement to be expeditious, and had the trap at the door almost before the doctor had his pile of blankets, wraps, with brandy and other restoratives, ready to put in it. In the village they paused to buy a rope and to warn one or two stragglers of their errand. Then in the gathering storm they drove hard towards Sheep Head.There was no mistake about the gale now. The sky was black with clouds, and the rain and wind struck them simultaneously as they urged on. The warning hum had already risen to a roar, and the wave, as they raced, crest over crest, to the shore, hissed and seethed with a fury which could be heard a mile off.Neither of the men spoke. Armstrong, with the reins in his hand, kept his eyes stolidly between the horse’s ears. The doctor, more agitated, looked eagerly out across the sea.At last, near the summit of the tall, angular headland, the gig came abruptly to a standstill. The horse was tied up, and the two men, scarcely able to keep their feet, staggered to the cliff edge. There for half an hour they lay, straining their eyes seaward, with the full fury of the blast on their faces. It was hopeless to expect to see anything, for the rain drove blindingly in their eyes, and, though scarcely five o’clock, the afternoon was almost as dark as evening.“Could they possibly drive clear of the point?” asked the doctor.“Not possibly, I think. Come down to the shore. We are no use here.”“Wait a bit; it seems to be getting lighter.”It was; but for a long time the glow served only to make the obscurity more visible. Presently, however, the rain paused for a moment, and enabled them to dear their eyes and look steadily ahead. Dr Brandram felt his arm suddenly gripped as his companion exclaimed hoarsely—“What’s that?”“Something red.”Sure enough there was a speck of red tossed about in the waves, now visible, now lost, now returning. It was all that could be seen, but it was enough for Mr Armstrong.“It’s the boat. She wore a red cloak. Come down, come down.”“No; stop till we see how they are driving. There’s time enough.”As far as they could calculate, the boat (if boat it was) was being driven straight for Sheephaven Cove, under the cliff on which they stood—a furious, rugged shore—unless, indeed, a miracle should chance to pitch them into the deep, natural harbour that lay in between the low rocks and the headland.“Come down,” said Armstrong again.From the sea-level nothing, not even the red speck, was discernible; and for a terrible five minutes they wondered, as they scrambled out on hands and knees to the outmost limit of the jutting rocks, whether, among the wild breakers, the little boat and its precious crew had not vanished for ever.It was all they could do to struggle to their feet, and, clinging to the rocks, turn their faces seaward. A new paroxysm of the gale well-nigh dashed them backwards, and for a time prevented their seeing anything. But in a minute or two it eased off enough to allow them to open their eyes.“See—there—look out, look out,” cried the doctor, pointing.He was right. About a quarter of a mile away, buffeted like a cork on the water, was a boat, and in it something red.“Stand up and wave; it’s no use shouting,” said Armstrong.Taking advantage of a temporary lull, they stood and waved their coats above their heads. Whether they were seen or not, they could not tell. No signal came in return; only the boat—as it seemed, stern-foremost—drove on towards them.“Hold on and get your rope ready,” said the doctor.“Will she clear the rocks or no?”“We shall see. They’ve no oars out. Stay there while I wave again.”This time it was not in vain. There was a stir in the boat. The red cloak was seen to wave aloft, and a faint cry mingled with the storm.“Hold on!” cried the doctor; “they see us, thank God. I’ll go on waving.”Presently they could see one oar put out, in an attempt to steer the boat into the cove. But in a moment it was swept away, and she drove on as helplessly as before.It seemed years while she gradually approached, stern-foremost, now seeming to lurch straight towards the fatal rocks, now to stand clear for the narrow channel. They could distinguish the four passengers at last. She in red sat in the stern looking ahead, holding her little sister at her side. The two lads in the middle were baling out wildly, pausing every now and then to turn white faces landward, but returning at once to their task. And indeed the boat sat so low in the water that it was a miracle how she floated at all.Armstrong stood up, his friend holding him, and waved his coil of rope above his head. The signal was read in a moment. The two girls retreated to the middle of the boat to make room for Roger in the stern.On and on they came. For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save them, for an ugly cross wave hurled them straight towards the rocks. But the next righted them as suddenly, lifting them high on its crest and dashing them headlong towards the one spot where help awaited them.Before they rose again a deft cast from Armstrong had sent the rope across the bows within Roger’s reach, while the doctor, with the other end lashed round his body, was running at full speed towards the calmer water of the cove.For a moment the line hung slack, as a great back-wave lifted the boat on its crest and carried it seawards. But suddenly the strain came, carrying the two men on shore nearly off their feet, and grinding on the gunwale of the boat with a creak which could be heard even above the waves.“Hold on now!” cried Armstrong, as a forward wave surged up behind the boat.All obeyed but Roger, who, seeking to ease the strain, began to haul in on the rope. The wave tossed the boat up with a furious lurch, half swamping it as it did so, and flinging it down again headlong into the trough. When it rose once more the rope still held, and three of her passengers were safe. But Roger was not to be seen.With an exclamation which even the doctor, in the midst of his excitement, could hear, Armstrong flung himself blindly into the chaos of water. For a moment or two it seemed as if he had gone straight to his fate, for amid the foam and lashing spray they strained their eyes in vain for a glimpse either of him or his pupil.Then he appeared high above their heads on the crest of a wave, striking out to where, for one instant, an upstretched arm and nothing more rose feebly from the water. The next moment, hurled thither as it seemed by the wave, he had reached it, and was battling for dear life with the surf that swept him back seaward.By this time a few bystanders had ventured out on to the rocks, one of them with a rope, which, after three vain attempts, fell within reach of the exhausted pair. By its aid Armstrong piloted his senseless charge into the calmer water of the cove, and the whole party, a few moments later, were safe onterra firma.

The summer passed, and even Captain Oliphant began to grow reconciled to his surroundings. That is to say, he discovered that at present it was his policy to make himself agreeable, even to his co-trustee. Armstrong, with the position he held at Maxfield as Roger’s friend and Mrs Ingleton’s trusted servant, was not to be disposed of quite as easily as the gallant officer had at first anticipated. At the same time, while he remained where he was, the Captain felt himself decidedly embarrassed in the working out of sundry little projects which floated in his ingenious brain. Besides which, time was getting on. Roger would be twenty in November, and a year later—

Captain Oliphant had reached this pleasant stage in his meditations one morning, as he sipped his coffee in his own room, when Raffles entered with the letters.

“Eightpence to pay on this one, please, sir.”

It was a letter with an Indian post-mark, unstamped.

The Captain regarded it with knitted brows; then tossing it on the table, said—

“Give it back. I won’t take it in, Raffles.” Raffles, reflecting within himself that the Captain must have a vast amount of correspondence if he could afford to chuck away an interesting document like this, took the letter and retired.

“Wait a minute,” called the Captain, as the door was closing. “Let me look at it again.”

Raffles guessed as much, and brought the missive back triumphantly. The Captain again regarded it with expressions of anything but cordiality, and seemed half inclined to reject it once more. But he took it up again and posed it in his hand.

“You can leave it, Raffles,” said he presently; “give the postman the eightpence.”

It was some time before Captain Oliphant opened the letter. He sipped his coffee and glared at it viciously, as it lay on the table beside him.

“What game is the scoundrel up to now?” muttered he. “I began to hope I was rid of him. What does he want now?”

He opened the letter and read—

“Dear Comrade,—You have not answered my last three letters, and I feel quite anxious to know of your welfare. You will be pleased to hear that I have arranged to take my leave home during the coming autumn—”

“Dear Comrade,—You have not answered my last three letters, and I feel quite anxious to know of your welfare. You will be pleased to hear that I have arranged to take my leave home during the coming autumn—”

The Captain put the letter down with an exclamation which startled the sparrows on the window-ledge, and set the breakfast cup shaking in its saucer.

“Coming home!” he gasped. Then he read on.

“I look forward to inquiring personally after your health and prospects, in which, as you know, my dear fellow, I am much interested. It would be very nice of you, as the only friend I have in England, to ask your old comrade on a visit to you in your comfortable quarters. A particular advantage in such an arrangement would be that it would prevent my coming without being asked. I am due by the ‘Nile’ about the first week in October. Come and meet me in town. I have no doubt I shall get a line at Southampton to say at which hotel I shall find you. I fear you will find me financially in low water. But I shall have with me papers relating to the regimental accounts previous to your regretted departure from India, which, no doubt, some people would regard as valuable,Au revoir, my dear fellow—“Yours ever,—“R.R.“P.S.—Commend me to your charming family, I look forward with particular pleasure to make the acquaintance of the young ladies, of whom I have heard delightful reports over here.”

“I look forward to inquiring personally after your health and prospects, in which, as you know, my dear fellow, I am much interested. It would be very nice of you, as the only friend I have in England, to ask your old comrade on a visit to you in your comfortable quarters. A particular advantage in such an arrangement would be that it would prevent my coming without being asked. I am due by the ‘Nile’ about the first week in October. Come and meet me in town. I have no doubt I shall get a line at Southampton to say at which hotel I shall find you. I fear you will find me financially in low water. But I shall have with me papers relating to the regimental accounts previous to your regretted departure from India, which, no doubt, some people would regard as valuable,Au revoir, my dear fellow—

“Yours ever,—

“R.R.

“P.S.—Commend me to your charming family, I look forward with particular pleasure to make the acquaintance of the young ladies, of whom I have heard delightful reports over here.”

Raffles, when he came in to remove the breakfast things, could not help being struck with the narrow escape Captain Oliphant had had of throwing away, for the sake of a paltry eightpence, a most interesting and appetising letter.

The Captain sat holding it abstractedly in his hand, nor was it till the door opened half an hour later and Rosalind sailed in that he hastily pulled himself together, and crumpled the paper away in his pocket.

“Why, papa, what is the matter? Is there any bad news in that letter.”

“On the contrary, it announces the arrival from India of a very dear old comrade.”

“Oh,” said Rosalind. “You will like to hear all about the people over there. Does he belong to our regiment?”

“No, dear. But I shall expect you to be very agreeable to him when he comes here.”

“But he’s not cominghere, is he?” she asked, in amazement.

“Where else do you suppose he would be likely to come to visit me?”

“Oh, but, papa, we cannot—we must not ask people here. As it is, think of all four of us living here on Roger’s money. It isn’t fair.”

“Rosalind, you use expressions which, to anyone but your father, would be positively offensive. Rest assured that I do not require my own child to correct me.”

“Oh, of course, dear father, I don’t mean that, but—”

“But it sounds extremely as if you did mean it.”

“I do hope you won’t ask any one here,” said she doggedly.

“Rosalind, you offend me. You are incapable, as I have told you before, of appreciating your duty either to me or yourself. Oblige me by going.”

“Papa, dear, I am only anxious—”

“Go!” said the Captain brusquely.

She obeyed. Mr Armstrong, as he met her in the hall and marked the bright colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, thought to himself how uncommonly well she was looking this morning. He might have thought otherwise had he seen her in her studio half an hour later, with the colour all faded, striving miserably to resume her painting at the point where she had left it off.

Her good father, meanwhile, naturally put out, continued his meditations.

“A most vexing child—no support to me at all. On the contrary, an embarrassment. I might have guessed she would cut up rough. Yet I do so long for a little sympathy. Wonder if I shall get any from my dear cousin Eva some fine day? Hum. I more and more incline to that venture. It would suit my book, to say nothing of my being really almost in love with the dear creature. But I’m so abominably shy. Let’s see, Ratman is due first week in October—a month hence. I shall have to keep him quiet some how. He won’t be satisfied with things as they are, I’m afraid. All very well to be heir-presumptive when there’s little prospect of presuming. Dear Roger is certainly not robust—not at all, poor boy. Still he seems tenacious of what would be very much more useful to me than to him. Yes, it would strengthen my hands vastly if my dear cousin Eva were to give me the right to regard the lad as a father. There would be something definite in that. It would solve the Armstrong question, for one thing, I flatter myself; and as for Rosalind—yes by the way—”

He took out the letter again and read the postscript carefully.

“Yes—tut, tut—how oddly things do work out sometimes. Evidently it is my duty all round, for the sake of everybody, to cast aside my natural bashfulness and use the opportunities Providence gives me.”

With which reflection he lit a cigar, and had a pleasant ramble in the park with little Miss Jill, who had rarely seen her papa more lively or amusing.

His spirits were destined to be still further cheered by an occurrence which took place on the following day.

Roger, despite his delicate health, had managed to get through a creditable amount of work during the summer under Mr Armstrong’s guidance. He was shortly to go up for his first B.A. in London, and, with that ordeal in view, had been tempted to tax his strength even more than was good for him.

At last the tutor put down his foot.

“No, old fellow,” said he; “if you work any move you will go backwards instead of forward. You must take this week easy, and go up fresh for the exam. Depend on it, you will do far better than if you tried to keep it up till the last moment.”

In vain Roger pleaded, threatened, mutinied. The tutor was inexorable, and, fortified by the joint authority of Mrs Ingleton and Dr Brandram, carried the day. He had also an unexpected ally in Miss Rosalind.

“Don’t be obstinate, Roger,” said she. “The three Fates are too many for you; and don’t sulk, whatever you do, there’s a dear boy, but make yourself nice and propose to take Tom and Jill and me across to Pulpit Island to-morrow. If you are so wedded to lessons, you and Tom shall have your art class for once in a way on the Pelican’s Rock instead of my room.”

Roger could hardly hold out after this; and Mr Armstrong, a little envious, set the seal of his approval to the programme.

“I wish you’d come too,” said Tom; “can’t you?”

“Oh, do,” said Jill; “it would be twice as nice.”

“Mr Armstrong has enough of all of us on working-days,” said Rosalind rather cruelly, “to forego a chance of being rid of us on a holiday.”

“Quite so,” said the tutor, trying to enjoy the situation; “when the mice are away the cat will play—on the piano.”

The next day promised well for the picnic; and Roger had sufficiently warmed up to the proposed expedition to be able to enter eagerly into the preparations.

The Pulpit Island, a desolate cavernous rock three miles from the coast, dominated by a lighthouse, was a familiar hunting-ground of his in days gone by, and he decidedly enjoyed the prospect of doing the honours of the place to his cousins now—particularly one of them.

As not a breath of air was stirring, they decided not to encumber the small boat with mast or sail, but to row leisurely across with just as much energy as suited their holiday humour. The channel was on the whole free from currents, and, as Roger knew the landing-places as well as the oldest sailor in the place, any precaution in the way of a pilot was needless.

Armstrong, as he watched the little craft slowly glide over the glassy water, dwindling smaller and smaller, but sending back the sound of voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution, vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces.

The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour’s practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book.

But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse. The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand.

What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so down, so lonely. Surely he could exist a day without his pupil, whatever the temperature. Perhaps he had his doubts about the boy’s success in the coming examination. No; he fancied that would be all right. He would try a stroll in the park. It could not at least be hotter under the trees than in the house.

Across the passage a door stood wide open—a familiar door, through which he caught sight of a familiar easel on the floor, and over the fireplace one or two familiar Indian knick-knacks. He couldn’t help stopping a moment to peep in. It seemed cooler in there. What was the picture on the easel? Might he not just look? A view of the park, with the sea beyond-pretty, but—no, not as good as it might be. Landscape was not this artist’s strong point. Ah, there was a portrait on the mantelpiece. That promised better. Why, it was the identical boy’s portrait that had once hung in the old squire’s library. No—it was a copy, but an extraordinary copy, as if the original had suddenly lived while it was being made. Mr Armstrong had rarely seen a portrait which looked so like speaking and breathing. The original in Roger’s room was weak compared with this. And in front of it stood a glass with a rose, whose petals leaned over and just touched the canvas—

Mr Armstrong, feeling very guilty, beat a hasty retreat into the hot passage and made his way down-stairs. He was a little jealous of that portrait, perched there in that cool room, with the sweet rose in front of it.

“Going out?” said Captain Oliphant in the hall. The Captain, by the way, had taken to being civil to his co-trustee, much to Mr Armstrong’s annoyance, “Warm, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said he.

“Beautiful day for those young people.”

“Beautiful,” said the tutor.

As he spoke, he casually tapped the barometer at the hall-door, as was his habit. To his surprise, the dial gave a great leap downward. Something was wrong with it evidently, for the sky was as monotonously blue as it had been all day, and not a leaf stirred in the trees. However, Mr Armstrong took the precaution to return to his own room for a moment to consult the barometer there. It, too, answered him with a downward plunge.

The tutor screwed his glass rather excitedly into his eye, and looked at the clock. Half-past three. He touched the bell.

“Tell the groom to saddle ‘Pomona’ for me, Raffles. I will come to the stables in a minute or two and mount there.”

“You need a bit of exercise this weather, you do,” remarked Raffles to himself, as he retired, “to keep warm.”

A few minutes later the tutor was riding smartly to Yeld. During the half-hour occupied by that journey the signs of the approaching storm became manifest. The blue of the sky took a leaden hue, and out at sea an ominous cloud-bank lifted its head on the horizon, while the sultry air seemed to breathe hot on the rider’s cheek.

He pulled up short at Dr Brandram’s door.

“What’s the matter now?” asked the doctor. “I hate to see you on horseback. It always means bad news. Is Mrs Ingleton poorly? I am not at all comfortable about her.”

“No; nobody’s ill. But I want you for all that. There’s a storm coming on.”

“So the glass says. All the more reason for staying indoors.”

“The youngsters from the Hall are out in it.”

“Well, can I lend you an umbrella?”

“Don’t be an ass, Brandram. They are out in an open boat at sea.”

The doctor jumped to his feet.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.

“They went to the island this morning, and will have started back a quarter of an hour ago.”

“They’ve caught it already, then,” said the doctor. “Look!”

The horizon was lurid with clouds. Pulpit Island out at sea seemed, instead of three miles distant, to have come in to within a mile. The channel between, still gleaming in the sun, was struck by a bar of shadow which seemed like a scar on the surface. The two men, as they stood in the street looking seaward, could hear already the solemn hum through the breathless air, and feel the first cool whiff of the breeze on their faces, while at their feet there fell with a sudden plash a heavy drop of rain.

“Had they a sail?” asked the doctor.

“No.”

“It’s coming south-east. They will drive in this side of Sheep Head.”

“That’s what I thought. An awful coast, and not a boat there.”

“Get the horse in the gig,” said Dr Brandram, “while I put together what we are likely to want. Look sharp.”

Armstrong wanted no encouragement to be expeditious, and had the trap at the door almost before the doctor had his pile of blankets, wraps, with brandy and other restoratives, ready to put in it. In the village they paused to buy a rope and to warn one or two stragglers of their errand. Then in the gathering storm they drove hard towards Sheep Head.

There was no mistake about the gale now. The sky was black with clouds, and the rain and wind struck them simultaneously as they urged on. The warning hum had already risen to a roar, and the wave, as they raced, crest over crest, to the shore, hissed and seethed with a fury which could be heard a mile off.

Neither of the men spoke. Armstrong, with the reins in his hand, kept his eyes stolidly between the horse’s ears. The doctor, more agitated, looked eagerly out across the sea.

At last, near the summit of the tall, angular headland, the gig came abruptly to a standstill. The horse was tied up, and the two men, scarcely able to keep their feet, staggered to the cliff edge. There for half an hour they lay, straining their eyes seaward, with the full fury of the blast on their faces. It was hopeless to expect to see anything, for the rain drove blindingly in their eyes, and, though scarcely five o’clock, the afternoon was almost as dark as evening.

“Could they possibly drive clear of the point?” asked the doctor.

“Not possibly, I think. Come down to the shore. We are no use here.”

“Wait a bit; it seems to be getting lighter.”

It was; but for a long time the glow served only to make the obscurity more visible. Presently, however, the rain paused for a moment, and enabled them to dear their eyes and look steadily ahead. Dr Brandram felt his arm suddenly gripped as his companion exclaimed hoarsely—

“What’s that?”

“Something red.”

Sure enough there was a speck of red tossed about in the waves, now visible, now lost, now returning. It was all that could be seen, but it was enough for Mr Armstrong.

“It’s the boat. She wore a red cloak. Come down, come down.”

“No; stop till we see how they are driving. There’s time enough.”

As far as they could calculate, the boat (if boat it was) was being driven straight for Sheephaven Cove, under the cliff on which they stood—a furious, rugged shore—unless, indeed, a miracle should chance to pitch them into the deep, natural harbour that lay in between the low rocks and the headland.

“Come down,” said Armstrong again.

From the sea-level nothing, not even the red speck, was discernible; and for a terrible five minutes they wondered, as they scrambled out on hands and knees to the outmost limit of the jutting rocks, whether, among the wild breakers, the little boat and its precious crew had not vanished for ever.

It was all they could do to struggle to their feet, and, clinging to the rocks, turn their faces seaward. A new paroxysm of the gale well-nigh dashed them backwards, and for a time prevented their seeing anything. But in a minute or two it eased off enough to allow them to open their eyes.

“See—there—look out, look out,” cried the doctor, pointing.

He was right. About a quarter of a mile away, buffeted like a cork on the water, was a boat, and in it something red.

“Stand up and wave; it’s no use shouting,” said Armstrong.

Taking advantage of a temporary lull, they stood and waved their coats above their heads. Whether they were seen or not, they could not tell. No signal came in return; only the boat—as it seemed, stern-foremost—drove on towards them.

“Hold on and get your rope ready,” said the doctor.

“Will she clear the rocks or no?”

“We shall see. They’ve no oars out. Stay there while I wave again.”

This time it was not in vain. There was a stir in the boat. The red cloak was seen to wave aloft, and a faint cry mingled with the storm.

“Hold on!” cried the doctor; “they see us, thank God. I’ll go on waving.”

Presently they could see one oar put out, in an attempt to steer the boat into the cove. But in a moment it was swept away, and she drove on as helplessly as before.

It seemed years while she gradually approached, stern-foremost, now seeming to lurch straight towards the fatal rocks, now to stand clear for the narrow channel. They could distinguish the four passengers at last. She in red sat in the stern looking ahead, holding her little sister at her side. The two lads in the middle were baling out wildly, pausing every now and then to turn white faces landward, but returning at once to their task. And indeed the boat sat so low in the water that it was a miracle how she floated at all.

Armstrong stood up, his friend holding him, and waved his coil of rope above his head. The signal was read in a moment. The two girls retreated to the middle of the boat to make room for Roger in the stern.

On and on they came. For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save them, for an ugly cross wave hurled them straight towards the rocks. But the next righted them as suddenly, lifting them high on its crest and dashing them headlong towards the one spot where help awaited them.

Before they rose again a deft cast from Armstrong had sent the rope across the bows within Roger’s reach, while the doctor, with the other end lashed round his body, was running at full speed towards the calmer water of the cove.

For a moment the line hung slack, as a great back-wave lifted the boat on its crest and carried it seawards. But suddenly the strain came, carrying the two men on shore nearly off their feet, and grinding on the gunwale of the boat with a creak which could be heard even above the waves.

“Hold on now!” cried Armstrong, as a forward wave surged up behind the boat.

All obeyed but Roger, who, seeking to ease the strain, began to haul in on the rope. The wave tossed the boat up with a furious lurch, half swamping it as it did so, and flinging it down again headlong into the trough. When it rose once more the rope still held, and three of her passengers were safe. But Roger was not to be seen.

With an exclamation which even the doctor, in the midst of his excitement, could hear, Armstrong flung himself blindly into the chaos of water. For a moment or two it seemed as if he had gone straight to his fate, for amid the foam and lashing spray they strained their eyes in vain for a glimpse either of him or his pupil.

Then he appeared high above their heads on the crest of a wave, striking out to where, for one instant, an upstretched arm and nothing more rose feebly from the water. The next moment, hurled thither as it seemed by the wave, he had reached it, and was battling for dear life with the surf that swept him back seaward.

By this time a few bystanders had ventured out on to the rocks, one of them with a rope, which, after three vain attempts, fell within reach of the exhausted pair. By its aid Armstrong piloted his senseless charge into the calmer water of the cove, and the whole party, a few moments later, were safe onterra firma.

Chapter Nine.The Captain relieves Guard.When Mr Armstrong, having with some difficulty taken in who and where he was, proceeded, as was natural under the circumstances, to feel for his eye-glass, he discovered that his right arm hung powerless at his side, and refused to perform its familiar functions. The next thing he was aware of was that Rosalind and the doctor were kneeling on the rocks beside the senseless form of Roger, who lay, white as a corpse, with the blood trickling from a gash on the temple. Then Jill crept beside him, pale and sobbing, and said something, he did not hear what. Finally the ruddy countenance of Tom dawned upon him, and made him aware, even in the midst of his dream, that one person at least had thoroughly enjoyed the day’s adventures, and was no whit the worse either for the fright or the drenching.How they all got up to Maxfield the tutor was never able to say, for the pain of his broken arm became so intense that he was as near swooning as he had ever been in his life, and but for the timely services of the doctor, who was able to give him some little relief, he might have disgraced himself for ever by fainting light off. He remembered seeing Roger lying in the carriage with eyes half open, his head on Rosalind’s shoulder. And he remembered feeling his own hand held fast in the two hands of his little champion.The next thing he was conscious of was that he was in his own bed, with his arm firmly bound beside him, and the friendly face of Dr Brandram bent over him.“That’s better, isn’t it, old fellow?” said the latter. “It’s a wonder it was only the arm. You must keep quiet now, for you shipped a lot of water, and were a quarter drowned into the bargain.”“What about Roger?”“He’ll do now—at least I hope so. I was concerned about him at first, but he came round. I envy you your plunge. Just my luck! All the big things are done by the other fellows, and I’m left to hold on to the rope and order the physic. Never mind. I never expected to see either of you out of that caldron. I certainly could never have come out myself.”“Miss Oliphant—is she all right?”“Right as a trivet; and has mounted guard over her cousin already. If he doesn’t get well with her for nurse, he’s an obstinate, customer.”“Thanks, Brandram. Come again soon.”Captain Oliphant’s concern at this untoward misadventure may well be imagined. He shed tears with the mother over their “dear one’s” narrow escape, and censured in terms of righteous indignation all who had been parties to the hazardous expedition.He cross-examined the doctor as to the dangers to be apprehended from the patient’s present condition, and shook his head gloomily at the probable consequences of so terrible a shock to his already fragile constitution. He summoned his three children into his presence to be severally kissed in recognition of their deliverance, and sent a message by Raffles to Mr Armstrong to say that he was glad to hear his injuries were only of a slight nature, and trusted he would take what time was necessary from his duties to make a proper recovery. After which, in a passably good-humour, he returned to his room, and wondered what improvements he should make at Maxfield if, by any melancholy dispensation of Providence, the property should fall into his unworthy hands.Of course there were the usual thorns among the roses. Mrs Ingleton, ill herself, was far too painfully absorbed in her boy’s danger to lend an ear to the tender nothings of her sympathetic kinsman. And the whole party were so possessed with the notion that Mr Armstrong was something of a hero, that any suggestion to the contrary was just then clearly inopportune.The main fact, however, was that Roger Ingleton, Minor—dear lad—was very ill indeed.“I trust, doctor,” said the captain, about a fortnight after the accident, to Dr Brandram, who was quitting the house with a decidedly long face, “I trust our dear young patient is on a good road now to recovery.”“I don’t like the look of him, I must confess,” replied the doctor; “but, with perfect quiet and nothing to excite him, he will pull round. The one thing to be dreaded is excitement. The lungs we have got well in hand, but that blow on his temple makes an ugly complication.”“Poor fellow. Is there nothing one can do?”“Let him alone, with your sweet daughter to nurse him. She is an angel, Captain Oliphant, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”“She knows, as we all do, how precious his life is. And how is your other patient?”“Armstrong? Practically well. I have given him leave to get up. He has the constitution of a tiger. I wish we could give some of it to the boy.”“Ah, indeed!” said the captain, with a sigh.On the following day, a desire took possession of the guardian to visit his dear ward in the sick-chamber. Rosalind, who had clung to her post, defiant of fatigue and sleep, had been prevailed upon in deference to her father’s peremptory command to seize an hour’s sleep in her own room.“I will sit with him myself,” said the captain. “You must not be selfish, my child, in using your privilege. You forget that what gratifies you may also be a pleasure to others. I am going to town in a few days. Who knows if I may see the dear fellow again.”“Father!” exclaimed Rosalind, seizing his arm almost roughly; “he is getting better. The doctor says so.”“My poor child,” said her father, with a forced cheerfulness far more terrifying to the girl than his previous melancholy, “I was wrong to alarm you. Yes, of course he is getting better; of course. Come, we must all be brave.”Rosalind, quite broken down, went to her bed and cried herself to sleep.When the captain entered the sick-chamber, he found the mother at the bedside.“My dear Eva,” said he, “let me beg you to take a little rest. I will remain here. Do give me the pleasure for once. You know how I shall value the privilege.”Mrs Ingleton, who was in truth fairly worn out, was fain to consent, on condition that she should be called at once if necessary.Having escorted her affectionately to the door, Captain Oliphant seated himself at the bedside, and looked hard at his ward.The boy lay in a feverish doze, his large dark eyes half-closed, and his head turning now and again restlessly on the pillow.“My poor dear fellow,” said his guardian, bending over him, “how do you feel this afternoon!”“Better, I think. Where’s Rosalind?”“Gone to bed. I am really afraid of her becoming ill. She looks so pale and worn.”“She was so good to me,” said Roger. “I never thought of her getting ill. How long have I been ill?” he asked.“Three weeks, my boy. What a narrow escape you had. You know I never heard yet what happened that day in the boat. How did it all happen?”Whereupon Roger, rousing himself still more, began to go over the events of that memorable day, which at that distance of time seemed to loom out in his mind more terrible than at the time.His guardian, deeply interested in the narrative, drew him out into a full and particular account of all that passed: the picnic on the island, the sudden storm, the drive before the wind, the awful roar of the surf on the shore, what each one said and thought and prepared for, and then of the crowning excitement of the rescue, the struggle in the water, and the drowning sensations.When all was told the boy’s head fell exhausted on the pillow, his chest heaved, and he lay half muttering to himself, half moaning, a pitiful spectacle of weakness and exhaustion.When, an hour later, Rosalind glided in, her father walked with finger to his lips to meet her.“Make no noise,” said he, “the dear lad is sleeping. Don’t disturb him whatever you do.”That was a bad night in the sick-room. The fever rose higher and higher. Roger tossed and moaned ceaselessly all night, and for the first time wandered in his talk. Armstrong, who looked in once or twice, durst not let himself be seen by the patient for fear of adding to his excitement. A midnight messenger was despatched for Dr Brandram, who came, looking very grave, and remained at the bedside all night. Captain Oliphant was indefatigable in his inquiries and attentions. He denied himself his natural sleep in order to linger near the dear one’s door and feed on the crumbs of information which from time to time came out. He insisted on lending Dr Brandram a pair of his own slippers, and besought Armstrong, with his bad arm, to take care of himself and go shares in his brandy and water.Finally, when the doctor peremptorily ordered every one to bed, he retired in a chastened mood to his own room, where he packed his trunk and smoked his cigar thoughtfully till daylight struggled through the windows.Then he took a brief nap in his arm-chair, and was astir in time to meet the doctor as he descended to the hall.“What news?” he asked.“Don’t ask me,” said the doctor; “my calculations are completely upset. Something has excited him. Whom did he see yesterday?”“Only my daughter and his mother, and, for a short time, myself.”“Was he at all disturbed while you were there?”“On the contrary, he was drowsy when I entered and drowsy when I left. He may possibly have caught sight of Mr Armstrong when he looked in.”“He should not have come near him in his present state. Anything that reminds him of the accident is bad for him.”“Dear, dear, what a pity! No doubt the boy caught sight of him. Tell me, doctor—may I venture up to town for a day or two on important business? If you thought I should stay—”“No. I hope it’s not quite as bad as that; but you should leave word where a message will find you, if necessary. Good day.”“I’m not quite such a fool,” growled the doctor to himself as he walked to the stables, “as you think me, my fine fellow. If you were in the room half an hour last night this is all explained. To think that you are the father of that ministering angel, too!”The captain, in a spirit of subdued cheerfulness, travelled up that afternoon to town. The weather was superb. The country, rich with harvest, looked beautiful. The carriage was unusually comfortable, and the cigars magnificent. Altogether this good man felt that he had much to be thankful for, and quietly wondered within himself whether, on his arrival at the “Langham” Hotel, he should find a telegram from Maxfield already awaiting him.Instead, he found what pleased him decidedly less, a telegram from Southampton.“Business keeps me here for a week—arrive London Friday evening.“Ratman.”The captain expressed himself to himself as greatly annoyed by this simple message, and for the rest of that evening quite lost his natural gaiety.Next morning, however, not being a man to waste the precious hours, he decided, like a dutiful son of hisalma mater, to take a little run to Oxford.He had still in his pocket a certain memorandum, made long ago, of the name of a certain college at that seat of learning, at which, at a certain date, of which he had also a note, a person in whom he felt interested had been a student. Why not improve the occasion by a few inquiries on the spot as to the academical career of that interesting person? It was a brilliant idea, no sooner conceived than executed.That afternoon, among a crowd of returning undergraduates at — College, might have been seen the well-dressed military form of a certain gentleman, who politely inquired for the senior tutor.“I have called sir, on behalf of a friend of mine in India, to inquire respecting a Mr Frank Armstrong, who is, or was a year or two since, an undergraduate here.”“Armstrong, Armstrong?—no man of that name here at present. Ah, I fancy we had a man here of that name some years since.”“Could you conveniently inform me how long it is since he left?”The tutor referred to his lists.“He left three years ago. I remember him now—well.”“My friend would be extremely grateful for any information. He has lost sight of him since he was at Oxford.”“Well, the fact is Armstrong was not a particular success here. He was a fairly good scholar, and athlete too, I believe, but his course here ended abruptly.”“Dear, dear! Do you mean to say he was expelled?”“Hardly so. But he left the place heavily in debt. At the end of his second year he wrote to the authorities to say that the source of supply on which he had depended for paying his college and other bills (which had accumulated to a very considerable extent) had suddenly ceased, and he was unable to meet his obligations. As he was in destitution, he could make no suggestion for meeting them, and requested us to accept an undertaking from him to discharge them if possible at a future time. Under the circumstances he was informed that he was not to come up again, and his name was struck off the books. I believe that since then a few of his debts have been reduced by small instalments.”“I am very grieved to hear what you tell me. Could you very kindly tell me the address from which he last wrote?”“If I remember, it was from a coffee-house in London, and he mentioned that he was hoping to obtain employment as a private tutor in a family.”“Well, sir, although this is very disagreeable news for my friend. I am sure he will thank you all the same. I suppose you have no idea, beyond this address in London, what became of him?”“None.”“Or where he lived before he came to Oxford?”“I was looking for that. I see the address on the entrance form is 3, Blue Street, London.”Captain Oliphant made a note of the address, and after effusive thanks, said good-bye.He spent two interesting days in Oxford looking about him and enjoying himself considerably. But although he met several men whose names he knew, and made several new acquaintances, he was unable to hear anything further of the defaulting undergraduate of — College.On his return to town, as he had still a day or two to spare, this industrious gentleman, with a good deal of trouble, found out Number 3, Blue Street. For a person of his refined tastes it was in a shockingly low neighbourhood near one of the docks, and Blue Street itself was one of the shadiest—metaphorically—of its streets.It consisted mainly of slop shops, patronised by the shipping interest, and displaying wares of which one half at least might be safely counted upon as stolen property. Number Three, which for some unexplained reason was located half-way down the street, was an establishment of this sort, very offensive to the nose and not at all agreeable to the eye. Old clothes of every fashion and antiquity hung exposed in the dingy window, while within a still larger assortment lay piled up on the counter. Nor were the clothes all. Second-hand watches, marlinspikes, compasses, spoons, books, boxes, and curiosities crowded the narrow space, in the midst of which the shrivelled old lady who called herself proprietress was scarcely visible.“Come in—don’t be afraid,” cried she, as the captain paused doubtfully at the door.“Is this Number 3, my good woman?”“Look over the door—’aint you got no eyes?”“Number 3, Blue Street—this is Blue Street, is it not?”“If yer doubts it, go and read the name at the end of the street. What do you want? Clothes or money?”“Neither—I want information,” replied the captain.“Then yer’ve come to the wrong shop. Don’t sell it ’ere, so clear out. Do you think I don’t know what you’re arter?”“Very well,” said the captain, “that will be so much saved. I shall have to get for nothing what I meant to pay for.”She looked at him doubtfully and growled.“Why can’t yer say what yer want instead of talking gibberish there?”“If this is Number 3, Blue Street, and you are the same person who was here five years ago—”“Go on.”“I may have something to give you from an old lodger; but not till I’m sure you have a right to it.”“What,him?”“Very likely,” said the captain, calmly lighting a cigarette. “I shall know if you’re right, I dare say.”“Right? Do you suppose I’m made of lodgers! ’Aint you talking about the singing chap—Armstrong he called himself, but at the Hall they called him Signor something—Francisco or the likes of that.”The captain pricked his ears with a vengeance, and in his eagerness rattled the keys encouragingly in his trouser pocket.“That won’t do,” said he. “I must have come to the wrong place after all. What sort of looking man was he, and where did he come from?”“He’d got a pair of arms would knock you into the middle of next week, and when he went down to the Hall—”“Which Hall?”“The ‘Dragon’ Music-Hall—what, don’t you know it! go on with you—when he went there he flashed it with an eye-glass. Lor’, you should ’ave heard him sing! He’d a made your hair curl; it was lovely.”“Ah! he wore an eye-glass and sang, did he?” said the captain. “And where did he come from, and what became of him when he left you?”“Come from? I don’t know. The other end of the world, I fancy myself. Where he went to I don’t know neither. I fancy myself he took up with a bad lot at the Hall, and turned me up. Howsomever, I got my dues out of him, so it’s no concern of mine. There you are, mister. Now, what have you got for me?”The captain looked doubtful and shook his head.“I’m afraid it’s not right after all,” said he. “It doesn’t correspond with the particulars I have. Had you no other lodgers?”“What did I tell you,” snarled the woman, perceiving she was to be done out of her reward after all. “Come, are you going to give me what you promised or not? If you ’aint, clear out of here, my beauty, or I’ll break every bone of your ugly body.”And since, with a stick in her hand, she looked very like putting her threat into execution, the captain beat a hasty retreat, chuckling to himself at the thought of his own excellent cleverness.“Upon my word,” said he to himself as he strolled westward, “I am having a most interesting time. What a versatile genius my co-trustee appears to be—a tutor to an heir, a defaulting and rusticated undergraduate, a penniless music-hall cad. Dear, dear! what a curious settlement of scores we shall have, to be sure—or rather, should have had, had our poor dear Roger remained with us. Heigho! what a curious sensation it will be, to be sure, to own a fortune.”At the hotel the porter met him with a telegram. He expected as much. He could guess what was inside. It really seemed waste of energy to open it.But he must go through with his melancholy functions, and he therefore took a seat in the hall and composed his face for the worst.“Thankful to say good night; fever abated, all hopeful.“Rosalind.”Captain Oliphant turned pale, crushed the pink paper viciously in his hands, and uttered an exclamation which called forth the sympathy of the hotel servants who loitered in the hall.“Poor gentleman,” said the lady manager to her clerk, “he’s got some bad news in that telegram.”He had indeed.

When Mr Armstrong, having with some difficulty taken in who and where he was, proceeded, as was natural under the circumstances, to feel for his eye-glass, he discovered that his right arm hung powerless at his side, and refused to perform its familiar functions. The next thing he was aware of was that Rosalind and the doctor were kneeling on the rocks beside the senseless form of Roger, who lay, white as a corpse, with the blood trickling from a gash on the temple. Then Jill crept beside him, pale and sobbing, and said something, he did not hear what. Finally the ruddy countenance of Tom dawned upon him, and made him aware, even in the midst of his dream, that one person at least had thoroughly enjoyed the day’s adventures, and was no whit the worse either for the fright or the drenching.

How they all got up to Maxfield the tutor was never able to say, for the pain of his broken arm became so intense that he was as near swooning as he had ever been in his life, and but for the timely services of the doctor, who was able to give him some little relief, he might have disgraced himself for ever by fainting light off. He remembered seeing Roger lying in the carriage with eyes half open, his head on Rosalind’s shoulder. And he remembered feeling his own hand held fast in the two hands of his little champion.

The next thing he was conscious of was that he was in his own bed, with his arm firmly bound beside him, and the friendly face of Dr Brandram bent over him.

“That’s better, isn’t it, old fellow?” said the latter. “It’s a wonder it was only the arm. You must keep quiet now, for you shipped a lot of water, and were a quarter drowned into the bargain.”

“What about Roger?”

“He’ll do now—at least I hope so. I was concerned about him at first, but he came round. I envy you your plunge. Just my luck! All the big things are done by the other fellows, and I’m left to hold on to the rope and order the physic. Never mind. I never expected to see either of you out of that caldron. I certainly could never have come out myself.”

“Miss Oliphant—is she all right?”

“Right as a trivet; and has mounted guard over her cousin already. If he doesn’t get well with her for nurse, he’s an obstinate, customer.”

“Thanks, Brandram. Come again soon.”

Captain Oliphant’s concern at this untoward misadventure may well be imagined. He shed tears with the mother over their “dear one’s” narrow escape, and censured in terms of righteous indignation all who had been parties to the hazardous expedition.

He cross-examined the doctor as to the dangers to be apprehended from the patient’s present condition, and shook his head gloomily at the probable consequences of so terrible a shock to his already fragile constitution. He summoned his three children into his presence to be severally kissed in recognition of their deliverance, and sent a message by Raffles to Mr Armstrong to say that he was glad to hear his injuries were only of a slight nature, and trusted he would take what time was necessary from his duties to make a proper recovery. After which, in a passably good-humour, he returned to his room, and wondered what improvements he should make at Maxfield if, by any melancholy dispensation of Providence, the property should fall into his unworthy hands.

Of course there were the usual thorns among the roses. Mrs Ingleton, ill herself, was far too painfully absorbed in her boy’s danger to lend an ear to the tender nothings of her sympathetic kinsman. And the whole party were so possessed with the notion that Mr Armstrong was something of a hero, that any suggestion to the contrary was just then clearly inopportune.

The main fact, however, was that Roger Ingleton, Minor—dear lad—was very ill indeed.

“I trust, doctor,” said the captain, about a fortnight after the accident, to Dr Brandram, who was quitting the house with a decidedly long face, “I trust our dear young patient is on a good road now to recovery.”

“I don’t like the look of him, I must confess,” replied the doctor; “but, with perfect quiet and nothing to excite him, he will pull round. The one thing to be dreaded is excitement. The lungs we have got well in hand, but that blow on his temple makes an ugly complication.”

“Poor fellow. Is there nothing one can do?”

“Let him alone, with your sweet daughter to nurse him. She is an angel, Captain Oliphant, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“She knows, as we all do, how precious his life is. And how is your other patient?”

“Armstrong? Practically well. I have given him leave to get up. He has the constitution of a tiger. I wish we could give some of it to the boy.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the captain, with a sigh.

On the following day, a desire took possession of the guardian to visit his dear ward in the sick-chamber. Rosalind, who had clung to her post, defiant of fatigue and sleep, had been prevailed upon in deference to her father’s peremptory command to seize an hour’s sleep in her own room.

“I will sit with him myself,” said the captain. “You must not be selfish, my child, in using your privilege. You forget that what gratifies you may also be a pleasure to others. I am going to town in a few days. Who knows if I may see the dear fellow again.”

“Father!” exclaimed Rosalind, seizing his arm almost roughly; “he is getting better. The doctor says so.”

“My poor child,” said her father, with a forced cheerfulness far more terrifying to the girl than his previous melancholy, “I was wrong to alarm you. Yes, of course he is getting better; of course. Come, we must all be brave.”

Rosalind, quite broken down, went to her bed and cried herself to sleep.

When the captain entered the sick-chamber, he found the mother at the bedside.

“My dear Eva,” said he, “let me beg you to take a little rest. I will remain here. Do give me the pleasure for once. You know how I shall value the privilege.”

Mrs Ingleton, who was in truth fairly worn out, was fain to consent, on condition that she should be called at once if necessary.

Having escorted her affectionately to the door, Captain Oliphant seated himself at the bedside, and looked hard at his ward.

The boy lay in a feverish doze, his large dark eyes half-closed, and his head turning now and again restlessly on the pillow.

“My poor dear fellow,” said his guardian, bending over him, “how do you feel this afternoon!”

“Better, I think. Where’s Rosalind?”

“Gone to bed. I am really afraid of her becoming ill. She looks so pale and worn.”

“She was so good to me,” said Roger. “I never thought of her getting ill. How long have I been ill?” he asked.

“Three weeks, my boy. What a narrow escape you had. You know I never heard yet what happened that day in the boat. How did it all happen?”

Whereupon Roger, rousing himself still more, began to go over the events of that memorable day, which at that distance of time seemed to loom out in his mind more terrible than at the time.

His guardian, deeply interested in the narrative, drew him out into a full and particular account of all that passed: the picnic on the island, the sudden storm, the drive before the wind, the awful roar of the surf on the shore, what each one said and thought and prepared for, and then of the crowning excitement of the rescue, the struggle in the water, and the drowning sensations.

When all was told the boy’s head fell exhausted on the pillow, his chest heaved, and he lay half muttering to himself, half moaning, a pitiful spectacle of weakness and exhaustion.

When, an hour later, Rosalind glided in, her father walked with finger to his lips to meet her.

“Make no noise,” said he, “the dear lad is sleeping. Don’t disturb him whatever you do.”

That was a bad night in the sick-room. The fever rose higher and higher. Roger tossed and moaned ceaselessly all night, and for the first time wandered in his talk. Armstrong, who looked in once or twice, durst not let himself be seen by the patient for fear of adding to his excitement. A midnight messenger was despatched for Dr Brandram, who came, looking very grave, and remained at the bedside all night. Captain Oliphant was indefatigable in his inquiries and attentions. He denied himself his natural sleep in order to linger near the dear one’s door and feed on the crumbs of information which from time to time came out. He insisted on lending Dr Brandram a pair of his own slippers, and besought Armstrong, with his bad arm, to take care of himself and go shares in his brandy and water.

Finally, when the doctor peremptorily ordered every one to bed, he retired in a chastened mood to his own room, where he packed his trunk and smoked his cigar thoughtfully till daylight struggled through the windows.

Then he took a brief nap in his arm-chair, and was astir in time to meet the doctor as he descended to the hall.

“What news?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me,” said the doctor; “my calculations are completely upset. Something has excited him. Whom did he see yesterday?”

“Only my daughter and his mother, and, for a short time, myself.”

“Was he at all disturbed while you were there?”

“On the contrary, he was drowsy when I entered and drowsy when I left. He may possibly have caught sight of Mr Armstrong when he looked in.”

“He should not have come near him in his present state. Anything that reminds him of the accident is bad for him.”

“Dear, dear, what a pity! No doubt the boy caught sight of him. Tell me, doctor—may I venture up to town for a day or two on important business? If you thought I should stay—”

“No. I hope it’s not quite as bad as that; but you should leave word where a message will find you, if necessary. Good day.”

“I’m not quite such a fool,” growled the doctor to himself as he walked to the stables, “as you think me, my fine fellow. If you were in the room half an hour last night this is all explained. To think that you are the father of that ministering angel, too!”

The captain, in a spirit of subdued cheerfulness, travelled up that afternoon to town. The weather was superb. The country, rich with harvest, looked beautiful. The carriage was unusually comfortable, and the cigars magnificent. Altogether this good man felt that he had much to be thankful for, and quietly wondered within himself whether, on his arrival at the “Langham” Hotel, he should find a telegram from Maxfield already awaiting him.

Instead, he found what pleased him decidedly less, a telegram from Southampton.

“Business keeps me here for a week—arrive London Friday evening.“Ratman.”

“Business keeps me here for a week—arrive London Friday evening.

“Ratman.”

The captain expressed himself to himself as greatly annoyed by this simple message, and for the rest of that evening quite lost his natural gaiety.

Next morning, however, not being a man to waste the precious hours, he decided, like a dutiful son of hisalma mater, to take a little run to Oxford.

He had still in his pocket a certain memorandum, made long ago, of the name of a certain college at that seat of learning, at which, at a certain date, of which he had also a note, a person in whom he felt interested had been a student. Why not improve the occasion by a few inquiries on the spot as to the academical career of that interesting person? It was a brilliant idea, no sooner conceived than executed.

That afternoon, among a crowd of returning undergraduates at — College, might have been seen the well-dressed military form of a certain gentleman, who politely inquired for the senior tutor.

“I have called sir, on behalf of a friend of mine in India, to inquire respecting a Mr Frank Armstrong, who is, or was a year or two since, an undergraduate here.”

“Armstrong, Armstrong?—no man of that name here at present. Ah, I fancy we had a man here of that name some years since.”

“Could you conveniently inform me how long it is since he left?”

The tutor referred to his lists.

“He left three years ago. I remember him now—well.”

“My friend would be extremely grateful for any information. He has lost sight of him since he was at Oxford.”

“Well, the fact is Armstrong was not a particular success here. He was a fairly good scholar, and athlete too, I believe, but his course here ended abruptly.”

“Dear, dear! Do you mean to say he was expelled?”

“Hardly so. But he left the place heavily in debt. At the end of his second year he wrote to the authorities to say that the source of supply on which he had depended for paying his college and other bills (which had accumulated to a very considerable extent) had suddenly ceased, and he was unable to meet his obligations. As he was in destitution, he could make no suggestion for meeting them, and requested us to accept an undertaking from him to discharge them if possible at a future time. Under the circumstances he was informed that he was not to come up again, and his name was struck off the books. I believe that since then a few of his debts have been reduced by small instalments.”

“I am very grieved to hear what you tell me. Could you very kindly tell me the address from which he last wrote?”

“If I remember, it was from a coffee-house in London, and he mentioned that he was hoping to obtain employment as a private tutor in a family.”

“Well, sir, although this is very disagreeable news for my friend. I am sure he will thank you all the same. I suppose you have no idea, beyond this address in London, what became of him?”

“None.”

“Or where he lived before he came to Oxford?”

“I was looking for that. I see the address on the entrance form is 3, Blue Street, London.”

Captain Oliphant made a note of the address, and after effusive thanks, said good-bye.

He spent two interesting days in Oxford looking about him and enjoying himself considerably. But although he met several men whose names he knew, and made several new acquaintances, he was unable to hear anything further of the defaulting undergraduate of — College.

On his return to town, as he had still a day or two to spare, this industrious gentleman, with a good deal of trouble, found out Number 3, Blue Street. For a person of his refined tastes it was in a shockingly low neighbourhood near one of the docks, and Blue Street itself was one of the shadiest—metaphorically—of its streets.

It consisted mainly of slop shops, patronised by the shipping interest, and displaying wares of which one half at least might be safely counted upon as stolen property. Number Three, which for some unexplained reason was located half-way down the street, was an establishment of this sort, very offensive to the nose and not at all agreeable to the eye. Old clothes of every fashion and antiquity hung exposed in the dingy window, while within a still larger assortment lay piled up on the counter. Nor were the clothes all. Second-hand watches, marlinspikes, compasses, spoons, books, boxes, and curiosities crowded the narrow space, in the midst of which the shrivelled old lady who called herself proprietress was scarcely visible.

“Come in—don’t be afraid,” cried she, as the captain paused doubtfully at the door.

“Is this Number 3, my good woman?”

“Look over the door—’aint you got no eyes?”

“Number 3, Blue Street—this is Blue Street, is it not?”

“If yer doubts it, go and read the name at the end of the street. What do you want? Clothes or money?”

“Neither—I want information,” replied the captain.

“Then yer’ve come to the wrong shop. Don’t sell it ’ere, so clear out. Do you think I don’t know what you’re arter?”

“Very well,” said the captain, “that will be so much saved. I shall have to get for nothing what I meant to pay for.”

She looked at him doubtfully and growled.

“Why can’t yer say what yer want instead of talking gibberish there?”

“If this is Number 3, Blue Street, and you are the same person who was here five years ago—”

“Go on.”

“I may have something to give you from an old lodger; but not till I’m sure you have a right to it.”

“What,him?”

“Very likely,” said the captain, calmly lighting a cigarette. “I shall know if you’re right, I dare say.”

“Right? Do you suppose I’m made of lodgers! ’Aint you talking about the singing chap—Armstrong he called himself, but at the Hall they called him Signor something—Francisco or the likes of that.”

The captain pricked his ears with a vengeance, and in his eagerness rattled the keys encouragingly in his trouser pocket.

“That won’t do,” said he. “I must have come to the wrong place after all. What sort of looking man was he, and where did he come from?”

“He’d got a pair of arms would knock you into the middle of next week, and when he went down to the Hall—”

“Which Hall?”

“The ‘Dragon’ Music-Hall—what, don’t you know it! go on with you—when he went there he flashed it with an eye-glass. Lor’, you should ’ave heard him sing! He’d a made your hair curl; it was lovely.”

“Ah! he wore an eye-glass and sang, did he?” said the captain. “And where did he come from, and what became of him when he left you?”

“Come from? I don’t know. The other end of the world, I fancy myself. Where he went to I don’t know neither. I fancy myself he took up with a bad lot at the Hall, and turned me up. Howsomever, I got my dues out of him, so it’s no concern of mine. There you are, mister. Now, what have you got for me?”

The captain looked doubtful and shook his head.

“I’m afraid it’s not right after all,” said he. “It doesn’t correspond with the particulars I have. Had you no other lodgers?”

“What did I tell you,” snarled the woman, perceiving she was to be done out of her reward after all. “Come, are you going to give me what you promised or not? If you ’aint, clear out of here, my beauty, or I’ll break every bone of your ugly body.”

And since, with a stick in her hand, she looked very like putting her threat into execution, the captain beat a hasty retreat, chuckling to himself at the thought of his own excellent cleverness.

“Upon my word,” said he to himself as he strolled westward, “I am having a most interesting time. What a versatile genius my co-trustee appears to be—a tutor to an heir, a defaulting and rusticated undergraduate, a penniless music-hall cad. Dear, dear! what a curious settlement of scores we shall have, to be sure—or rather, should have had, had our poor dear Roger remained with us. Heigho! what a curious sensation it will be, to be sure, to own a fortune.”

At the hotel the porter met him with a telegram. He expected as much. He could guess what was inside. It really seemed waste of energy to open it.

But he must go through with his melancholy functions, and he therefore took a seat in the hall and composed his face for the worst.

“Thankful to say good night; fever abated, all hopeful.“Rosalind.”

“Thankful to say good night; fever abated, all hopeful.

“Rosalind.”

Captain Oliphant turned pale, crushed the pink paper viciously in his hands, and uttered an exclamation which called forth the sympathy of the hotel servants who loitered in the hall.

“Poor gentleman,” said the lady manager to her clerk, “he’s got some bad news in that telegram.”

He had indeed.

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