Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Sixteen.Roger sees a little too much Life.Captain Oliphant’s motive for going to London was primarily to escape for a while from the unearthly dullness of Maxfield. As long as the prospect of a matrimonial alliance with Mrs Ingleton had been in view, it had seemed to him good policy to submit to the infliction and remain at his post. That vision was now unhappily past, and the good man felt he deserved a change of scene and amusement. A further motive was to evade a possible return of his dear friend Mr Ratman, whose abrupt departure from Maxfield had both perplexed and relieved him. The second of that gentleman’s uncomfortable bills was falling due in a few days, and as on the present occasion no lucky windfall had dropped in from an American mayor, it seemed altogether a fitting occasion for dropping for a season below the horizon.When, however, Roger unexpectedly consented to accompany his guardian, the visit assumed an altogether different aspect. The captain had long desired to have his dear ward to himself, and the opportunity now presented was certainly one not to be neglected.“My dear boy,” said he, as the two took their places in the London train, “I hope you are well protected against the weather. Change seats with me. You are so liable to cold, you know, that it is really hardly safe for you to face the engine. We must take great care of you now—greater than ever,” and he sighed pathetically.Roger was getting accustomed to, and a little tired of, these demonstrative outbursts, and quietly took the seat in order to spare discussion. He was already repenting of his journey. No one seemed to commend it. Armstrong made no reference to it.Dr Brandram stoutly disapproved of it. Rosalind tossed her head when she heard of it, and hoped he might enjoy himself. Tom failed to see why, when there was football in the air at Maxfield, any one could be bothered to travel up to London for pleasure, unless indeed he intended to take a season ticket for Christy’s Minstrels. Altogether Roger did not feel elated at the prospect of this visit. For all that, he persuaded himself that duty called him thither, even if it was bad temper which drove him from Maxfield.“What has become of Ratman?” he inquired of his guardian casually during the journey.Captain Oliphant looked up from his paper sharply Mr Ratman’s whereabouts had been occupying his thoughts that very moment.“I really do not know, my boy,” said he. “He left very suddenly, and in the sad trouble through which we have passed I have hardly had time to think about him.”There was a pause. Then Roger said—“Is he an old friend of yours, cousin Edward?”Cousin Edward was a little perplexed by this curiosity.“I have known him a year or so. The friendship, however, is chiefly on his side.”“I thought he came all the way from India on purpose to visit you?”The captain laughed uncomfortably at this very correct representation of the facts.“That is the version he likes to give. The fact is that business brought him home, and as he knew I was at Maxfield, he wrote and proposed the visit. He is no great favourite of yours, I suspect, Roger?”“No,” said Roger shortly, and relapsed again into silence. But before the journey’s end he once more returned to the charge.“Was he in the army in India?”“Once, I believe. But I have never heard much of his antecedents. Latterly I believe he called himself a financial agent, a very vague profession. He was in our station before our regiment went there.”“I suppose he had lived in India all his life?”“He had certainly been in England when a young man,” said the captain; “and from some of his reminiscences, appears not to have led a very profitable life there. But how comes it you are so interested in him?”“I have only been wondering what he was, that’s all,” said Roger, feeling he had been on the topic long enough.Roger had already written a letter to Ratman, addressed to that gentleman at the General Post Office, London.“Your letter,” it said, “has perplexed me greatly. If you are my brother, as you say you are, why do you not give some proof? That should be easy. There must be some people who can identify you, or some means of satisfying us all about your claim to be the elder son. I should not resist you, if it were so. Only my guardians would require clear proof before recognising you. As to whether I think well or ill of you, that has nothing to do with the matter if you are really and truly my elder brother. I enclose ten pounds in this, not to show you that I am myself fully satisfied, but to let you see that the bare chance of your being an Ingleton makes me feel anxious you should not think we, as a family, do not stand by one another. I do not expect to be able to repeat it, as my allowance is limited, and my guardians are not likely to consent to hand over any money for you till you can prove your claim. Write and give me more particulars, and I promise you I shall not shirk my duty to you or the name I bear.”At any other time Roger would have shown this epistle, the writing of which cost him many anxious hours, to Armstrong. Now, however, that help was denied him. The tutor, he knew, would have screwed his eye-glass into his eye and ruthlessly pulled the document to pieces. No. He must play this game off his own bat, and keep his own counsel.Captain Oliphant, who had a good notion of doing things comfortably with other people’s money, had selected a fashionable hotel at the West End.“We must see you have every comfort, dear boy,” said he; “in your state of health we cannot afford to rough it. I have ordered a private sitting-room and fires in the bedroom. When you feel strong enough we will do a little sight-seeing; but meanwhile your first consideration must be to recover lost tone and spirits by means of rest and care.”These constant reminders of his poor health were very unwelcome to the unlucky Roger, who protested that he was in perfect health; and, to prove it, went out next day, in a cold November fog, with no overcoat. The consequence was he caught a severe cold, and had the mortification of listening to a severe lecture from his solicitous guardian on the iniquity of trifling with his precious health.Roger, too proud to admit that he could not take care of himself, declined to treat himself as an invalid, and insisted on claiming his guardian’s promise to show him a little life in the great city.It was surprising how many acquaintances Rosalind’s father had in London. Some were pleasant enough—military men on leave, and here and there a civilian’s family who remembered the captain and his charming family in the Hills.Roger accepted their hospitality and listened to their Indian small-talk with great good-humour, and when now and then some sympathetic soul, guessing, as a good many did, one of the lad’s secrets, talked admiringly of Rosalind, he felt himself rewarded for a good deal of long-suffering. Had he heard some of the jokes passed behind his back, his satisfaction might have been considerably tempered.“I always said,” observed one shrewd dowager, “that Oliphant would make a catch with that daughter of his. He has done it, evidently. This boy will be worth five or ten thousand a year, I hear.”“Poor fellow! He looks as if it will be a battle with him to reach it. What a cough!”“I can’t understand Oliphant not taking better care of him. He drags him about all over town, as if the boy were cast iron. I met them out twice this week.”“Certainly one cannot afford to play fast and loose with the goose that lays the golden eggs.”The “goose” in question made other acquaintances than these. In his bachelor days Captain Oliphant had “knocked about” in London pretty considerably, and had a notion, now that he was a bachelor again, to repeat the process. Roger—a raw country boy, as the reader by this time will admit—found himself entered upon a gay round of club and Bohemian life, which to an old stager like the captain may have seemed a little slow, but to a susceptible youth was decidedly attractive. The guardian’s fast acquaintances made the young heir of Maxfield welcome, and might have proceeded to pluck him had his protector permitted. Roger speedily discovered what hundreds of locks there are which the mere rumour of money will unlock. He had never had such an idea of his own importance before, and for a short time he deluded himself into the belief that his popularity was due wholly and solely to his personal merits.Captain Oliphant fostered this delusion carefully.“I hope you are enjoying yourself, my dear boy,” he would say, after a particularly festive evening.“It’s an excellent rule to make oneself agreeable in all circumstances. I envy you your facility. You see how it is appreciated. It does an old fogey like me good to see you enjoy yourself.”“It was a pleasant enough evening,” said Roger, not quite without misgivings on the subject, however.“By the way, who was the man, older than the others, who talked loudest and not always in the most classical English?”The captain laughed pleasantly.“No. I should have been better pleased if he had not been of our party. He never was select, even in my young days, when I met him once or twice. There used to be a saying among us that Fastnet, if he gave his mind to it—”“Fastnet!”The cab was dark, and the boy’s pale face was invisible to his guardian. But the tone with which he caught at the name struck that good gentleman.“Yes. What about it?”“Only,” said Roger, after half a minute, and he spoke with an unusual effort, “it seems a good name for him.”Alone in his room that night Roger came to himself. A week or two ago he had hugged himself into the notion he was resolved to do his duty at all costs and in spite of all discouragement. Here had he been wasting a fortnight, forgetting duty, forgetting that he had a mission, posing as the heir, and accepting the compliments of a lot of time-servers who, now that he thought about them, valued him for nothing but his name and expectations.And one of these—the least desirable of the lot—had been this Fastnet, the companion in profligacy of his lost brother, the one man, perhaps, from whom he might hope to obtain a clue as to the fate or whereabouts of the man whose rights he, Roger, was usurping!He was tempted to telegraph to Armstrong to come to his help. But he dismissed the thought. In this quest Armstrong was not with him. He shrank from making a confidant of the captain. There was no one else to help him. He must play the game single-handed or not at all.Once more his courage failed. Ratman his brother, Fastnet his brother’s friend! At what a cost to the good name of his house was this wrong to be put right, this self-sacrifice to be accomplished. But ere he slept the honest man gained a victory over the poltroon. Providence had sent him stumbling into the track. It was not for him to draw back.Next morning both he and his guardian found letters on the breakfast-table re-directed in Rosalind’s hand from Maxfield. The latter, as he glanced at his, scowled, and crushed the missive angrily into his pocket. It was a letter from Ratman, reminding him that a certain bill was falling due on the following day, and requiring him, on pain of exposure, to honour it.Roger’s letter was in the same hand. It was dated London, a day or two back. Ratman said—“Dear Brother,—I received your letter and enclosure. It is what I expected from you, but I hope it is not to be the last. I don’t wonder at your suspecting my story—I don’t particularly care whether you believe it or not. No doubt, with your respectable surroundings and the prospect before you, you are not over-anxious to claim brotherhood with a fellow of my sort. As long as you believe in me sufficiently not to leave me in the lurch, I shall be fairly content. But I cannot live on air, and have little else to support me. Don’t be afraid I shall turn up again now until you want me. If I did, it would be not so much to see you as to see some one else to whom, rake as I am, I have lost my heart, and to whom I look to you to put in a good word on my behalf. You ask for proofs. I can’t give you any that I know of. Everything is changed at Maxfield since I was there. Even the old hands like Dr Brandram or Hodder would not recognise me after all these years. In fact, they have seen me and have not done so. They think I’m dead. That’s my fault; for when I was ill in India—goodness knows how many years ago—with, as I thought, not a day more to live, I told a comrade to send home news of my death, and they all believed it. So you see it is easier to talk about proof than give it. The only person who might be able to remember me after I left home—I had a hideous row with my father at the time—was a man called Fastnet, with whom I lodged in London, and who helped to make me the respectable specimen of humanity I have become. I lost sight of him long since, and for all I know he has joined the majority with all the others. I merely mention this to show you how hopeless it is of me to attempt to prove what I say. You may make your mind quite easy on that score. I shall probably return to India as soon as I am in funds. Except for the one reason I have named, I don’t want to see Maxfield again—I’ve had enough of it. Nor do I see any advantage in meeting you, so I give no address. But any letters addressed to the G.P.O. I shall receive.“Your brother,—“Roger Ingleton.”This letter dispelled any lingering doubt, or perhaps hope, in Roger’s mind that he was on a wrong scent. The writer, in protesting his inability to give any proof of his identity, had mentioned the two very circumstances which the old Squire had referred to in his posthumous letter. He had admitted that he had gone to the bad in London in company with a youth named Fastnet. The news of his death had reached England from abroad. Besides, the reckless, devil-may-care tone of the epistle more than ever convinced the younger brother that this was no fraudulent claimant, but the honest growl of an outcast who little guessed what his name was worth to him. Otherwise, why should he keep out of the way?Captain Oliphant came to his room while these reflections were occupying his mind. He was too much preoccupied by the unpleasant contents of his own letter to notice the trouble of his ward.“Roger,” said he, “business calls me away from town for a day or two. I am sorry to interrupt our pleasant time together, but I hope it will not be long. Make yourself comfortable here, and take care of yourself.”“Are you going to Maxfield?” inquired Roger.“No. But an old comrade I find is in trouble and wants my advice. It is a call I can hardly turn a deaf ear to.”Had Roger guessed that the friend on whom so much devotion was to be expended was Mr Robert Ratman, he would have displayed a good deal more curiosity than he did as to his guardian’s business. As it was, he was not sorry to be left thus to his own devices.“You know your way to the club by this time,” said the captain. “Make yourself at home there—and keep out of mischief.”That evening Roger went somewhat nervously to his guardian’s club. Since last night he had grown to detest the place and the company. But just now it was the one place where he might expect to hear something of his lost brother.His new friends greeted him boisterously—and, relieved of the restraint of his guardian’s presence, made more than usually merry in his honour.They chaffed him about his expectations, and quizzed him about Rosalind. They laughed at his rustic simplicity, and amused themselves by putting him to the blush. They plied him with wine and cigars, and rallied him on his pure demure face. One or two toadies sidled up and professed a sympathy which was more offensive than the badinage.He endured all as best he could, for one reason and one only. The loudest and coarsest of his tormentors was Mr Fastnet.At last, however, when, not for the first time, Rosalind’s name had been dragged into the conversation, the blood of the Ingletons rose.The man who had spoken was a youngroué, little more than Roger’s own age, and reputed to be a great man in the circles of the fast.“Excuse me,” said Roger, abruptly interrupting the laugh that followed this hero’s jest, “do you call yourself a gentleman?”A bombshell on the floor could hardly have made a greater sensation.“What do you mean?”“I mean, sir, that you’re not a gentleman.”The young gentleman staggered back as if he had been shot, and gaped round the audience, speechless.“Hullo, hullo,” said some one, “this is getting lively.”Another of the party walked to the door and turned the key, and several others hastily finished up the contents of their glasses.Roger needed all his nerve to keep cool under the circumstances, but he succeeded.All eyes were turned to the young gentleman, whose move it clearly was next.He was very red in his face and threatening in his demeanour, but when it came to giving his feelings utterance his courage dwindled down into a—“Bah! sanctimonious young prig!”The astonishment was now transferred to the onlookers.“Hullo, Compton, I say,” said Fastnet, “did you hear what he called you? Is that all you’ve got to say?”The Honourable Mr Compton’s face gradually bleached, as he looked from one to the other.“He said you were no gentleman,” repeated Fastnet, determined there should be no mistake about the matter. “Isn’t that so, youngster?” appealing to Roger.“That is what I said,” said Roger.The lily-livered hero was hanging out his true colours at last.“It’s lucky for him,” snarled he, “he is only a visitor in this house.”Fastnet and one or two of the others laughed disagreeably.“Ingleton,” said the former, taking control of the proceedings generally, “are you willing to repeat what you said outside?”“Certainly,” said Roger; “anywhere you like. And I shall be delighted to add that he is a coward.”“There, Compton. Surely that satisfies you?”Mr Compton, very white and downcast, took up his hat.“Thank you,” said he, with a pitiful affectation of superciliousness; “I take no notice of young bumpkins like him,” and he turned on his heel.Fastnet stepped before him to the door.“Look here, Compton,” said he, “you’re a member of this club. Do we understand you funk this affair?”“I’ve something better to do than bother my head about him. Understand what you like. Let me go!”Fastnet opened the door.“Clear out!” said he, with an oath; “and don’t show your face here again, unless you want to be kicked.”“What do you mean by that?”“What I say. Be off, or I won’t wait till you come again.”Whereupon exit the Honourable Mr Compton with colours dipped.“Now,” said Fastnet, when he had gone, “it is only fair to the youngster here to say that we agree with him in his opinion of our late member. Eh, you men?”General assent greeted the question. Upon which Mr Fastnet suggested that, as the evening had been spoiled, the house do adjourn.“You’d better come and have supper with me,” said he to Roger.And Roger, feeling his chance had come, accepted.

Captain Oliphant’s motive for going to London was primarily to escape for a while from the unearthly dullness of Maxfield. As long as the prospect of a matrimonial alliance with Mrs Ingleton had been in view, it had seemed to him good policy to submit to the infliction and remain at his post. That vision was now unhappily past, and the good man felt he deserved a change of scene and amusement. A further motive was to evade a possible return of his dear friend Mr Ratman, whose abrupt departure from Maxfield had both perplexed and relieved him. The second of that gentleman’s uncomfortable bills was falling due in a few days, and as on the present occasion no lucky windfall had dropped in from an American mayor, it seemed altogether a fitting occasion for dropping for a season below the horizon.

When, however, Roger unexpectedly consented to accompany his guardian, the visit assumed an altogether different aspect. The captain had long desired to have his dear ward to himself, and the opportunity now presented was certainly one not to be neglected.

“My dear boy,” said he, as the two took their places in the London train, “I hope you are well protected against the weather. Change seats with me. You are so liable to cold, you know, that it is really hardly safe for you to face the engine. We must take great care of you now—greater than ever,” and he sighed pathetically.

Roger was getting accustomed to, and a little tired of, these demonstrative outbursts, and quietly took the seat in order to spare discussion. He was already repenting of his journey. No one seemed to commend it. Armstrong made no reference to it.

Dr Brandram stoutly disapproved of it. Rosalind tossed her head when she heard of it, and hoped he might enjoy himself. Tom failed to see why, when there was football in the air at Maxfield, any one could be bothered to travel up to London for pleasure, unless indeed he intended to take a season ticket for Christy’s Minstrels. Altogether Roger did not feel elated at the prospect of this visit. For all that, he persuaded himself that duty called him thither, even if it was bad temper which drove him from Maxfield.

“What has become of Ratman?” he inquired of his guardian casually during the journey.

Captain Oliphant looked up from his paper sharply Mr Ratman’s whereabouts had been occupying his thoughts that very moment.

“I really do not know, my boy,” said he. “He left very suddenly, and in the sad trouble through which we have passed I have hardly had time to think about him.”

There was a pause. Then Roger said—

“Is he an old friend of yours, cousin Edward?”

Cousin Edward was a little perplexed by this curiosity.

“I have known him a year or so. The friendship, however, is chiefly on his side.”

“I thought he came all the way from India on purpose to visit you?”

The captain laughed uncomfortably at this very correct representation of the facts.

“That is the version he likes to give. The fact is that business brought him home, and as he knew I was at Maxfield, he wrote and proposed the visit. He is no great favourite of yours, I suspect, Roger?”

“No,” said Roger shortly, and relapsed again into silence. But before the journey’s end he once more returned to the charge.

“Was he in the army in India?”

“Once, I believe. But I have never heard much of his antecedents. Latterly I believe he called himself a financial agent, a very vague profession. He was in our station before our regiment went there.”

“I suppose he had lived in India all his life?”

“He had certainly been in England when a young man,” said the captain; “and from some of his reminiscences, appears not to have led a very profitable life there. But how comes it you are so interested in him?”

“I have only been wondering what he was, that’s all,” said Roger, feeling he had been on the topic long enough.

Roger had already written a letter to Ratman, addressed to that gentleman at the General Post Office, London.

“Your letter,” it said, “has perplexed me greatly. If you are my brother, as you say you are, why do you not give some proof? That should be easy. There must be some people who can identify you, or some means of satisfying us all about your claim to be the elder son. I should not resist you, if it were so. Only my guardians would require clear proof before recognising you. As to whether I think well or ill of you, that has nothing to do with the matter if you are really and truly my elder brother. I enclose ten pounds in this, not to show you that I am myself fully satisfied, but to let you see that the bare chance of your being an Ingleton makes me feel anxious you should not think we, as a family, do not stand by one another. I do not expect to be able to repeat it, as my allowance is limited, and my guardians are not likely to consent to hand over any money for you till you can prove your claim. Write and give me more particulars, and I promise you I shall not shirk my duty to you or the name I bear.”

At any other time Roger would have shown this epistle, the writing of which cost him many anxious hours, to Armstrong. Now, however, that help was denied him. The tutor, he knew, would have screwed his eye-glass into his eye and ruthlessly pulled the document to pieces. No. He must play this game off his own bat, and keep his own counsel.

Captain Oliphant, who had a good notion of doing things comfortably with other people’s money, had selected a fashionable hotel at the West End.

“We must see you have every comfort, dear boy,” said he; “in your state of health we cannot afford to rough it. I have ordered a private sitting-room and fires in the bedroom. When you feel strong enough we will do a little sight-seeing; but meanwhile your first consideration must be to recover lost tone and spirits by means of rest and care.”

These constant reminders of his poor health were very unwelcome to the unlucky Roger, who protested that he was in perfect health; and, to prove it, went out next day, in a cold November fog, with no overcoat. The consequence was he caught a severe cold, and had the mortification of listening to a severe lecture from his solicitous guardian on the iniquity of trifling with his precious health.

Roger, too proud to admit that he could not take care of himself, declined to treat himself as an invalid, and insisted on claiming his guardian’s promise to show him a little life in the great city.

It was surprising how many acquaintances Rosalind’s father had in London. Some were pleasant enough—military men on leave, and here and there a civilian’s family who remembered the captain and his charming family in the Hills.

Roger accepted their hospitality and listened to their Indian small-talk with great good-humour, and when now and then some sympathetic soul, guessing, as a good many did, one of the lad’s secrets, talked admiringly of Rosalind, he felt himself rewarded for a good deal of long-suffering. Had he heard some of the jokes passed behind his back, his satisfaction might have been considerably tempered.

“I always said,” observed one shrewd dowager, “that Oliphant would make a catch with that daughter of his. He has done it, evidently. This boy will be worth five or ten thousand a year, I hear.”

“Poor fellow! He looks as if it will be a battle with him to reach it. What a cough!”

“I can’t understand Oliphant not taking better care of him. He drags him about all over town, as if the boy were cast iron. I met them out twice this week.”

“Certainly one cannot afford to play fast and loose with the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

The “goose” in question made other acquaintances than these. In his bachelor days Captain Oliphant had “knocked about” in London pretty considerably, and had a notion, now that he was a bachelor again, to repeat the process. Roger—a raw country boy, as the reader by this time will admit—found himself entered upon a gay round of club and Bohemian life, which to an old stager like the captain may have seemed a little slow, but to a susceptible youth was decidedly attractive. The guardian’s fast acquaintances made the young heir of Maxfield welcome, and might have proceeded to pluck him had his protector permitted. Roger speedily discovered what hundreds of locks there are which the mere rumour of money will unlock. He had never had such an idea of his own importance before, and for a short time he deluded himself into the belief that his popularity was due wholly and solely to his personal merits.

Captain Oliphant fostered this delusion carefully.

“I hope you are enjoying yourself, my dear boy,” he would say, after a particularly festive evening.

“It’s an excellent rule to make oneself agreeable in all circumstances. I envy you your facility. You see how it is appreciated. It does an old fogey like me good to see you enjoy yourself.”

“It was a pleasant enough evening,” said Roger, not quite without misgivings on the subject, however.

“By the way, who was the man, older than the others, who talked loudest and not always in the most classical English?”

The captain laughed pleasantly.

“No. I should have been better pleased if he had not been of our party. He never was select, even in my young days, when I met him once or twice. There used to be a saying among us that Fastnet, if he gave his mind to it—”

“Fastnet!”

The cab was dark, and the boy’s pale face was invisible to his guardian. But the tone with which he caught at the name struck that good gentleman.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Only,” said Roger, after half a minute, and he spoke with an unusual effort, “it seems a good name for him.”

Alone in his room that night Roger came to himself. A week or two ago he had hugged himself into the notion he was resolved to do his duty at all costs and in spite of all discouragement. Here had he been wasting a fortnight, forgetting duty, forgetting that he had a mission, posing as the heir, and accepting the compliments of a lot of time-servers who, now that he thought about them, valued him for nothing but his name and expectations.

And one of these—the least desirable of the lot—had been this Fastnet, the companion in profligacy of his lost brother, the one man, perhaps, from whom he might hope to obtain a clue as to the fate or whereabouts of the man whose rights he, Roger, was usurping!

He was tempted to telegraph to Armstrong to come to his help. But he dismissed the thought. In this quest Armstrong was not with him. He shrank from making a confidant of the captain. There was no one else to help him. He must play the game single-handed or not at all.

Once more his courage failed. Ratman his brother, Fastnet his brother’s friend! At what a cost to the good name of his house was this wrong to be put right, this self-sacrifice to be accomplished. But ere he slept the honest man gained a victory over the poltroon. Providence had sent him stumbling into the track. It was not for him to draw back.

Next morning both he and his guardian found letters on the breakfast-table re-directed in Rosalind’s hand from Maxfield. The latter, as he glanced at his, scowled, and crushed the missive angrily into his pocket. It was a letter from Ratman, reminding him that a certain bill was falling due on the following day, and requiring him, on pain of exposure, to honour it.

Roger’s letter was in the same hand. It was dated London, a day or two back. Ratman said—

“Dear Brother,—I received your letter and enclosure. It is what I expected from you, but I hope it is not to be the last. I don’t wonder at your suspecting my story—I don’t particularly care whether you believe it or not. No doubt, with your respectable surroundings and the prospect before you, you are not over-anxious to claim brotherhood with a fellow of my sort. As long as you believe in me sufficiently not to leave me in the lurch, I shall be fairly content. But I cannot live on air, and have little else to support me. Don’t be afraid I shall turn up again now until you want me. If I did, it would be not so much to see you as to see some one else to whom, rake as I am, I have lost my heart, and to whom I look to you to put in a good word on my behalf. You ask for proofs. I can’t give you any that I know of. Everything is changed at Maxfield since I was there. Even the old hands like Dr Brandram or Hodder would not recognise me after all these years. In fact, they have seen me and have not done so. They think I’m dead. That’s my fault; for when I was ill in India—goodness knows how many years ago—with, as I thought, not a day more to live, I told a comrade to send home news of my death, and they all believed it. So you see it is easier to talk about proof than give it. The only person who might be able to remember me after I left home—I had a hideous row with my father at the time—was a man called Fastnet, with whom I lodged in London, and who helped to make me the respectable specimen of humanity I have become. I lost sight of him long since, and for all I know he has joined the majority with all the others. I merely mention this to show you how hopeless it is of me to attempt to prove what I say. You may make your mind quite easy on that score. I shall probably return to India as soon as I am in funds. Except for the one reason I have named, I don’t want to see Maxfield again—I’ve had enough of it. Nor do I see any advantage in meeting you, so I give no address. But any letters addressed to the G.P.O. I shall receive.

“Your brother,—

“Roger Ingleton.”

This letter dispelled any lingering doubt, or perhaps hope, in Roger’s mind that he was on a wrong scent. The writer, in protesting his inability to give any proof of his identity, had mentioned the two very circumstances which the old Squire had referred to in his posthumous letter. He had admitted that he had gone to the bad in London in company with a youth named Fastnet. The news of his death had reached England from abroad. Besides, the reckless, devil-may-care tone of the epistle more than ever convinced the younger brother that this was no fraudulent claimant, but the honest growl of an outcast who little guessed what his name was worth to him. Otherwise, why should he keep out of the way?

Captain Oliphant came to his room while these reflections were occupying his mind. He was too much preoccupied by the unpleasant contents of his own letter to notice the trouble of his ward.

“Roger,” said he, “business calls me away from town for a day or two. I am sorry to interrupt our pleasant time together, but I hope it will not be long. Make yourself comfortable here, and take care of yourself.”

“Are you going to Maxfield?” inquired Roger.

“No. But an old comrade I find is in trouble and wants my advice. It is a call I can hardly turn a deaf ear to.”

Had Roger guessed that the friend on whom so much devotion was to be expended was Mr Robert Ratman, he would have displayed a good deal more curiosity than he did as to his guardian’s business. As it was, he was not sorry to be left thus to his own devices.

“You know your way to the club by this time,” said the captain. “Make yourself at home there—and keep out of mischief.”

That evening Roger went somewhat nervously to his guardian’s club. Since last night he had grown to detest the place and the company. But just now it was the one place where he might expect to hear something of his lost brother.

His new friends greeted him boisterously—and, relieved of the restraint of his guardian’s presence, made more than usually merry in his honour.

They chaffed him about his expectations, and quizzed him about Rosalind. They laughed at his rustic simplicity, and amused themselves by putting him to the blush. They plied him with wine and cigars, and rallied him on his pure demure face. One or two toadies sidled up and professed a sympathy which was more offensive than the badinage.

He endured all as best he could, for one reason and one only. The loudest and coarsest of his tormentors was Mr Fastnet.

At last, however, when, not for the first time, Rosalind’s name had been dragged into the conversation, the blood of the Ingletons rose.

The man who had spoken was a youngroué, little more than Roger’s own age, and reputed to be a great man in the circles of the fast.

“Excuse me,” said Roger, abruptly interrupting the laugh that followed this hero’s jest, “do you call yourself a gentleman?”

A bombshell on the floor could hardly have made a greater sensation.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, sir, that you’re not a gentleman.”

The young gentleman staggered back as if he had been shot, and gaped round the audience, speechless.

“Hullo, hullo,” said some one, “this is getting lively.”

Another of the party walked to the door and turned the key, and several others hastily finished up the contents of their glasses.

Roger needed all his nerve to keep cool under the circumstances, but he succeeded.

All eyes were turned to the young gentleman, whose move it clearly was next.

He was very red in his face and threatening in his demeanour, but when it came to giving his feelings utterance his courage dwindled down into a—

“Bah! sanctimonious young prig!”

The astonishment was now transferred to the onlookers.

“Hullo, Compton, I say,” said Fastnet, “did you hear what he called you? Is that all you’ve got to say?”

The Honourable Mr Compton’s face gradually bleached, as he looked from one to the other.

“He said you were no gentleman,” repeated Fastnet, determined there should be no mistake about the matter. “Isn’t that so, youngster?” appealing to Roger.

“That is what I said,” said Roger.

The lily-livered hero was hanging out his true colours at last.

“It’s lucky for him,” snarled he, “he is only a visitor in this house.”

Fastnet and one or two of the others laughed disagreeably.

“Ingleton,” said the former, taking control of the proceedings generally, “are you willing to repeat what you said outside?”

“Certainly,” said Roger; “anywhere you like. And I shall be delighted to add that he is a coward.”

“There, Compton. Surely that satisfies you?”

Mr Compton, very white and downcast, took up his hat.

“Thank you,” said he, with a pitiful affectation of superciliousness; “I take no notice of young bumpkins like him,” and he turned on his heel.

Fastnet stepped before him to the door.

“Look here, Compton,” said he, “you’re a member of this club. Do we understand you funk this affair?”

“I’ve something better to do than bother my head about him. Understand what you like. Let me go!”

Fastnet opened the door.

“Clear out!” said he, with an oath; “and don’t show your face here again, unless you want to be kicked.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What I say. Be off, or I won’t wait till you come again.”

Whereupon exit the Honourable Mr Compton with colours dipped.

“Now,” said Fastnet, when he had gone, “it is only fair to the youngster here to say that we agree with him in his opinion of our late member. Eh, you men?”

General assent greeted the question. Upon which Mr Fastnet suggested that, as the evening had been spoiled, the house do adjourn.

“You’d better come and have supper with me,” said he to Roger.

And Roger, feeling his chance had come, accepted.

Chapter Seventeen.“When the Cat’s away—”Maxfield Manor, however cheery a place in summer-time, with its household in full swing, was decidedly desolate in dark November weather, with only a housekeeper in charge—that is to say, to any one but the two young persons on whom the honours of the house devolved, it would have appeared dull.Mr Armstrong delayed his visit to Oxford for some days after the departure of the Captain and Roger. There was a good deal of business to be done in connection with the estate, and as Mr Pottinger discovered, when the second trustee did take it into his head to look into things, it was no child’s play. He had an uncomfortable manner, this tutor, of demanding explanations and particulars with all the air of the proprietor himself, and was not to be put off by any dilatory tactics on the part of the official with whom the explanation lay. As in the present case the business transacted was chiefly in connection with leases and conveyances, the unfortunate lawyer had a rough week of it, and felt at the end very much like one of his own clients after a year in Chancery. However, the inquisitor appeared to be fairly well satisfied when all was done, so that Mr Pottinger, who all along had on his mind the uncomfortable consciousness of a few well-hidden irregularities, was doubly relieved when the tutor dropped his glass finally from his eye and observed—“I need not trouble you further at present, sir.”It was after this final interview that Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor.“I’m off to Oxford for a day or two,” said he.“No attractions here?” asked the doctor.“Yes—you among others.”“And who’s to wash and dress the babies at Maxfield? And who is to keep the wolf from the fold at the Vicarage? and who is to keep an eye on the man of the law across the way?”“The babes are well qualified to nurture one another. The man of the law is under closer observation than he imagines. As to the wolf, I came to speak to you about that. He may make a descent on the fold, in which case Dr Brandram must go out with swords and staves and give him battle.”The doctor laughed.“I like your ideas of the medical profession. Its duties are variegated and lively. However, make yourself easy this time. I hear to-day that the young ladies at the Vicarage with their governess are to go on Monday to Devonshire.”“Good,” said Mr Armstrong, decidedly relieved.“When does your ward return?” said the doctor. “I dislike this London business altogether. Oliphant is not to be trusted with a boy of his delicate make. You should have stopped it.”The tutor said nothing, but looked decidedly dejected. He was greatly tempted to confide the difficulties of the situation to his friend. But the dead Squire’s secret was not his to give away.“Unless they come home soon,” said he, “I have a notion of returning from Oxford by way of London.”“Do—the sooner the better.”When, on the next day, Miss Rosalind sailed up to Maxfield to bid her brother and sister farewell, it fell to the tutor’s lot to escort her back to the Vicarage.“Mr Armstrong,” said she abruptly, as they went, “why have you and Roger quarrelled?”Mr Armstrong looked round uncomfortably.“Quarrelled?”“Yes. Do you suppose he would go away like this for any other reason? Won’t you tell me what it is about?”“Roger and I have agreed to differ on a certain point. Miss Oliphant. We have not quarrelled?”“You cannot trust me, I see, or you would tell me what the trouble is.”“I trust you completely, Miss Oliphant. I will gladly tell you.”Five minutes ago wild horses would not have extorted the confession from him. But somehow or other, as he looked at her standing there, he could not help himself.“Roger has got an impression that his elder brother is still living, and is to be found; and, if found, that he ought to be made possessor of Maxfield. I am unable to sympathise in what I look upon as an unprofitable quest. That is the whole story.”“Why cannot you back him up, Mr Armstrong?”“I believe his fancy is utterly groundless; besides which, if the person he believes to be the missing brother is really Roger Ingleton, to discover him would mean disgrace to Maxfield, and an injury to the name of Ingleton.”“What! Mr Armstrong, do you mean to say—”“I mean to say that Mr Robert Ratman claims to be the lost elder brother, and that Roger credits the story. Miss Oliphant, I am grateful to you for sharing this confidence with me. You can help Roger in this matter better than I can.”She looked at him with a flush in her face, and then replied rather dismally, “I fear not—for, to be as frank with you as you are with me, I am dreadfully afraid Roger is right. The same fancy passed through my mind when first I saw Mr Ratman. I had recently been studying the lost brother’s portrait, you know, and was struck and horrified by the resemblance. Mr Armstrong,” added she, after a pause, “if I were Roger’s guardian and tutor, I would stand by him all the more that his duty is an unpleasant one. Thank you; here we are at the gate. Good-bye. I hope you will have a pleasant time at Oxford.”And she passed in, leaving the good man in a sad state of bewilderment and perplexity.He started a day or two later in a somewhat depressed frame of mind for Oxford, where he astonished and delighted most of his old creditors by calling and paying off a further instalment of his debts to them. But his satisfaction in this act of restitution was sadly tempered by the sense of coercion put upon him by the doctor and Rosalind, and the conviction that, wise or foolish, pleasant or unpleasant, his place was at his young pupil’s side. No excuse, or pleadings of a false pride, could dispel the feeling. No, he must climb down, own himself wrong, and sue for permission to assist in a quest in which he had little faith and still less inclination.While he is making up his mind, it may be worth the reader’s while to remark what was happening at Maxfield.Tom and Jill woke one morning to discover themselves lord and lady of the situation. In their lamentations, not unmingled with a sense of injury, at the desertion of which they were the victims, it had not occurred to them to realise that there were alleviating circumstances in their forlorn condition.The great manor-house was theirs—library, dining-hall, corridors, haunted chamber, roof, cellars—all except the servant’s hall and the room where Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, held austere sway. The park was theirs, the woods, the stream, the paddocks, and the live-stock. Nay, when they came to reckon all up, half the county was theirs, and a mile or so of sea-beach into the bargain.They were absolutely free to roam where they liked, do what they liked, eat what they liked, and sit up at night to any hour that pleased them. Mrs Parker, good soul, though excellent in academic exhortations and prohibitions, was too infirm to put her laws into active practice; and when, a day or two after the place had been left in her charge, she succumbed to a touch of her enemy, the lumbago, and had to take to her bed, these two young persons, though extremely sorry for her misfortune, felt that the whole world lay like a glorious football at their feet.“Good old Jilly!” exclaimed Tom in his balmiest mood one morning, when these two young prodigals assembled for breakfast in the big dining-room at the fashionable hour of eleven, with Raffles in full livery to attend upon them. “This is what I call a lark and a half. Raffles, pass Miss Jill the honey; and walk about, and make yourself useful. I tell you what, we’ll go and have a snap at the pheasants, and try a few drop kicks over the Martyr’s oak. What do you say?”“I can’t shoot awfully well,” said Jill apologetically. “I’d sooner, if you don’t mind, Tom, walk about on the roof, or help you let the water out of the big pond.”“Raffles, old chappie, more toast—a lot more toast for Miss Jill. I’ll have a wing of something myself. The fact is, Jilly,” said he, when Raffles had departed on his quest, “I wanted to get the beast out of the way while I told you I’d got an idea.”“Oh,what, Tom?” asked Jill, in tones of surprised pleasure. Tom glanced round cautiously, and then whispered, “You and I’ll give a small kick-up here on our own hooks. What do you say?”“A party! Oh Tom! how clever of you to think of that!”“You see,” said Tom, accepting the homage meekly, “the other day in the library, when we were turning out all the drawers, I found a whole lot of ‘At Home’ cards, and the list of fellows that were asked to Roger’s birthday party.”“How lovely!” exclaimed Jill; “we’ll just—”But here the return of Raffles, and a significant scowl from Tom, warned her to defer her suggestion.The meal over, the conspirators met in the library, and put their heads together over Tom’s documents.“That’s about the ticket, isn’t it?” said he, displaying one of the invitation cards which he had experimentally filled up.“Dr Brandram—“Mr and Miss Oliphant at home on Wednesday, December 2, at 7 o’clock. Music, dancing, fireworks, etcetera.“R.S.V.P.”“But we haven’t got any fireworks,” suggested Jill; “we’ll have to get some. And what about the band?”“I shall write to the Colonel of the Grenadiers and order it. Anyhow, you can play the Goblin polka if we get stuck up.”Jill wondered whether, after an hour or two, her one piece (even though dear Mr Armstrong liked it) might not pall on a large assembly, and she devoutly hoped the Grenadiers would accept.“There’s a hundred and fifty names down,” said Tom. “May as well have the lot while we’re about it.”“Isn’t two days rather a short invitation?” asked Jill.“Bless you, no. You see, we’re not out of mourning. Besides, Mother Parker may be well again if we don’t look sharp, or Armstrong may turn up.”“How I wish he would!”“He’d spoil everything. Look here, Jill, look alive and write the cards. I’ll call out.”The two spent a most industrious morning, so much so that the household marvelled at their goodness, and remarked to one another, “The children are no trouble at all.”Towards the end of the sitting Tom flung down his paper with a whistle of dismay.“I say, Jill, they ought to be black-edged!”Jill turned pale.“What is to be done?” she gasped.“We’ll have to doctor them with pen and ink,” said Tom.So for another hour or so they occupied themselves painfully in putting their invitations into mourning. The result was not wholly satisfactory, for a card dipped edgeways into a shallow plate of ink is apt to take on its black unevenly. So that while some of the guests were invited with signs of the slightest sorrow, the company of others was requested with tokens of the deepest bereavement. However, on the whole the result was passable, and that evening Tom slunk down to Yeld post office with a bundle under his arm. At the last moment a difficulty had arisen with regard to postage, as, between them, the two could not raise the thirteen shillings required to stamp the lot. However, by a lucky accident Tom discovered a bundle of halfpenny wrappers, the property of the estate, which (after scrupulously writing an I.O.U. for the amount) he borrowed.“Saved a clean six-and-six by that,” he remarked, when the last was licked up; “that’ll go into the fireworks.”Jill, whose admiration for her brother’s genius knew no bounds, felt almost happy.It was Monday evening when the Yeld post-master was exercised in his mind by hearing a loud rap down-stairs, which on inquiry he found to have proceeded from the discharge of 150 mysterious-looking halfpenny missives, written in a very round hand, into his box. Being an active and intelligent person, he felt it his duty to examine one, addressed, as it happened, to the Duke of Somewhere. After some consideration, and a study of his rules and regulations, he came to the conclusion that the enclosure was of the nature of a letter, and thereupon proceeded to mark each with a claim for a penny excess postage. Which done, he retired to his parlour, relieved in his mind.Tom and Jill had more to do than to speculate on the adventures of their carefully-written cards.“Now about grub!” said Tom that evening.Once more Jill turned a little pale. She had been dreading this fateful question all along.“What do you think?” said she diplomatically.Tom, of course, had thought the problem out.“We must keep it dark from the slaveys,” said he, “at least till everybody comes, then they’re bound to give us a leg up. I fancy we can scrape a thing or two up from what’s in the house. And I’ve called in at one or two of the shops at Yeld and told them to send up some things addressed to ‘Miss J. Oliphant—private.’ There was rather a nice lot of herrings just in, so I got three dozen of them cheap. Then I told them at the confectioner’s to send up all the strawberry ices they could in the time, and 150 buns. You see everybody is sure not to come, so there’ll be plenty to go round.”“Didn’t Mr Rusk ask what they were for?” inquired Jill.“I said Mr Oliphant presented his kind regards, and would be glad to have the things sharp.”Next morning, greatly to the delight of the hospitable pair, the herrings came up in a basket, addressed privately to Miss Jill. Later in the day tradesmen’s carts rattled up the back drive with similar missives, not a little to the bewilderment of the servants of the house, who shook their heads and wished Mrs Parker would make a speedy recovery.Tom adroitly captured the booty, and half won over Raffles to aid and abet in the great undertaking.“Good old Raffy,” said he, as the two staggered across the hall with one of Miss Jill’s private boxes between them; “would you like a threepenny bit?”Raffles, whose ideas of a tip were elastic, admitted that he was open to receive even the smallest coin.“All right, mum’s the word. Jill and I have a thing on, and we don’t want it spoiled by the slaveys.”Raffles said that, as far as he knew, the “slaveys” were thinking about anything else than the proceedings of the two young Oliphants. “Besides,” said he, “being ’olidays, there’s only me and the cook, and a maid—and she’s took up with nursing Mrs Parker.”“Poor old Parker! How is she? Pretty chippy? Sorry she’s laid up. All serene, Raff. Keep it mum, and you shall have the threepenny. Jolly heavy box that—that’s the cocoa-nuts.”“Oh, you’re going to have a feast, are you?” said Raffles.“Getting on that way,” said Tom. “We can’t ask you, you know, because you’ll have to wait. But you shall have some of the leavings if you back us up.”With locked doors that night Tom and Jill unpacked and took stock of their commissariat.“Thirty-six herrings cut up in four,” said Tom, with an arithmetical precision which would have gratified Mr Armstrong, “makes 144 goes of herring. If every man-jack turns up, that’ll only be six goes short, and if you and I sit out of it, only four. We might cheek in a head or two by accident to make that up.”“Who will cook them?” asked Jill.“Oh, we can do that, I fancy, on a tray or something. Then six cocoa-nuts into 150 will be twenty-five. You’ll have to cut each one into twenty-five bits, Jill. Then one bun apiece, and—oh, the ice! How on earth are we to slice that up? There’s about a soup-plate full. Couldn’t get strawberry, so he’s sent coffee.”“Ugh!” said Jill; “I’ll give up my share.”“I did my best,” said Tom. “It’s not my fault strawberries are out of season.”“Of course not. You’re awfully clever, Tom. What should I have done without you?”“Good old Jilly! What about plates?”The consultation lasted far into the night.Next morning the post brought a dozen or so of polite notes which sent the hearts of the hospitable pair into their mouths. The first they opened was from the Duke of Somewhere, who gravely “accepted with pleasure Mr and Miss Oliphant’s polite invitation.”Several of the others were acceptances—one or two refusals.“Five scratched already,” said Tom. “That’ll make it all right for the herrings.”In the afternoon Dr Brandram called. He carried his invitation card in his hand.“What game are you at now?” he demanded.“Oh, I say, Doctor, keep it quiet! You’ll come, won’t you? There’ll be a tidy spread—enough to go all round; and the Duke and his lot are coming, and we expect the Grenadiers.”“Doctor,” said Jill, “we shall depend on you so much. Do come early!”Dr Brandram drove back to Yeld in a dazed condition of mind. He was tempted to telegraph to the Duke and the county generally; to set a body of police to prevent any one entering the Maxfield gates; to shut the two miscreants up in the coal-cellar; to run away, and not return till next week.But after an hysterical consultation with himself, he decided that it was too late to do anything but cast in his lot with the other victims, and go dressed in all his best to Miss Oliphant’s “At Home,” and do what he could to steer her and her graceless brother out of their predicament.As the fateful hour approached, Tom began to be a little nervous. He had not anticipated the vast number of small details demanding his personal attention.For instance, there was the cooking of the herrings. Jill had nobly undertaken that task at the drawing-room fire, which was the most capacious. But then, if they ran it too fine, the guests might arrive while the fish were still fizzling on the tray. If, on the other hand, they were cooked too soon, they would be lukewarm by the time the guests came to sit down to them. Again, there were the starlights and Roman candles to get into position outside, and arrangements had to be made for their protection from the damp November mist. Then, too, the faithless Grenadiers had not turned up, which necessitated Jill deserting her herrings and privately practising the Goblin polka, in view of possible emergencies. Further, the table had to be laid, and every guest’s “go” of buns, and cocoa-nut, and coffee-ice, doled out in readiness. And at the last moment there arose a difficulty in raising the requisite number of knives, forks, spoons, and plates. Then he discovered that the covers were still on the drawing-room chairs and the dust-cloth on the floor, and much time and trouble was necessary for their removal. Finally, he and Jill had to dress to receive their guests.“I think it will be a jolly evening,” said he somewhat doubtfully, as they hurried to their rooms.“I’m sure it will,” said Jill, whose mind had not once been clouded by a doubt. “The herrings will be cold, that’s the only thing. But they may think that’s the newest fashion.”“Look sharp and dress, anyhow,” said Tom, “because you’ve got to cut them in fours and stick them round on the plates, and it’s half-past six already.”Half an hour later a grand carriage and pair drove up to the door, and Raffles solemnly announced—“His Grace the Duke of Somewhere, and the Ladies Marigold.”Miss Oliphant’s evening party had begun!

Maxfield Manor, however cheery a place in summer-time, with its household in full swing, was decidedly desolate in dark November weather, with only a housekeeper in charge—that is to say, to any one but the two young persons on whom the honours of the house devolved, it would have appeared dull.

Mr Armstrong delayed his visit to Oxford for some days after the departure of the Captain and Roger. There was a good deal of business to be done in connection with the estate, and as Mr Pottinger discovered, when the second trustee did take it into his head to look into things, it was no child’s play. He had an uncomfortable manner, this tutor, of demanding explanations and particulars with all the air of the proprietor himself, and was not to be put off by any dilatory tactics on the part of the official with whom the explanation lay. As in the present case the business transacted was chiefly in connection with leases and conveyances, the unfortunate lawyer had a rough week of it, and felt at the end very much like one of his own clients after a year in Chancery. However, the inquisitor appeared to be fairly well satisfied when all was done, so that Mr Pottinger, who all along had on his mind the uncomfortable consciousness of a few well-hidden irregularities, was doubly relieved when the tutor dropped his glass finally from his eye and observed—

“I need not trouble you further at present, sir.”

It was after this final interview that Mr Armstrong looked in on his friend the doctor.

“I’m off to Oxford for a day or two,” said he.

“No attractions here?” asked the doctor.

“Yes—you among others.”

“And who’s to wash and dress the babies at Maxfield? And who is to keep the wolf from the fold at the Vicarage? and who is to keep an eye on the man of the law across the way?”

“The babes are well qualified to nurture one another. The man of the law is under closer observation than he imagines. As to the wolf, I came to speak to you about that. He may make a descent on the fold, in which case Dr Brandram must go out with swords and staves and give him battle.”

The doctor laughed.

“I like your ideas of the medical profession. Its duties are variegated and lively. However, make yourself easy this time. I hear to-day that the young ladies at the Vicarage with their governess are to go on Monday to Devonshire.”

“Good,” said Mr Armstrong, decidedly relieved.

“When does your ward return?” said the doctor. “I dislike this London business altogether. Oliphant is not to be trusted with a boy of his delicate make. You should have stopped it.”

The tutor said nothing, but looked decidedly dejected. He was greatly tempted to confide the difficulties of the situation to his friend. But the dead Squire’s secret was not his to give away.

“Unless they come home soon,” said he, “I have a notion of returning from Oxford by way of London.”

“Do—the sooner the better.”

When, on the next day, Miss Rosalind sailed up to Maxfield to bid her brother and sister farewell, it fell to the tutor’s lot to escort her back to the Vicarage.

“Mr Armstrong,” said she abruptly, as they went, “why have you and Roger quarrelled?”

Mr Armstrong looked round uncomfortably.

“Quarrelled?”

“Yes. Do you suppose he would go away like this for any other reason? Won’t you tell me what it is about?”

“Roger and I have agreed to differ on a certain point. Miss Oliphant. We have not quarrelled?”

“You cannot trust me, I see, or you would tell me what the trouble is.”

“I trust you completely, Miss Oliphant. I will gladly tell you.”

Five minutes ago wild horses would not have extorted the confession from him. But somehow or other, as he looked at her standing there, he could not help himself.

“Roger has got an impression that his elder brother is still living, and is to be found; and, if found, that he ought to be made possessor of Maxfield. I am unable to sympathise in what I look upon as an unprofitable quest. That is the whole story.”

“Why cannot you back him up, Mr Armstrong?”

“I believe his fancy is utterly groundless; besides which, if the person he believes to be the missing brother is really Roger Ingleton, to discover him would mean disgrace to Maxfield, and an injury to the name of Ingleton.”

“What! Mr Armstrong, do you mean to say—”

“I mean to say that Mr Robert Ratman claims to be the lost elder brother, and that Roger credits the story. Miss Oliphant, I am grateful to you for sharing this confidence with me. You can help Roger in this matter better than I can.”

She looked at him with a flush in her face, and then replied rather dismally, “I fear not—for, to be as frank with you as you are with me, I am dreadfully afraid Roger is right. The same fancy passed through my mind when first I saw Mr Ratman. I had recently been studying the lost brother’s portrait, you know, and was struck and horrified by the resemblance. Mr Armstrong,” added she, after a pause, “if I were Roger’s guardian and tutor, I would stand by him all the more that his duty is an unpleasant one. Thank you; here we are at the gate. Good-bye. I hope you will have a pleasant time at Oxford.”

And she passed in, leaving the good man in a sad state of bewilderment and perplexity.

He started a day or two later in a somewhat depressed frame of mind for Oxford, where he astonished and delighted most of his old creditors by calling and paying off a further instalment of his debts to them. But his satisfaction in this act of restitution was sadly tempered by the sense of coercion put upon him by the doctor and Rosalind, and the conviction that, wise or foolish, pleasant or unpleasant, his place was at his young pupil’s side. No excuse, or pleadings of a false pride, could dispel the feeling. No, he must climb down, own himself wrong, and sue for permission to assist in a quest in which he had little faith and still less inclination.

While he is making up his mind, it may be worth the reader’s while to remark what was happening at Maxfield.

Tom and Jill woke one morning to discover themselves lord and lady of the situation. In their lamentations, not unmingled with a sense of injury, at the desertion of which they were the victims, it had not occurred to them to realise that there were alleviating circumstances in their forlorn condition.

The great manor-house was theirs—library, dining-hall, corridors, haunted chamber, roof, cellars—all except the servant’s hall and the room where Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, held austere sway. The park was theirs, the woods, the stream, the paddocks, and the live-stock. Nay, when they came to reckon all up, half the county was theirs, and a mile or so of sea-beach into the bargain.

They were absolutely free to roam where they liked, do what they liked, eat what they liked, and sit up at night to any hour that pleased them. Mrs Parker, good soul, though excellent in academic exhortations and prohibitions, was too infirm to put her laws into active practice; and when, a day or two after the place had been left in her charge, she succumbed to a touch of her enemy, the lumbago, and had to take to her bed, these two young persons, though extremely sorry for her misfortune, felt that the whole world lay like a glorious football at their feet.

“Good old Jilly!” exclaimed Tom in his balmiest mood one morning, when these two young prodigals assembled for breakfast in the big dining-room at the fashionable hour of eleven, with Raffles in full livery to attend upon them. “This is what I call a lark and a half. Raffles, pass Miss Jill the honey; and walk about, and make yourself useful. I tell you what, we’ll go and have a snap at the pheasants, and try a few drop kicks over the Martyr’s oak. What do you say?”

“I can’t shoot awfully well,” said Jill apologetically. “I’d sooner, if you don’t mind, Tom, walk about on the roof, or help you let the water out of the big pond.”

“Raffles, old chappie, more toast—a lot more toast for Miss Jill. I’ll have a wing of something myself. The fact is, Jilly,” said he, when Raffles had departed on his quest, “I wanted to get the beast out of the way while I told you I’d got an idea.”

“Oh,what, Tom?” asked Jill, in tones of surprised pleasure. Tom glanced round cautiously, and then whispered, “You and I’ll give a small kick-up here on our own hooks. What do you say?”

“A party! Oh Tom! how clever of you to think of that!”

“You see,” said Tom, accepting the homage meekly, “the other day in the library, when we were turning out all the drawers, I found a whole lot of ‘At Home’ cards, and the list of fellows that were asked to Roger’s birthday party.”

“How lovely!” exclaimed Jill; “we’ll just—”

But here the return of Raffles, and a significant scowl from Tom, warned her to defer her suggestion.

The meal over, the conspirators met in the library, and put their heads together over Tom’s documents.

“That’s about the ticket, isn’t it?” said he, displaying one of the invitation cards which he had experimentally filled up.

“Dr Brandram—“Mr and Miss Oliphant at home on Wednesday, December 2, at 7 o’clock. Music, dancing, fireworks, etcetera.“R.S.V.P.”

“Dr Brandram—

“Mr and Miss Oliphant at home on Wednesday, December 2, at 7 o’clock. Music, dancing, fireworks, etcetera.

“R.S.V.P.”

“But we haven’t got any fireworks,” suggested Jill; “we’ll have to get some. And what about the band?”

“I shall write to the Colonel of the Grenadiers and order it. Anyhow, you can play the Goblin polka if we get stuck up.”

Jill wondered whether, after an hour or two, her one piece (even though dear Mr Armstrong liked it) might not pall on a large assembly, and she devoutly hoped the Grenadiers would accept.

“There’s a hundred and fifty names down,” said Tom. “May as well have the lot while we’re about it.”

“Isn’t two days rather a short invitation?” asked Jill.

“Bless you, no. You see, we’re not out of mourning. Besides, Mother Parker may be well again if we don’t look sharp, or Armstrong may turn up.”

“How I wish he would!”

“He’d spoil everything. Look here, Jill, look alive and write the cards. I’ll call out.”

The two spent a most industrious morning, so much so that the household marvelled at their goodness, and remarked to one another, “The children are no trouble at all.”

Towards the end of the sitting Tom flung down his paper with a whistle of dismay.

“I say, Jill, they ought to be black-edged!”

Jill turned pale.

“What is to be done?” she gasped.

“We’ll have to doctor them with pen and ink,” said Tom.

So for another hour or so they occupied themselves painfully in putting their invitations into mourning. The result was not wholly satisfactory, for a card dipped edgeways into a shallow plate of ink is apt to take on its black unevenly. So that while some of the guests were invited with signs of the slightest sorrow, the company of others was requested with tokens of the deepest bereavement. However, on the whole the result was passable, and that evening Tom slunk down to Yeld post office with a bundle under his arm. At the last moment a difficulty had arisen with regard to postage, as, between them, the two could not raise the thirteen shillings required to stamp the lot. However, by a lucky accident Tom discovered a bundle of halfpenny wrappers, the property of the estate, which (after scrupulously writing an I.O.U. for the amount) he borrowed.

“Saved a clean six-and-six by that,” he remarked, when the last was licked up; “that’ll go into the fireworks.”

Jill, whose admiration for her brother’s genius knew no bounds, felt almost happy.

It was Monday evening when the Yeld post-master was exercised in his mind by hearing a loud rap down-stairs, which on inquiry he found to have proceeded from the discharge of 150 mysterious-looking halfpenny missives, written in a very round hand, into his box. Being an active and intelligent person, he felt it his duty to examine one, addressed, as it happened, to the Duke of Somewhere. After some consideration, and a study of his rules and regulations, he came to the conclusion that the enclosure was of the nature of a letter, and thereupon proceeded to mark each with a claim for a penny excess postage. Which done, he retired to his parlour, relieved in his mind.

Tom and Jill had more to do than to speculate on the adventures of their carefully-written cards.

“Now about grub!” said Tom that evening.

Once more Jill turned a little pale. She had been dreading this fateful question all along.

“What do you think?” said she diplomatically.

Tom, of course, had thought the problem out.

“We must keep it dark from the slaveys,” said he, “at least till everybody comes, then they’re bound to give us a leg up. I fancy we can scrape a thing or two up from what’s in the house. And I’ve called in at one or two of the shops at Yeld and told them to send up some things addressed to ‘Miss J. Oliphant—private.’ There was rather a nice lot of herrings just in, so I got three dozen of them cheap. Then I told them at the confectioner’s to send up all the strawberry ices they could in the time, and 150 buns. You see everybody is sure not to come, so there’ll be plenty to go round.”

“Didn’t Mr Rusk ask what they were for?” inquired Jill.

“I said Mr Oliphant presented his kind regards, and would be glad to have the things sharp.”

Next morning, greatly to the delight of the hospitable pair, the herrings came up in a basket, addressed privately to Miss Jill. Later in the day tradesmen’s carts rattled up the back drive with similar missives, not a little to the bewilderment of the servants of the house, who shook their heads and wished Mrs Parker would make a speedy recovery.

Tom adroitly captured the booty, and half won over Raffles to aid and abet in the great undertaking.

“Good old Raffy,” said he, as the two staggered across the hall with one of Miss Jill’s private boxes between them; “would you like a threepenny bit?”

Raffles, whose ideas of a tip were elastic, admitted that he was open to receive even the smallest coin.

“All right, mum’s the word. Jill and I have a thing on, and we don’t want it spoiled by the slaveys.”

Raffles said that, as far as he knew, the “slaveys” were thinking about anything else than the proceedings of the two young Oliphants. “Besides,” said he, “being ’olidays, there’s only me and the cook, and a maid—and she’s took up with nursing Mrs Parker.”

“Poor old Parker! How is she? Pretty chippy? Sorry she’s laid up. All serene, Raff. Keep it mum, and you shall have the threepenny. Jolly heavy box that—that’s the cocoa-nuts.”

“Oh, you’re going to have a feast, are you?” said Raffles.

“Getting on that way,” said Tom. “We can’t ask you, you know, because you’ll have to wait. But you shall have some of the leavings if you back us up.”

With locked doors that night Tom and Jill unpacked and took stock of their commissariat.

“Thirty-six herrings cut up in four,” said Tom, with an arithmetical precision which would have gratified Mr Armstrong, “makes 144 goes of herring. If every man-jack turns up, that’ll only be six goes short, and if you and I sit out of it, only four. We might cheek in a head or two by accident to make that up.”

“Who will cook them?” asked Jill.

“Oh, we can do that, I fancy, on a tray or something. Then six cocoa-nuts into 150 will be twenty-five. You’ll have to cut each one into twenty-five bits, Jill. Then one bun apiece, and—oh, the ice! How on earth are we to slice that up? There’s about a soup-plate full. Couldn’t get strawberry, so he’s sent coffee.”

“Ugh!” said Jill; “I’ll give up my share.”

“I did my best,” said Tom. “It’s not my fault strawberries are out of season.”

“Of course not. You’re awfully clever, Tom. What should I have done without you?”

“Good old Jilly! What about plates?”

The consultation lasted far into the night.

Next morning the post brought a dozen or so of polite notes which sent the hearts of the hospitable pair into their mouths. The first they opened was from the Duke of Somewhere, who gravely “accepted with pleasure Mr and Miss Oliphant’s polite invitation.”

Several of the others were acceptances—one or two refusals.

“Five scratched already,” said Tom. “That’ll make it all right for the herrings.”

In the afternoon Dr Brandram called. He carried his invitation card in his hand.

“What game are you at now?” he demanded.

“Oh, I say, Doctor, keep it quiet! You’ll come, won’t you? There’ll be a tidy spread—enough to go all round; and the Duke and his lot are coming, and we expect the Grenadiers.”

“Doctor,” said Jill, “we shall depend on you so much. Do come early!”

Dr Brandram drove back to Yeld in a dazed condition of mind. He was tempted to telegraph to the Duke and the county generally; to set a body of police to prevent any one entering the Maxfield gates; to shut the two miscreants up in the coal-cellar; to run away, and not return till next week.

But after an hysterical consultation with himself, he decided that it was too late to do anything but cast in his lot with the other victims, and go dressed in all his best to Miss Oliphant’s “At Home,” and do what he could to steer her and her graceless brother out of their predicament.

As the fateful hour approached, Tom began to be a little nervous. He had not anticipated the vast number of small details demanding his personal attention.

For instance, there was the cooking of the herrings. Jill had nobly undertaken that task at the drawing-room fire, which was the most capacious. But then, if they ran it too fine, the guests might arrive while the fish were still fizzling on the tray. If, on the other hand, they were cooked too soon, they would be lukewarm by the time the guests came to sit down to them. Again, there were the starlights and Roman candles to get into position outside, and arrangements had to be made for their protection from the damp November mist. Then, too, the faithless Grenadiers had not turned up, which necessitated Jill deserting her herrings and privately practising the Goblin polka, in view of possible emergencies. Further, the table had to be laid, and every guest’s “go” of buns, and cocoa-nut, and coffee-ice, doled out in readiness. And at the last moment there arose a difficulty in raising the requisite number of knives, forks, spoons, and plates. Then he discovered that the covers were still on the drawing-room chairs and the dust-cloth on the floor, and much time and trouble was necessary for their removal. Finally, he and Jill had to dress to receive their guests.

“I think it will be a jolly evening,” said he somewhat doubtfully, as they hurried to their rooms.

“I’m sure it will,” said Jill, whose mind had not once been clouded by a doubt. “The herrings will be cold, that’s the only thing. But they may think that’s the newest fashion.”

“Look sharp and dress, anyhow,” said Tom, “because you’ve got to cut them in fours and stick them round on the plates, and it’s half-past six already.”

Half an hour later a grand carriage and pair drove up to the door, and Raffles solemnly announced—

“His Grace the Duke of Somewhere, and the Ladies Marigold.”

Miss Oliphant’s evening party had begun!

Chapter Eighteen.Miss Jill Oliphant At Home.When His Grace, who had been a good deal puzzled by his abrupt, under-stamped invitation, stepped, head in air, into the drawing-room, he was somewhat taken aback to discover neither the captain nor his charming elder daughter, but instead, to be greeted by a little girl, nervously put forward by a small boy, and saying—“Oh, duke,doyou mind coming? I hope you’ll enjoy the party so much. There’ll be some dancing presently, and supper as soon as all the others come.”“You’re the first,” said Tom. “Never mind, the others won’t be long. Like to read the newspaper, or take a turn round?”Mentally he was calculating how he should manage to squeeze in the duke’s two daughters, who hadn’t been invited, at his hospitable board.The duke smiled affably.“We are rather early, but Miss Rosalind will excuse—”“Oh, she’s away—so is father. This is my party and Tom’s. Oh, duke, do try and like it!” said Jill, taking the great man’s hand.The duke cast a scared look over his shoulder at his daughters, who were staring in a somewhat awestruck manner at their two small hosts.“If the girls would like to begin dancing,” suggested Tom, “Jill can play her piece now, and you can take one, and I’ll take the other. It’ll keep the things going, you know, till the rest turn up.”At this juncture Dr Brandram was announced, greatly to Tom’s delight, who, among so many strangers, was beginning to feel a little shy.“That’s all right,” said he. “Good old Brandy! you lead off with one of the Marigold girls, while I stop here and do the how-d’ye-do’s.”The doctor, with a serious face, led His Grace aside.“This appears to be a freak of the two young people,” said he. “They are the only members of the family at home. I am very sorry you have been victimised.”“Tut, tut,” said the duke, recovering his good-humour rapidly, “I don’t mean to be a victim at all. I mean to enjoy myself; so do you, doctor. Girls,” said he to his daughters, “you must see the youngsters through this. Ha, ha! what is the rising generation coming to, to be sure.”Arrivals now began to drop in smartly, and as Tom looked round on the gradually filling drawing-room, a mild perspiration broke out on his ingenious brow.Jill had gallantly struck up her polka on the piano, but as no one listened and no one danced, she gave it up and returned to the support of her brother.“It’s going splendidly,” said Tom in a stage whisper; “they all seem to be enjoying it.”They certainly were—for as each gradually took in the situation, and received his cue from his neighbour, an unwonted air of humour permeated the room.A few hoity-toity persons of course felt outraged, and would have ordered their carriages had there been any one to order them from. The honest Raffles was, to tell the truth, secretly busy, on a signal from Tom, preparing for the banquet in the dining-room, and no other servant was to be seen.“My dear,” said Mrs Pottinger, in a severely audible voice to her husband, “I wish to return home. Will you get our carriage? My ideas of amusement do not correspond with those of the young people.”“Oh, don’t go yet!” said Tom, with beaming face, for he had caught sight of Raffles’ powdered wig at the door; “there’s some grub ready in the next room. It would have been ready before, only the herrings—”“Tom,” said Jill, “there’s the Bishop just come. He couldn’t come for Roger’s birthday, you know.”“How do you do, Bishop?” said Tom, grasping the new arrival by the hand. “Jolly you could come this time. I was just saying there’s some grub in the next room. Jill, Raff had better ring up on the gong, tell him.”Raffles accordingly sounded an alarm on the gong, which brought the company to attention.“Supper!” cried Tom encouragingly, and led the way, allowing the company generally to sort themselves.The Duke behaved nobly that night. He gallantly gave his arm to Jill, and asked the Bishop to bring in one of his daughters. This saved Miss Oliphant’s party from the collapse which threatened it. Every one took the cue from the great people. Even Mrs Pottinger accepted the arm of the curate, and the ardent youths, who had all arrived under the delusion that Miss Rosalind was the hostess, forgot their disappointment, and vowed to see the youngsters through with it.“Oh, Duke!” said Jill, hanging affectionately on her noble escort’s arm, “are you liking it? Do try and like it! It’s Tom’s and my first party, and we want it to be a jolly one.”“I never enjoyed a party half so much,” said His Grace.Jill thought him at that moment almost as nice as dear Mr Armstrong.“Jill,” said Tom, waylaying his sister at the door, “we might have cut the herrings in three after all. Never mind, some of them will be able to have two goes. I’ll see you do. Good old Jilly. Isn’t it going off prime? And you know, the fireworks are still to come!”It was too severe a strain on the gravity of some of the guests when they beheld each his “go” of lukewarm herring, cocoa-nut, coffee-ice, and penny bun, with a single plate to accommodate the whole, on the board before him. But the laughter, if it reached the ears of the genial host and hostess, was taken by them as a symptom of delight, in which they heartily shared.Tom, as he cast his eye down the festive board—object of so much solicitude and physical exertion—never felt happier in his life. More than half of the company would be able to get a second helping of fish and bun!“Wire in,” said he to his guests generally, and to the younger Lady Marigold, his next neighbour, in particular, “before it gets cold. Awfully sorry the cocoa-nut milk wasn’t enough to go round, so Jill and I thought—”Here a guilty look from Jill pulled him up. Dear old Jilly, he wouldn’t let out on her for worlds.A good many eyes turned curiously to where the Duke sat with his “go” before him. Those who were quick at observing details noticed that he had ranged his cocoa-nut and ice on the edge of his plate, and was beginning to attack his herring with every sign of relish. His portion consisted mostly of hard roe, for which he had no natural predilection, but this evening he seemed to enjoy it, helping it down with occasional bites at the bun, and keeping up a cheerful conversation the while.The Bishop, too, who had a tail, was making a capital meal, as were also several other of the guests near him.“Capital fish!” said the Duke presently. Then beckoning to Raffles, “Can you get me a little more?”“Yes, your grace.”Tom felt a little anxious lest Raffles should select from out of the surplus “goes” one of those with the heads which were to eke out in a last emergency. But when he saw that the duke’s second helping consisted of a prime “waist” he rejoiced with all his heart.“Isn’t it nice?” asked Jill, who had been busily at work under the shadow of his ducal wing.“My dear little lady, I never tasted such a meal in my life.”In due time the cocoa-nut and coffee-ice were attacked with quite as much relish as the first course; after which Tom, looking a little warm, rose and made a little speech.“I hope you’ve all liked it,” said he. “I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough, but some of them didn’t turn up, so it was all right after all. Jill—that’s my young sister here—cut the ‘goes’ up, and I don’t know anybody more fair all round than her. She and I are awfully glad you came, and hope you’ll have a good old time. Please don’t tell the governor or Rosalind we gave this party. I beg to propose the health of my young sister—good old Jilly. She’s a regular brick, and has backed up no end in this do. No heel-taps!”A good many healths had been drunk in the county during the year, but few of them were more genuinely responded to than this. And no queen ever bore her honours more delightfully than the little heroine of the evening.“I suppose we’d better cut into the next room now,” suggested Tom, when this function was over. “There’ll be some fireworks by and by; but any one who likes a hop meanwhile can have one. Jill knows a ripping piece to play.”The invitation was cordially responded to, and when, after sundry repetitions of the “ripping” piece, the eldest Miss Marigold offered to play a waltz, and after her Miss Shafto relieved duty with a polka, and after her one of the ardent youths actually condescended to perform a set of quadrilles, in which His Grace the Duke, with Jill as his partner, led offvis-à-viswith the Bishop and the sister of the member for the county, there was no room to doubt the glorious success of Miss Oliphant’s party.Tom meanwhile, joyous at heart, warm in temperature, and excited in mind, was groping on his knees on the damp grass outside the drawing-room window, fixing his two threepenny Roman candles in reversed flower pots, and planting his starlights, crackers, and Catherine-wheels in advantageous positions in the vicinity, casting now and again a delighted glance at the animated scene within, and wondering if he had ever spent a jollier evening anywhere.It disturbed him to hear a vehicle rattle up the drive, and to argue therefrom that some belated guest had missed the feast. Never mind; he shouldn’t be quite out of it.“Raffles,” called he, as he caught sight of that hardworking functionary through the dining-room window removing thedébrisof the banquet, “leave a few ‘goes’ out on the table for any chaps who come late, and then go and tell Jill I’m ready, and turn down the gas in the drawing-room.”In due time Raffles delivered his momentous message.“Oh, the fireworks!” cried Miss Jill, clapping her hands, “the fireworks are to begin. Aren’t you glad, duke? Do get a good seat before the gas is turned down.”The company crowded into the big bay-window, and endured the extinction of the light with great good-humour. Indeed, a certain gentleman who entered the room at this particular juncture, seeing nothing, but hearing the laughter and talk, said to himself that this was as merry an occasion as it had been his lot to participate in.The dim form of Tom might be seen hovering without, armed with a bull’s-eye lantern, at which he diligently kindling matches, which refused to stay in long enough to ignite the refractory fireworks.“Never mind,” said he to himself, “they’ll like it when they do go off.”So they did. After a quarter of an hour’s waiting one of the Roman candles went off with vastéclat, and after it two crackers simultaneously gave chase to the operator half-way round the lawn. One of the Catherine-wheels was also prevailed upon to give a few languid rotations on its axis, and some of the squibs, which had unfortunately got damp, condescended, after being inserted bodily into the lantern, to go off. Presently, however, the wind got into the lantern, and the matches being by this time exhausted, and the starlights refusing to depart from their usual abhorrence for spontaneous combustion, the judicious Tom deemed it prudent to pronounce this part of the entertainment at an end.“All over!” he shouted through the window. “Turn up the light.”When, after the applause which greeted this imposing display, the gas was turned up, the first sight which met Miss Jill’s eyes was the form of Mr Robert Ratman, in travelling costume, nodding familiarly across the room.At the sight the little lady’s face blanched, and the joy of the evening vanished like smoke.“Oh, Duke!” she exclaimed, clinging to her guest’s arm, “do please turn that wicked man there out of the house. We didn’t invite him, and he’s no right, really. If dear Mr Armstrong was only here! Please put him out.”The duke looked a little blank at this appeal.“Why, child, really? Who is he?” he asked.“A wicked, bad man, that I hate; and I did think you would be kind enough to—”“What is his name?”“Mr Ratman; he hurt me awfully once.”The duke, feeling that Miss Oliphant’s party was taking rather a serious turn, walked across the room to where Mr Ratman was already engaged in an uncomfortable colloquy with Dr Brandram.“What are you doing here?” the doctor had asked.“That’s my business,” said Mr Ratman. “For the matter of that, what are you doing here?”“Among other things, I am here to see that the young people of the house are not annoyed by the intrusion of a person called Ratman.”“And I,” said the duke, coming up, “am here to advise you to save trouble by leaving the house.”“And who are you, sir?”“I am the Duke of Somewhere.”“Proud to renew my acquaintance, sir. May I ask if you have quite forgotten me?”“Sir, you have the advantage of me. I never saw you before.”“Pardon me, my lord, you saw me a month ago, at a birthday party in this very house.”“If so, I was not sufficiently impressed sir, to remember you now. I repeat my request as the friend of the young lady.”“Ah, indeed!” said Ratman; “I am not aware, your grace, of your right to speak to me in the name of Miss Oliphant, or anybody else.”“Oh,” said Tom, arriving on the scene at this juncture, “you there, Ratty? you’d better clear out. All the grub’s done, and you’re not wanted here. We didn’t ask you—took care not to. Rosalind’s not here. This is Jilly’s and my party. Isn’t it, you chaps?” The chaps appealed to, His Grace, the doctor, and one or two of the other guests, corroborated this statement.Mr Ratman leant comfortably against the wall.“Flattering reception,” said he. “I am inclined to take your lordship’s advice and go; but before I do, may I ask your lordship again if you really do not remember me?”“I never saw you before, sir,” said His Grace; “and allow me to add, I have no desire to see you again.”“DearDuke!” whispered Jill encouragingly, putting her hand in his.“Odd the changes a few years make,” rejoined Mr Ratman. “I presume your lordship’s memory can carry you back a little time—say twenty years?”“What of that, sir?”“Merely that if that is so, you probably can remember a lad named Roger Ingleton who lived in this house, son of the old Squire.”There was a dead silence now, and the Duke looked in a startled way at the speaker.“I see you remember that boy,” said the intruder; “and you probably heard the story of my—I mean his quarrel with his father, and also heard of his supposed death. Now, your grace, put twenty years on to that boy, and suppose the story of his death was a myth, then say again you don’t remember me.”“What, you mean to sayyouare young Roger Ingleton?”“At your grace’s service.”Tom gave a whistle, half dismay, half amusement. The doctor smiled contemptuously. The duke bit his lip and gazed stolidly at the speaker.“You are not obliged to believe me,” said the latter jauntily; “only you wanted to know my business in Maxfield, and I have told you. I don’t say I’m the heir, for I understand my father was good enough to cut me out of every penny of his estate. And as for being a paragon of virtue, or the opposite, that’s my affair and no one else’s—eh, your grace?”His Grace was much disturbed. He had once seen young Roger Ingleton, at that time a mere boy, but retained no distinct memory of him. At the time of the quarrel between father and son he had been abroad, and the news of the lad’s death had been formally communicated as a matter beyond question. Recognition, as far as he was concerned, was impossible.“You choose a strange time, sir,” said he, “for coming here with this story, when the heir and his guardians are both away.”“I supposed my brother was here,” said Ratman. “In any case he knows who I am; so does your friend the tutor, Dr Brandram.”“Oh, whydoyou stop talking to that hateful man instead of coming, and enjoying the party?” pleaded Jill.“Ah, my little lady, is that you?” said Ratman advancing.But his passage was intercepted by the doctor.“Gently, my friend,” said he. “Now that you have relieved yourself of your pretty story, let me suggest that the easiest way out of this house is by the door.”“Who are you, sir?” blustered Ratman.Dr Brandram laughed.“I must have changed in twenty years as much as you,” said he.“I am not going to askyourleave to be in my father’s house.”“I am not going to ask your leave to put you out of it.”Tom’s spirits rose. There seemed every promise of an unrehearsed entertainment for the delectation of his guests.“I caution you, sir.”“I will take all responsibility,” said the doctor. “Anything more you have to say can just as well be said in Mr Pottinger’s office to-morrow morning as here.”“Thank you, sir,” said Mr Ratman, with a snarl. “It is never pleasant to have to introduce oneself, but I am glad to have had the opportunity before this distinguished company. It is now the turn of the other side to move. If they want me they must find me. Good night, your grace; you are a nice loyal neighbour to an old comrade’s boy. Good night, you, sir; take as much responsibility as you like if it is any satisfaction to you. Good-bye, my pretty little Jill; some day you’ll have to call me cousin Roger, and then we’ll be quits. Good night, gentlemen and ladies all. The prodigal’s return has not been a success, I own, but it’s a fact all the same.Au revoir.”And he bowed himself out.“This fellow is either the most impudent villain I ever met,” said the Duke, “or there is something in his story.”This seemed to be the general impression. A few, Dr Brandram among them, scoffed irreverently at the whole affair. But the majority of those present felt decidedly disturbed by the incident, and poor Miss Jill Oliphant had the mortification of seeing her party drop flat after all.Tom and she made Herculean efforts to rehabilitate it. Jill played her polka till she was tired, and Tom, after setting out all the duplicate “goes” in the hall, retired to grope in the wet grass for a few of the unexploded squibs.Some of the guests did what they could to back their hosts up, and made great show of enjoying themselves, but the Duke was preoccupied, and the Bishop was pensive. The Marigold girls talked in a corner, and Mr Pottinger was out in the hall calling for his carriage.“Odious man!” said the poor little hostess, “he’s spoiled all our fun. No one likes our party now. They’ll all be glad to get away; and we did try so hard to make it jolly.”“Never mind,” said Tom cheerfully, “it would have been worse if he had turned up before the grub and the fireworks. They didn’t miss them. Keep it up, Jilly, I say; it’s going off all right.”When it came to saying good night, every one remembered their genial entertainers, and Jill was a little consoled by the assurances she received on all hands that the evening had been a delightful one.“Try to think it was nice,” said she, “and don’t go saying it was horrid as soon as you get outside. It’s Tom’s and my first party, you know.”And she kissed all the gentlemen, from the Duke downward, and Tom, hovering in the hall, pressed his farewell refreshments, as far as they would go, upon them and gave them a “leg up” into their carriages.Dr Brandram stayed till the end.“I should have to come and see Mrs Parker in the morning in any case,” said he, “so I have told Raffles to make me a shake down in Armstrong’s room to-night. I may as well stay here.”The precaution, however, was unnecessary. Mr Ratman had vanished. He did not call on Mr Pottinger next morning, nor was he to be found at the hotel. He had returned by the early morning train to London.

When His Grace, who had been a good deal puzzled by his abrupt, under-stamped invitation, stepped, head in air, into the drawing-room, he was somewhat taken aback to discover neither the captain nor his charming elder daughter, but instead, to be greeted by a little girl, nervously put forward by a small boy, and saying—

“Oh, duke,doyou mind coming? I hope you’ll enjoy the party so much. There’ll be some dancing presently, and supper as soon as all the others come.”

“You’re the first,” said Tom. “Never mind, the others won’t be long. Like to read the newspaper, or take a turn round?”

Mentally he was calculating how he should manage to squeeze in the duke’s two daughters, who hadn’t been invited, at his hospitable board.

The duke smiled affably.

“We are rather early, but Miss Rosalind will excuse—”

“Oh, she’s away—so is father. This is my party and Tom’s. Oh, duke, do try and like it!” said Jill, taking the great man’s hand.

The duke cast a scared look over his shoulder at his daughters, who were staring in a somewhat awestruck manner at their two small hosts.

“If the girls would like to begin dancing,” suggested Tom, “Jill can play her piece now, and you can take one, and I’ll take the other. It’ll keep the things going, you know, till the rest turn up.”

At this juncture Dr Brandram was announced, greatly to Tom’s delight, who, among so many strangers, was beginning to feel a little shy.

“That’s all right,” said he. “Good old Brandy! you lead off with one of the Marigold girls, while I stop here and do the how-d’ye-do’s.”

The doctor, with a serious face, led His Grace aside.

“This appears to be a freak of the two young people,” said he. “They are the only members of the family at home. I am very sorry you have been victimised.”

“Tut, tut,” said the duke, recovering his good-humour rapidly, “I don’t mean to be a victim at all. I mean to enjoy myself; so do you, doctor. Girls,” said he to his daughters, “you must see the youngsters through this. Ha, ha! what is the rising generation coming to, to be sure.”

Arrivals now began to drop in smartly, and as Tom looked round on the gradually filling drawing-room, a mild perspiration broke out on his ingenious brow.

Jill had gallantly struck up her polka on the piano, but as no one listened and no one danced, she gave it up and returned to the support of her brother.

“It’s going splendidly,” said Tom in a stage whisper; “they all seem to be enjoying it.”

They certainly were—for as each gradually took in the situation, and received his cue from his neighbour, an unwonted air of humour permeated the room.

A few hoity-toity persons of course felt outraged, and would have ordered their carriages had there been any one to order them from. The honest Raffles was, to tell the truth, secretly busy, on a signal from Tom, preparing for the banquet in the dining-room, and no other servant was to be seen.

“My dear,” said Mrs Pottinger, in a severely audible voice to her husband, “I wish to return home. Will you get our carriage? My ideas of amusement do not correspond with those of the young people.”

“Oh, don’t go yet!” said Tom, with beaming face, for he had caught sight of Raffles’ powdered wig at the door; “there’s some grub ready in the next room. It would have been ready before, only the herrings—”

“Tom,” said Jill, “there’s the Bishop just come. He couldn’t come for Roger’s birthday, you know.”

“How do you do, Bishop?” said Tom, grasping the new arrival by the hand. “Jolly you could come this time. I was just saying there’s some grub in the next room. Jill, Raff had better ring up on the gong, tell him.”

Raffles accordingly sounded an alarm on the gong, which brought the company to attention.

“Supper!” cried Tom encouragingly, and led the way, allowing the company generally to sort themselves.

The Duke behaved nobly that night. He gallantly gave his arm to Jill, and asked the Bishop to bring in one of his daughters. This saved Miss Oliphant’s party from the collapse which threatened it. Every one took the cue from the great people. Even Mrs Pottinger accepted the arm of the curate, and the ardent youths, who had all arrived under the delusion that Miss Rosalind was the hostess, forgot their disappointment, and vowed to see the youngsters through with it.

“Oh, Duke!” said Jill, hanging affectionately on her noble escort’s arm, “are you liking it? Do try and like it! It’s Tom’s and my first party, and we want it to be a jolly one.”

“I never enjoyed a party half so much,” said His Grace.

Jill thought him at that moment almost as nice as dear Mr Armstrong.

“Jill,” said Tom, waylaying his sister at the door, “we might have cut the herrings in three after all. Never mind, some of them will be able to have two goes. I’ll see you do. Good old Jilly. Isn’t it going off prime? And you know, the fireworks are still to come!”

It was too severe a strain on the gravity of some of the guests when they beheld each his “go” of lukewarm herring, cocoa-nut, coffee-ice, and penny bun, with a single plate to accommodate the whole, on the board before him. But the laughter, if it reached the ears of the genial host and hostess, was taken by them as a symptom of delight, in which they heartily shared.

Tom, as he cast his eye down the festive board—object of so much solicitude and physical exertion—never felt happier in his life. More than half of the company would be able to get a second helping of fish and bun!

“Wire in,” said he to his guests generally, and to the younger Lady Marigold, his next neighbour, in particular, “before it gets cold. Awfully sorry the cocoa-nut milk wasn’t enough to go round, so Jill and I thought—”

Here a guilty look from Jill pulled him up. Dear old Jilly, he wouldn’t let out on her for worlds.

A good many eyes turned curiously to where the Duke sat with his “go” before him. Those who were quick at observing details noticed that he had ranged his cocoa-nut and ice on the edge of his plate, and was beginning to attack his herring with every sign of relish. His portion consisted mostly of hard roe, for which he had no natural predilection, but this evening he seemed to enjoy it, helping it down with occasional bites at the bun, and keeping up a cheerful conversation the while.

The Bishop, too, who had a tail, was making a capital meal, as were also several other of the guests near him.

“Capital fish!” said the Duke presently. Then beckoning to Raffles, “Can you get me a little more?”

“Yes, your grace.”

Tom felt a little anxious lest Raffles should select from out of the surplus “goes” one of those with the heads which were to eke out in a last emergency. But when he saw that the duke’s second helping consisted of a prime “waist” he rejoiced with all his heart.

“Isn’t it nice?” asked Jill, who had been busily at work under the shadow of his ducal wing.

“My dear little lady, I never tasted such a meal in my life.”

In due time the cocoa-nut and coffee-ice were attacked with quite as much relish as the first course; after which Tom, looking a little warm, rose and made a little speech.

“I hope you’ve all liked it,” said he. “I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough, but some of them didn’t turn up, so it was all right after all. Jill—that’s my young sister here—cut the ‘goes’ up, and I don’t know anybody more fair all round than her. She and I are awfully glad you came, and hope you’ll have a good old time. Please don’t tell the governor or Rosalind we gave this party. I beg to propose the health of my young sister—good old Jilly. She’s a regular brick, and has backed up no end in this do. No heel-taps!”

A good many healths had been drunk in the county during the year, but few of them were more genuinely responded to than this. And no queen ever bore her honours more delightfully than the little heroine of the evening.

“I suppose we’d better cut into the next room now,” suggested Tom, when this function was over. “There’ll be some fireworks by and by; but any one who likes a hop meanwhile can have one. Jill knows a ripping piece to play.”

The invitation was cordially responded to, and when, after sundry repetitions of the “ripping” piece, the eldest Miss Marigold offered to play a waltz, and after her Miss Shafto relieved duty with a polka, and after her one of the ardent youths actually condescended to perform a set of quadrilles, in which His Grace the Duke, with Jill as his partner, led offvis-à-viswith the Bishop and the sister of the member for the county, there was no room to doubt the glorious success of Miss Oliphant’s party.

Tom meanwhile, joyous at heart, warm in temperature, and excited in mind, was groping on his knees on the damp grass outside the drawing-room window, fixing his two threepenny Roman candles in reversed flower pots, and planting his starlights, crackers, and Catherine-wheels in advantageous positions in the vicinity, casting now and again a delighted glance at the animated scene within, and wondering if he had ever spent a jollier evening anywhere.

It disturbed him to hear a vehicle rattle up the drive, and to argue therefrom that some belated guest had missed the feast. Never mind; he shouldn’t be quite out of it.

“Raffles,” called he, as he caught sight of that hardworking functionary through the dining-room window removing thedébrisof the banquet, “leave a few ‘goes’ out on the table for any chaps who come late, and then go and tell Jill I’m ready, and turn down the gas in the drawing-room.”

In due time Raffles delivered his momentous message.

“Oh, the fireworks!” cried Miss Jill, clapping her hands, “the fireworks are to begin. Aren’t you glad, duke? Do get a good seat before the gas is turned down.”

The company crowded into the big bay-window, and endured the extinction of the light with great good-humour. Indeed, a certain gentleman who entered the room at this particular juncture, seeing nothing, but hearing the laughter and talk, said to himself that this was as merry an occasion as it had been his lot to participate in.

The dim form of Tom might be seen hovering without, armed with a bull’s-eye lantern, at which he diligently kindling matches, which refused to stay in long enough to ignite the refractory fireworks.

“Never mind,” said he to himself, “they’ll like it when they do go off.”

So they did. After a quarter of an hour’s waiting one of the Roman candles went off with vastéclat, and after it two crackers simultaneously gave chase to the operator half-way round the lawn. One of the Catherine-wheels was also prevailed upon to give a few languid rotations on its axis, and some of the squibs, which had unfortunately got damp, condescended, after being inserted bodily into the lantern, to go off. Presently, however, the wind got into the lantern, and the matches being by this time exhausted, and the starlights refusing to depart from their usual abhorrence for spontaneous combustion, the judicious Tom deemed it prudent to pronounce this part of the entertainment at an end.

“All over!” he shouted through the window. “Turn up the light.”

When, after the applause which greeted this imposing display, the gas was turned up, the first sight which met Miss Jill’s eyes was the form of Mr Robert Ratman, in travelling costume, nodding familiarly across the room.

At the sight the little lady’s face blanched, and the joy of the evening vanished like smoke.

“Oh, Duke!” she exclaimed, clinging to her guest’s arm, “do please turn that wicked man there out of the house. We didn’t invite him, and he’s no right, really. If dear Mr Armstrong was only here! Please put him out.”

The duke looked a little blank at this appeal.

“Why, child, really? Who is he?” he asked.

“A wicked, bad man, that I hate; and I did think you would be kind enough to—”

“What is his name?”

“Mr Ratman; he hurt me awfully once.”

The duke, feeling that Miss Oliphant’s party was taking rather a serious turn, walked across the room to where Mr Ratman was already engaged in an uncomfortable colloquy with Dr Brandram.

“What are you doing here?” the doctor had asked.

“That’s my business,” said Mr Ratman. “For the matter of that, what are you doing here?”

“Among other things, I am here to see that the young people of the house are not annoyed by the intrusion of a person called Ratman.”

“And I,” said the duke, coming up, “am here to advise you to save trouble by leaving the house.”

“And who are you, sir?”

“I am the Duke of Somewhere.”

“Proud to renew my acquaintance, sir. May I ask if you have quite forgotten me?”

“Sir, you have the advantage of me. I never saw you before.”

“Pardon me, my lord, you saw me a month ago, at a birthday party in this very house.”

“If so, I was not sufficiently impressed sir, to remember you now. I repeat my request as the friend of the young lady.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Ratman; “I am not aware, your grace, of your right to speak to me in the name of Miss Oliphant, or anybody else.”

“Oh,” said Tom, arriving on the scene at this juncture, “you there, Ratty? you’d better clear out. All the grub’s done, and you’re not wanted here. We didn’t ask you—took care not to. Rosalind’s not here. This is Jilly’s and my party. Isn’t it, you chaps?” The chaps appealed to, His Grace, the doctor, and one or two of the other guests, corroborated this statement.

Mr Ratman leant comfortably against the wall.

“Flattering reception,” said he. “I am inclined to take your lordship’s advice and go; but before I do, may I ask your lordship again if you really do not remember me?”

“I never saw you before, sir,” said His Grace; “and allow me to add, I have no desire to see you again.”

“DearDuke!” whispered Jill encouragingly, putting her hand in his.

“Odd the changes a few years make,” rejoined Mr Ratman. “I presume your lordship’s memory can carry you back a little time—say twenty years?”

“What of that, sir?”

“Merely that if that is so, you probably can remember a lad named Roger Ingleton who lived in this house, son of the old Squire.”

There was a dead silence now, and the Duke looked in a startled way at the speaker.

“I see you remember that boy,” said the intruder; “and you probably heard the story of my—I mean his quarrel with his father, and also heard of his supposed death. Now, your grace, put twenty years on to that boy, and suppose the story of his death was a myth, then say again you don’t remember me.”

“What, you mean to sayyouare young Roger Ingleton?”

“At your grace’s service.”

Tom gave a whistle, half dismay, half amusement. The doctor smiled contemptuously. The duke bit his lip and gazed stolidly at the speaker.

“You are not obliged to believe me,” said the latter jauntily; “only you wanted to know my business in Maxfield, and I have told you. I don’t say I’m the heir, for I understand my father was good enough to cut me out of every penny of his estate. And as for being a paragon of virtue, or the opposite, that’s my affair and no one else’s—eh, your grace?”

His Grace was much disturbed. He had once seen young Roger Ingleton, at that time a mere boy, but retained no distinct memory of him. At the time of the quarrel between father and son he had been abroad, and the news of the lad’s death had been formally communicated as a matter beyond question. Recognition, as far as he was concerned, was impossible.

“You choose a strange time, sir,” said he, “for coming here with this story, when the heir and his guardians are both away.”

“I supposed my brother was here,” said Ratman. “In any case he knows who I am; so does your friend the tutor, Dr Brandram.”

“Oh, whydoyou stop talking to that hateful man instead of coming, and enjoying the party?” pleaded Jill.

“Ah, my little lady, is that you?” said Ratman advancing.

But his passage was intercepted by the doctor.

“Gently, my friend,” said he. “Now that you have relieved yourself of your pretty story, let me suggest that the easiest way out of this house is by the door.”

“Who are you, sir?” blustered Ratman.

Dr Brandram laughed.

“I must have changed in twenty years as much as you,” said he.

“I am not going to askyourleave to be in my father’s house.”

“I am not going to ask your leave to put you out of it.”

Tom’s spirits rose. There seemed every promise of an unrehearsed entertainment for the delectation of his guests.

“I caution you, sir.”

“I will take all responsibility,” said the doctor. “Anything more you have to say can just as well be said in Mr Pottinger’s office to-morrow morning as here.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr Ratman, with a snarl. “It is never pleasant to have to introduce oneself, but I am glad to have had the opportunity before this distinguished company. It is now the turn of the other side to move. If they want me they must find me. Good night, your grace; you are a nice loyal neighbour to an old comrade’s boy. Good night, you, sir; take as much responsibility as you like if it is any satisfaction to you. Good-bye, my pretty little Jill; some day you’ll have to call me cousin Roger, and then we’ll be quits. Good night, gentlemen and ladies all. The prodigal’s return has not been a success, I own, but it’s a fact all the same.Au revoir.”

And he bowed himself out.

“This fellow is either the most impudent villain I ever met,” said the Duke, “or there is something in his story.”

This seemed to be the general impression. A few, Dr Brandram among them, scoffed irreverently at the whole affair. But the majority of those present felt decidedly disturbed by the incident, and poor Miss Jill Oliphant had the mortification of seeing her party drop flat after all.

Tom and she made Herculean efforts to rehabilitate it. Jill played her polka till she was tired, and Tom, after setting out all the duplicate “goes” in the hall, retired to grope in the wet grass for a few of the unexploded squibs.

Some of the guests did what they could to back their hosts up, and made great show of enjoying themselves, but the Duke was preoccupied, and the Bishop was pensive. The Marigold girls talked in a corner, and Mr Pottinger was out in the hall calling for his carriage.

“Odious man!” said the poor little hostess, “he’s spoiled all our fun. No one likes our party now. They’ll all be glad to get away; and we did try so hard to make it jolly.”

“Never mind,” said Tom cheerfully, “it would have been worse if he had turned up before the grub and the fireworks. They didn’t miss them. Keep it up, Jilly, I say; it’s going off all right.”

When it came to saying good night, every one remembered their genial entertainers, and Jill was a little consoled by the assurances she received on all hands that the evening had been a delightful one.

“Try to think it was nice,” said she, “and don’t go saying it was horrid as soon as you get outside. It’s Tom’s and my first party, you know.”

And she kissed all the gentlemen, from the Duke downward, and Tom, hovering in the hall, pressed his farewell refreshments, as far as they would go, upon them and gave them a “leg up” into their carriages.

Dr Brandram stayed till the end.

“I should have to come and see Mrs Parker in the morning in any case,” said he, “so I have told Raffles to make me a shake down in Armstrong’s room to-night. I may as well stay here.”

The precaution, however, was unnecessary. Mr Ratman had vanished. He did not call on Mr Pottinger next morning, nor was he to be found at the hotel. He had returned by the early morning train to London.

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