Chapter Thirteen.A Voice from the Dead.Roger Ingleton’s reflections, as he lay awake on the morning of his twentieth birthday, were not altogether self-congratulatory. He was painfully aware that he was what he himself would have styled a poor creature. He was as weak, physically, as a girl; he was not particularly clever; he was given to a melancholy which made him pass for dull in society. Ill-health dogged him whenever he tried to achieve anything out of the commonplace. His tenantry regarded him still as a boy, and very few of his few friends set much store by him for his own sake apart from his fortune.“A poor show altogether,” said he to himself. “That boy on the wall there would have made a much better thing of it. There’s some go in him, especially the copy that Rosalind—”Here he pulled up. In addition to his other misfortunes, it occurred to him now definitely for the first time that he was in love.“She doesn’t care two straws about me,” said he ungratefully; “that is, except in a sisterly way. Why should she? I know nothing about art, which she loves. I’m saddled with pots of money, which she hates. The only way I can interest her is by being ill. I’m not even scape-grace enough to make it worth her while to take me in hand to reform me. Heigho! It’s a pity that brother of mine had not lived. Yes, you,” he added, shaking his head at the portrait, “with your wild harum-scarum face and mocking laugh. You’d have suited her, and been able to make her like you—I can’t. I believe she thinks more of Armstrong than me. Not much wonder either. Only, wouldn’t he be horrified if any one suggested such a thing!”And the somewhat dismal soliloquy ended in a some what dismal laugh, as the heir of Maxfield assumed the perpendicular and pulled up his blind.Mr Armstrong, fresh from his dip in the sea, came in before he had finished dressing.“Well, old fellow,” said he, “many happy returns! How are you—pretty fit?”“I’m not sorry there’s a year between each,” said the boy.“What’s wrong?” said the tutor.“Oh, nothing; only I don’t feel particularly festive. I’ve been lying awake a long time.”“Pity you didn’t get up. Shocking habit to lie in bed after you’re awake.”“At that rate I should often be up at two in the morning,” said Roger.“I doubt it—but what’s wrong?”Roger put down his brush, and flung himself on a chair.“I don’t know—yes, I do. Can’t you guess?”“Cheese for supper,” suggested the tutor seriously.“Don’t be a fool, Armstrong, and don’t laugh at me; I’m not in the mood for a joke. You know what it is well enough.”The tutor’s glass dropped from his eye, and he walked over to the window.“Quite so. I overtook her in the park a quarter of an hour ago, and she is already in the house, wondering why you are so late down on your birthday.”Roger sprang up and resumed his toilet.“Has she really come? Armstrong, I say, I wish I knew how to make her care for me.”“I’m not an expert in these matters, but it occurs to me that the sort of thing you want is not made.”“You mean that if she doesn’t care for me for what I am, it’s no use trying to get her to care for me by being what I am not.”“Roger, you have a brilliant way occasionally of putting things exactly as they should be put.”“That’s not much consolation,” pursued the boy.“Possibly,” said the tutor; “but, as I say, I am not an expert in these delicate affairs. Much as I would like to prescribe, I rather advise your taking a second opinion—your mother’s, say. I was engaged to teach you classics and the sciences, but the art of love was not included among the subjects to be treated of.”Mr Armstrong was late for breakfast that morning. For some reason of his own he wasted ten minutes at his piano before he obeyed the summons of the gong, and the chords he played were mostly minor. But when he did appear his glass was fixed as jauntily as ever, and his pursed lips looked impervious to any impression from within or without.To his surprise, he found Miss Jill waiting outside the door.“I didn’t mean to go in,” said she, “where that horrid man is, till you came. I don’t mind a bit now. Come along, dear Mr Armstrong.”Dear Mr Armstrong came along, feeling decidedly compromised, but yet a little grateful to his loyal adherent.As usual he dropped into his seat at the foot of the table after a bow to Miss Oliphant, and a friendly nod to Tom.Jill, to her consternation, found a seat carefully reserved for her next to Mr Ratman. Her impulse on making the discovery was to run; but a glance at Mr Armstrong, who sat watching her in a friendly way, reassured her. To gain time she went round the table and kissed every one (including the tutor), and especially the hero of the day, whom she artfully tried to persuade, in honour of the occasion, to make room for her next to himself. But when that transparent little artifice failed, she bridled up and marched boldly to the inevitable.“Well, little puss,” said Mr Ratman, “haven’t you got a kiss for me?”“No,” she replied. “Father says I’m to be civil to you, so I’ll say good-morning; but I don’t mean it a bit; and I still think you’re a horrid, bad man, though I don’t say so. I’m not a bit afraid of you, either, because Mr Armstrong is here to punish you if you behave wickedly.”Tom, as usual, improved matters with a loud laugh.“Good old Jilly!” cried he; “let him have it! Sit on his head! He’s got no friends! Never you mind, Ratman—she doesn’t—”“Silence, sir?” thundered his father, “or leave the table instantly.”Tom subsided promptly.“And you, Jill,” continued her father, “do not speak till you’re spoken to.”Jill looked down at Mr Armstrong to see if he counselled further resistance; but as he was studiously busy with the ham, she capitulated, and said—“Then I hope no one will speak to me, because I don’t want to talk.”Mr Ratman made an effort to turn the incident off with a laugh, and addressed his further remarks to his host. But as that gentleman found some difficulty in being cordial, and as the rest of the party continued to enjoy the meal without paying much attention to him, he was on the whole relieved when the performance came to an end.On his way to the captain’s room, afterwards, he encountered Mr Armstrong.The two men glared at one another in a hostile manner for a moment, and then the tutor observed casually that it was a cold day.“It will be hotter before it’s much older,” growled the late owner of a certain black eye.“I can well believe that,” said the tutor drily.“Yes, sir, I shall have something to say to you.”“Delighted, I’m sure, at any time that suits you.”“You and I had better understand one another at once,” said Mr Ratman.“Why not? I flatter myself I understand you perfectly already.”“Do you? Now, look here, my fine fellow. It’s easy for you to give yourself airs, but I know a good deal more about you than I dare say you would care to own yourself. If you’ll take my advice, the sooner you clear out of here the better. You may think you’ve a snug berth here, and flatter yourself you pass for a saint with your pupil and his mamma, but, let me tell you, I could open their eyes to a thing or two which would alter their opinion, as well as the opinion of certain young lady friends who—”“Who do not require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them out of bad company,” retorted the tutor, hotly for him.“No, but they may require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them from being ashamed of their own father, Mr Armstrong.”The tutor glared through his glass. He understood this threat.“What of that?” said he.“Merely,” said Mr Ratman, “that it depends pretty much on you whether they are to continue to believe themselves the children of an officer and a gentleman, or of a—a fugitive from justice. That’s the position, Mr Tutor. The responsibility rests with you. If you choose to go, I shall not undeceive them; if you don’t—well, it may suit me to open their eyes; there!”The tutor inspected his man from top to toe in a dangerous way, which made the recipient of the stare decidedly uncomfortable. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, Mr Armstrong coolly inquired, “Have you anything more to say?”“That’s about enough, isn’t it? I give you a week.”“Thanks, very much,” said Mr Armstrong, as he turned on his heel.Roger, after a long ramble in the park with his fair tormentor, returned about noon, flushed and excited.“Armstrong, old man,” said he, “what’s to be done? She’s kind to me—horribly kind; but whenever I get near the subject she laughs me off it, and holds me at arm’s length. What’s the use of my name and my money and my prospects, if they can’t win her? If I jest, she’s serious, and if I’m serious, she jests—we can’t hit it. What’s to be done, I say?”“Patience,” said the tutor; “it took several years to capture Troy.”“All very well for an old bachelor like you. I expected you’d say something like that. I know I could make her happy if she’d let me try. But she won’t even let me tell her I love her. What should you do yourself?”Mr Armstrong coloured up at the bare notion of such a dilemma.“I think I might come to you and ask your advice,” said he.Roger laughed rather sadly.“I know,” said he. “Of course it’s a thing one has to play off one’s own bat, but I sometimes wish I were anything but the heir of Maxfield. She might care for me then.”“You can disinherit yourself by becoming a criminal, or marrying under age—”“Or dying—thank you,” said the boy. “You are something like a consoler. I know it’s a shame to bore you about it, but I’ve no one else to talk to.”“I’d give my right hand to help you, old fellow,” said the tutor; “but, as you say, I’m absolutely no use in a case like this.”“I know. Come upstairs and play something.”“By the way,” said the tutor, as they reached the study, “I’ve something to give you. You may as well have it now.”And he went to his desk and took out an envelope.“It will explain itself,” said he, handing it to the boy.He sat down at the piano, and wandered over the keys, while Roger, too full of his own cares to give much heed to the missive in his hands, walked over to the window and looked out across the park. The afternoon sun was glancing across the woods, and gleaming far away on the sea. “If only she would share it with me,” thought he to himself, “how proud I should be of the dear old place. But what good is it all to me if she condemns me to possess it all myself?”Then with a sigh he turned his back on the scene, and let his eyes fall on the letter.He started as he recognised the dead hand of his father in the inscription—“To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton junior, on his twentieth birthday.”His breath came fast as he broke the seal and looked within. The envelope contained two enclosures, a document and a letter. The latter, which he examined first, was dated scarcely a fortnight before the old man’s death, written in the same trembling hand as the words on the envelope.“My dear son,” it said, “this will reach you long after the hand that writes it is still and cold. My days are numbered, and for better or worse are rapidly flying to their account. But before I go, I have something to say to you. Read this, and the paper I enclose herewith. If, after reading them, you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know—you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose. What follows is not a request from me, still less a command. It is a confidence—no more.”Roger put down the letter. His head was in a whirl. He only half heard the notes of the tutor’s sonata as they rose and fell on his ear. Presently, with beating heart, he read on—“You had a brother once—a namesake—whom you never saw, and perhaps never heard of. You never mourned his loss, for he was gone before you were born. Twenty-two years ago he was a boy of 16—a fine, high-spirited Ingleton. Like a fool, I thought I could bring him up to be a fine man. But I failed—I only spoiled him. He grew up wild, self-willed, obstinate—a sorrow to his mother, an enemy to his father. The day came when we quarrelled. I accused him unjustly of fraud. He retorted insolently. In my passion I struck him, and he struck back. I fought my own boy and beat him; but my victory was the evil crisis of my life, for he left home vowing he would die sooner than return. His mother died of a broken heart. I had to live with mine; too proud to repent or admit my fault. Then came a rumour that the boy was dead. I never believed it; yet wrote him off as dead. Now, as I near my end, I still discredit the story; I am convinced he still lives. In that conviction, I have made a new will, which is the paper enclosed. As you will see, it provides that if he should return before you attain your majority, he becomes sole heir to the property; if not found before that time, the will under which you inherit all remains valid. You are at liberty to keep or destroy this new will as you choose. Nor, if you keep it, are you bound to do anything towards finding your lost brother. But should you desire to make inquiries, I am able to give you this feeble clue—that, after leaving home, he went to the bad in London in company with a companion named Fastnet, but where they lived I know not. Also, that the rumour of his death came to me from India. I can say no more, only that I am his and your loving father,—“Roger Ingleton.”Towards the end the writing became very weak and straggling, and what to the boy was the most important passage was well-nigh illegible. When, after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played on; the sun still flashed on the distant sea, the park still stretched away below him—but all seemed part of another world to the heir of Maxfield.His brother—that wild-eyed, fascinating, defiant boy in the picture—lived still, and all this place was his. Till that moment Roger had never imagined what it would be to be anything but the heir of Maxfield.Every dream of his for the future had Maxfield painted into the background. He loved the place as his own, as his sphere in life, as his destiny. Was that a dream after all? Were all his castles in the air to vanish, and leave him a mere dependant in a house not his own?He took up the document and read it over. It was brief and abrupt. Referring to the former will, it enjoined that all its provisions should remain strictly in force as if no codicil or later will had been executed until the 26th of October, 1886, on which day Roger Ingleton the younger should attain his majority. But if on or before that day the elder son, whom the testator still believed to be living, should be found and identified, the former will on that day was to become null and void, and the elder son was to become sole possessor of the entire property. If, on the contrary, he should not be found or have proved his identity by that day, then the former will was to hold good absolutely, and the codicil became null and void.Such, shorn of its legal verbiage, was the document which Roger, by the same hand that executed it, was invited, if he wished, to destroy. Perhaps for a moment, as his eyes glanced once more across the park, and a vision of Rosalind flitted across his mind, he was tempted to avail himself of his liberty. But if the idea endured a moment it had vanished a moment after.He went up to the piano, where Mr Armstrong, still in the clouds, was roaming at will over the chords, and laid his father’s letter on the keyboard.“Read that, please, Armstrong.”The tutor wheeled round on his stool, and put up his glass. Something in the boy’s voice arrested him.He glanced first at his pupil, then at the paper.“A private letter?” said he.“I want your help; please read it.”The tutor’s inscrutable face, as he perused the letter carefully from beginning to end, afforded very little direction to the boy who sat and watched him anxiously. Having read it once, Mr Armstrong turned back to the first page and read it again; and then with equal care perused the codicil. When all was done, he returned them slowly to the envelope and handed it back.“Well?” said Roger, rather impatiently.“It is a strange birthday greeting,” said Mr Armstrong, “and comes, I fear, from a mind unhinged. Your father had more than one delusion near the end. But on the night before he died he told me this elder son of his was dead. This was written before that.”“Tell me exactly what he said.”The tutor repeated as nearly as he could the conversation of that memorable night.“Is it not more probable that a fortnight earlier his mind might be clearer than at the very moment of his death?”“It is possible, of course; but the letter does not seem to show it. Besides, the inscription at the back of the portrait (which you have forgotten) is a distinct record of the boy’s death. I wish you had not shown me the letter, because the only advice I have to give you is that you do with it what he invites you to do.”“Look here, Armstrong!” said Roger, getting up and walking restlessly up and down the room; “you mean kindly, I know—you always do—but you don’t seem to realise that you are tempting me to be a cad and a coward!”The tutor looked up, and his eyebrow twitched uncomfortably. Roger had never spoken like this before, and the heat of the words took even him aback.“You asked my advice, unfortunately, and I gave it,” said he, rather drily.“Do you think I should have an hour’s peace if I didn’t do everything in my power to find my brother now?” retorted the boy. “You’re not obliged to help me, I know.”“I am—I am bound to help you; not because I am your tutor or your guardian, but because I love you.”“Then help me in this. My father, I feel sure, was right. Whether he was or not, and whether I have to do it single-handed or not, I mean to find my brother.”“Certainly you may count on me, old fellow,” said the tutor; “but be quite sure first that you know what you are undertaking. If it is not a wild-goose chase it is something uncommonly like it. You resolve to waste a whole year. You are not strong, your future is all in Maxfield; the happiness of your mother, your hopes of winning the object of your affections, are involved in the step you take. Even if this brother of yours be living (of which the chances seem to be a hundred to one he is not), he is, as your father says, a man who has gone to the bad; not the boy of the picture, but a man twice your age, of the Ratman order, let us say, probably the worst possible companion for yourself, and a bad friend to the people who already count you as their master. Had he been living with any desire or intention of claiming his title, he would certainly have come forward months ago—”“I know all that, Armstrong,” said the boy; “I know perfectly well you are bringing up all these points as a friend, to prevent my taking a rash step of which I shall afterwards be sorry. I don’t care how bad he is, or what it costs, I mean to find him; and if you help me, I’m confident I shall. Only,” said he regretfully, “I certainly wish it was the boy in the picture, and not a middle-aged person, who is to be looked for.”Here Tom broke in upon the conference.“Hullo, Roger, here you are! What are you up to? You and Armstrong look as blue as if you’d swallowed live eels. I say, you’re a nice chap. Rosalind has been waiting half an hour, she says, for that ride you were to go with her, and if you don’t look sharp she’ll give Ratman the mount and jockey you, my boy. Poor old Ratty! didn’t Jill drop on him like a sack of coals at breakfast? Jolly rough on the governor having to stroke him down after it. I say, mind you’re in in time to receive the deputation. They’re all going to turn up, and old Hodder’s to make a speech. I wouldn’t miss it for a half sov! All I know is I’m jolly glad I’m not an heir. It’s far jollier to be an ordinary chap; isn’t it, Mr Armstrong?”“Decidedly,” said the tutor demurely; “but we can’t all be what we like.”“Tell Rosalind I’ll be down in a second; I’m awfully sorry to have kept her,” said Roger.“By the way,” said the tutor, when Tom had gone; “about this letter. The communication is evidently made to you by your father as a secret. I am sorry, on that account, you showed it to me, because I object to secrets not meant for me. But if you take my advice you will not let it go further. It would be clearly contrary to the wishes of your father.”“I see that. Lock the will up in your desk again; I’ll take care of the letter. Nobody but you and I shall know of their existence. And now I must go to Rosalind.”
Roger Ingleton’s reflections, as he lay awake on the morning of his twentieth birthday, were not altogether self-congratulatory. He was painfully aware that he was what he himself would have styled a poor creature. He was as weak, physically, as a girl; he was not particularly clever; he was given to a melancholy which made him pass for dull in society. Ill-health dogged him whenever he tried to achieve anything out of the commonplace. His tenantry regarded him still as a boy, and very few of his few friends set much store by him for his own sake apart from his fortune.
“A poor show altogether,” said he to himself. “That boy on the wall there would have made a much better thing of it. There’s some go in him, especially the copy that Rosalind—”
Here he pulled up. In addition to his other misfortunes, it occurred to him now definitely for the first time that he was in love.
“She doesn’t care two straws about me,” said he ungratefully; “that is, except in a sisterly way. Why should she? I know nothing about art, which she loves. I’m saddled with pots of money, which she hates. The only way I can interest her is by being ill. I’m not even scape-grace enough to make it worth her while to take me in hand to reform me. Heigho! It’s a pity that brother of mine had not lived. Yes, you,” he added, shaking his head at the portrait, “with your wild harum-scarum face and mocking laugh. You’d have suited her, and been able to make her like you—I can’t. I believe she thinks more of Armstrong than me. Not much wonder either. Only, wouldn’t he be horrified if any one suggested such a thing!”
And the somewhat dismal soliloquy ended in a some what dismal laugh, as the heir of Maxfield assumed the perpendicular and pulled up his blind.
Mr Armstrong, fresh from his dip in the sea, came in before he had finished dressing.
“Well, old fellow,” said he, “many happy returns! How are you—pretty fit?”
“I’m not sorry there’s a year between each,” said the boy.
“What’s wrong?” said the tutor.
“Oh, nothing; only I don’t feel particularly festive. I’ve been lying awake a long time.”
“Pity you didn’t get up. Shocking habit to lie in bed after you’re awake.”
“At that rate I should often be up at two in the morning,” said Roger.
“I doubt it—but what’s wrong?”
Roger put down his brush, and flung himself on a chair.
“I don’t know—yes, I do. Can’t you guess?”
“Cheese for supper,” suggested the tutor seriously.
“Don’t be a fool, Armstrong, and don’t laugh at me; I’m not in the mood for a joke. You know what it is well enough.”
The tutor’s glass dropped from his eye, and he walked over to the window.
“Quite so. I overtook her in the park a quarter of an hour ago, and she is already in the house, wondering why you are so late down on your birthday.”
Roger sprang up and resumed his toilet.
“Has she really come? Armstrong, I say, I wish I knew how to make her care for me.”
“I’m not an expert in these matters, but it occurs to me that the sort of thing you want is not made.”
“You mean that if she doesn’t care for me for what I am, it’s no use trying to get her to care for me by being what I am not.”
“Roger, you have a brilliant way occasionally of putting things exactly as they should be put.”
“That’s not much consolation,” pursued the boy.
“Possibly,” said the tutor; “but, as I say, I am not an expert in these delicate affairs. Much as I would like to prescribe, I rather advise your taking a second opinion—your mother’s, say. I was engaged to teach you classics and the sciences, but the art of love was not included among the subjects to be treated of.”
Mr Armstrong was late for breakfast that morning. For some reason of his own he wasted ten minutes at his piano before he obeyed the summons of the gong, and the chords he played were mostly minor. But when he did appear his glass was fixed as jauntily as ever, and his pursed lips looked impervious to any impression from within or without.
To his surprise, he found Miss Jill waiting outside the door.
“I didn’t mean to go in,” said she, “where that horrid man is, till you came. I don’t mind a bit now. Come along, dear Mr Armstrong.”
Dear Mr Armstrong came along, feeling decidedly compromised, but yet a little grateful to his loyal adherent.
As usual he dropped into his seat at the foot of the table after a bow to Miss Oliphant, and a friendly nod to Tom.
Jill, to her consternation, found a seat carefully reserved for her next to Mr Ratman. Her impulse on making the discovery was to run; but a glance at Mr Armstrong, who sat watching her in a friendly way, reassured her. To gain time she went round the table and kissed every one (including the tutor), and especially the hero of the day, whom she artfully tried to persuade, in honour of the occasion, to make room for her next to himself. But when that transparent little artifice failed, she bridled up and marched boldly to the inevitable.
“Well, little puss,” said Mr Ratman, “haven’t you got a kiss for me?”
“No,” she replied. “Father says I’m to be civil to you, so I’ll say good-morning; but I don’t mean it a bit; and I still think you’re a horrid, bad man, though I don’t say so. I’m not a bit afraid of you, either, because Mr Armstrong is here to punish you if you behave wickedly.”
Tom, as usual, improved matters with a loud laugh.
“Good old Jilly!” cried he; “let him have it! Sit on his head! He’s got no friends! Never you mind, Ratman—she doesn’t—”
“Silence, sir?” thundered his father, “or leave the table instantly.”
Tom subsided promptly.
“And you, Jill,” continued her father, “do not speak till you’re spoken to.”
Jill looked down at Mr Armstrong to see if he counselled further resistance; but as he was studiously busy with the ham, she capitulated, and said—
“Then I hope no one will speak to me, because I don’t want to talk.”
Mr Ratman made an effort to turn the incident off with a laugh, and addressed his further remarks to his host. But as that gentleman found some difficulty in being cordial, and as the rest of the party continued to enjoy the meal without paying much attention to him, he was on the whole relieved when the performance came to an end.
On his way to the captain’s room, afterwards, he encountered Mr Armstrong.
The two men glared at one another in a hostile manner for a moment, and then the tutor observed casually that it was a cold day.
“It will be hotter before it’s much older,” growled the late owner of a certain black eye.
“I can well believe that,” said the tutor drily.
“Yes, sir, I shall have something to say to you.”
“Delighted, I’m sure, at any time that suits you.”
“You and I had better understand one another at once,” said Mr Ratman.
“Why not? I flatter myself I understand you perfectly already.”
“Do you? Now, look here, my fine fellow. It’s easy for you to give yourself airs, but I know a good deal more about you than I dare say you would care to own yourself. If you’ll take my advice, the sooner you clear out of here the better. You may think you’ve a snug berth here, and flatter yourself you pass for a saint with your pupil and his mamma, but, let me tell you, I could open their eyes to a thing or two which would alter their opinion, as well as the opinion of certain young lady friends who—”
“Who do not require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them out of bad company,” retorted the tutor, hotly for him.
“No, but they may require the assistance of Robert Ratman to keep them from being ashamed of their own father, Mr Armstrong.”
The tutor glared through his glass. He understood this threat.
“What of that?” said he.
“Merely,” said Mr Ratman, “that it depends pretty much on you whether they are to continue to believe themselves the children of an officer and a gentleman, or of a—a fugitive from justice. That’s the position, Mr Tutor. The responsibility rests with you. If you choose to go, I shall not undeceive them; if you don’t—well, it may suit me to open their eyes; there!”
The tutor inspected his man from top to toe in a dangerous way, which made the recipient of the stare decidedly uncomfortable. Then, pulling himself together with an effort, Mr Armstrong coolly inquired, “Have you anything more to say?”
“That’s about enough, isn’t it? I give you a week.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Mr Armstrong, as he turned on his heel.
Roger, after a long ramble in the park with his fair tormentor, returned about noon, flushed and excited.
“Armstrong, old man,” said he, “what’s to be done? She’s kind to me—horribly kind; but whenever I get near the subject she laughs me off it, and holds me at arm’s length. What’s the use of my name and my money and my prospects, if they can’t win her? If I jest, she’s serious, and if I’m serious, she jests—we can’t hit it. What’s to be done, I say?”
“Patience,” said the tutor; “it took several years to capture Troy.”
“All very well for an old bachelor like you. I expected you’d say something like that. I know I could make her happy if she’d let me try. But she won’t even let me tell her I love her. What should you do yourself?”
Mr Armstrong coloured up at the bare notion of such a dilemma.
“I think I might come to you and ask your advice,” said he.
Roger laughed rather sadly.
“I know,” said he. “Of course it’s a thing one has to play off one’s own bat, but I sometimes wish I were anything but the heir of Maxfield. She might care for me then.”
“You can disinherit yourself by becoming a criminal, or marrying under age—”
“Or dying—thank you,” said the boy. “You are something like a consoler. I know it’s a shame to bore you about it, but I’ve no one else to talk to.”
“I’d give my right hand to help you, old fellow,” said the tutor; “but, as you say, I’m absolutely no use in a case like this.”
“I know. Come upstairs and play something.”
“By the way,” said the tutor, as they reached the study, “I’ve something to give you. You may as well have it now.”
And he went to his desk and took out an envelope.
“It will explain itself,” said he, handing it to the boy.
He sat down at the piano, and wandered over the keys, while Roger, too full of his own cares to give much heed to the missive in his hands, walked over to the window and looked out across the park. The afternoon sun was glancing across the woods, and gleaming far away on the sea. “If only she would share it with me,” thought he to himself, “how proud I should be of the dear old place. But what good is it all to me if she condemns me to possess it all myself?”
Then with a sigh he turned his back on the scene, and let his eyes fall on the letter.
He started as he recognised the dead hand of his father in the inscription—
“To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton junior, on his twentieth birthday.”
His breath came fast as he broke the seal and looked within. The envelope contained two enclosures, a document and a letter. The latter, which he examined first, was dated scarcely a fortnight before the old man’s death, written in the same trembling hand as the words on the envelope.
“My dear son,” it said, “this will reach you long after the hand that writes it is still and cold. My days are numbered, and for better or worse are rapidly flying to their account. But before I go, I have something to say to you. Read this, and the paper I enclose herewith. If, after reading them, you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know—you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose. What follows is not a request from me, still less a command. It is a confidence—no more.”
Roger put down the letter. His head was in a whirl. He only half heard the notes of the tutor’s sonata as they rose and fell on his ear. Presently, with beating heart, he read on—
“You had a brother once—a namesake—whom you never saw, and perhaps never heard of. You never mourned his loss, for he was gone before you were born. Twenty-two years ago he was a boy of 16—a fine, high-spirited Ingleton. Like a fool, I thought I could bring him up to be a fine man. But I failed—I only spoiled him. He grew up wild, self-willed, obstinate—a sorrow to his mother, an enemy to his father. The day came when we quarrelled. I accused him unjustly of fraud. He retorted insolently. In my passion I struck him, and he struck back. I fought my own boy and beat him; but my victory was the evil crisis of my life, for he left home vowing he would die sooner than return. His mother died of a broken heart. I had to live with mine; too proud to repent or admit my fault. Then came a rumour that the boy was dead. I never believed it; yet wrote him off as dead. Now, as I near my end, I still discredit the story; I am convinced he still lives. In that conviction, I have made a new will, which is the paper enclosed. As you will see, it provides that if he should return before you attain your majority, he becomes sole heir to the property; if not found before that time, the will under which you inherit all remains valid. You are at liberty to keep or destroy this new will as you choose. Nor, if you keep it, are you bound to do anything towards finding your lost brother. But should you desire to make inquiries, I am able to give you this feeble clue—that, after leaving home, he went to the bad in London in company with a companion named Fastnet, but where they lived I know not. Also, that the rumour of his death came to me from India. I can say no more, only that I am his and your loving father,—
“Roger Ingleton.”
Towards the end the writing became very weak and straggling, and what to the boy was the most important passage was well-nigh illegible. When, after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played on; the sun still flashed on the distant sea, the park still stretched away below him—but all seemed part of another world to the heir of Maxfield.
His brother—that wild-eyed, fascinating, defiant boy in the picture—lived still, and all this place was his. Till that moment Roger had never imagined what it would be to be anything but the heir of Maxfield.
Every dream of his for the future had Maxfield painted into the background. He loved the place as his own, as his sphere in life, as his destiny. Was that a dream after all? Were all his castles in the air to vanish, and leave him a mere dependant in a house not his own?
He took up the document and read it over. It was brief and abrupt. Referring to the former will, it enjoined that all its provisions should remain strictly in force as if no codicil or later will had been executed until the 26th of October, 1886, on which day Roger Ingleton the younger should attain his majority. But if on or before that day the elder son, whom the testator still believed to be living, should be found and identified, the former will on that day was to become null and void, and the elder son was to become sole possessor of the entire property. If, on the contrary, he should not be found or have proved his identity by that day, then the former will was to hold good absolutely, and the codicil became null and void.
Such, shorn of its legal verbiage, was the document which Roger, by the same hand that executed it, was invited, if he wished, to destroy. Perhaps for a moment, as his eyes glanced once more across the park, and a vision of Rosalind flitted across his mind, he was tempted to avail himself of his liberty. But if the idea endured a moment it had vanished a moment after.
He went up to the piano, where Mr Armstrong, still in the clouds, was roaming at will over the chords, and laid his father’s letter on the keyboard.
“Read that, please, Armstrong.”
The tutor wheeled round on his stool, and put up his glass. Something in the boy’s voice arrested him.
He glanced first at his pupil, then at the paper.
“A private letter?” said he.
“I want your help; please read it.”
The tutor’s inscrutable face, as he perused the letter carefully from beginning to end, afforded very little direction to the boy who sat and watched him anxiously. Having read it once, Mr Armstrong turned back to the first page and read it again; and then with equal care perused the codicil. When all was done, he returned them slowly to the envelope and handed it back.
“Well?” said Roger, rather impatiently.
“It is a strange birthday greeting,” said Mr Armstrong, “and comes, I fear, from a mind unhinged. Your father had more than one delusion near the end. But on the night before he died he told me this elder son of his was dead. This was written before that.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
The tutor repeated as nearly as he could the conversation of that memorable night.
“Is it not more probable that a fortnight earlier his mind might be clearer than at the very moment of his death?”
“It is possible, of course; but the letter does not seem to show it. Besides, the inscription at the back of the portrait (which you have forgotten) is a distinct record of the boy’s death. I wish you had not shown me the letter, because the only advice I have to give you is that you do with it what he invites you to do.”
“Look here, Armstrong!” said Roger, getting up and walking restlessly up and down the room; “you mean kindly, I know—you always do—but you don’t seem to realise that you are tempting me to be a cad and a coward!”
The tutor looked up, and his eyebrow twitched uncomfortably. Roger had never spoken like this before, and the heat of the words took even him aback.
“You asked my advice, unfortunately, and I gave it,” said he, rather drily.
“Do you think I should have an hour’s peace if I didn’t do everything in my power to find my brother now?” retorted the boy. “You’re not obliged to help me, I know.”
“I am—I am bound to help you; not because I am your tutor or your guardian, but because I love you.”
“Then help me in this. My father, I feel sure, was right. Whether he was or not, and whether I have to do it single-handed or not, I mean to find my brother.”
“Certainly you may count on me, old fellow,” said the tutor; “but be quite sure first that you know what you are undertaking. If it is not a wild-goose chase it is something uncommonly like it. You resolve to waste a whole year. You are not strong, your future is all in Maxfield; the happiness of your mother, your hopes of winning the object of your affections, are involved in the step you take. Even if this brother of yours be living (of which the chances seem to be a hundred to one he is not), he is, as your father says, a man who has gone to the bad; not the boy of the picture, but a man twice your age, of the Ratman order, let us say, probably the worst possible companion for yourself, and a bad friend to the people who already count you as their master. Had he been living with any desire or intention of claiming his title, he would certainly have come forward months ago—”
“I know all that, Armstrong,” said the boy; “I know perfectly well you are bringing up all these points as a friend, to prevent my taking a rash step of which I shall afterwards be sorry. I don’t care how bad he is, or what it costs, I mean to find him; and if you help me, I’m confident I shall. Only,” said he regretfully, “I certainly wish it was the boy in the picture, and not a middle-aged person, who is to be looked for.”
Here Tom broke in upon the conference.
“Hullo, Roger, here you are! What are you up to? You and Armstrong look as blue as if you’d swallowed live eels. I say, you’re a nice chap. Rosalind has been waiting half an hour, she says, for that ride you were to go with her, and if you don’t look sharp she’ll give Ratman the mount and jockey you, my boy. Poor old Ratty! didn’t Jill drop on him like a sack of coals at breakfast? Jolly rough on the governor having to stroke him down after it. I say, mind you’re in in time to receive the deputation. They’re all going to turn up, and old Hodder’s to make a speech. I wouldn’t miss it for a half sov! All I know is I’m jolly glad I’m not an heir. It’s far jollier to be an ordinary chap; isn’t it, Mr Armstrong?”
“Decidedly,” said the tutor demurely; “but we can’t all be what we like.”
“Tell Rosalind I’ll be down in a second; I’m awfully sorry to have kept her,” said Roger.
“By the way,” said the tutor, when Tom had gone; “about this letter. The communication is evidently made to you by your father as a secret. I am sorry, on that account, you showed it to me, because I object to secrets not meant for me. But if you take my advice you will not let it go further. It would be clearly contrary to the wishes of your father.”
“I see that. Lock the will up in your desk again; I’ll take care of the letter. Nobody but you and I shall know of their existence. And now I must go to Rosalind.”
Chapter Fourteen.What a Horsewhip discovered.Mr Ratman’s business interview with his friend was short and stormy.When Captain Oliphant produced the hundred-pound note, and requested his creditor to accept a fresh bill for the balance, that injured gentleman broke out into very emphatic abuse.“Likely, is it not?” laughed he. “You, a common thief, bring me, who’ve saved you from a convict’s cell, here to be insulted and made a fool of by your miserable brats and servants, and then have the calmness to ask me to lend you a hundred pounds? I admire your impudence, sir, and that’s all I admire about you.”“My dear fellow, how can you blame me—”“Blame you! You don’t suppose I’m going to take the trouble to do that! Come, hand over the other hundred, sharp. I’ve nothing to say to you till that’s done.”And Mr Ratman, digging his hands in his pockets, got up and walked to the fireplace.Captain Oliphant’s face fell. He knew his man by this time, and had sense enough at least to know that this was no time for argument. Yet he could not help snarling—“I can only do part.”“The whole—in five minutes—or there’ll be interest to add!” retorted Mr Ratman.With a groan Captain Oliphant flung down the second bank-note on the table.“Take it, you coward! and may it help you to perdition!”“Thanks, very much,” said Ratman, carefully putting away the money. “I’m not going to ask you where the money came from. That would be painful. Ah, Teddy, my boy, what a nice, respectable family man you are, to be sure!”With which acknowledgment Mr Ratman, in capital spirits, returned to his room. On the way he encountered Tom, who, being of a forgiving disposition, owed him no grudge for the trouble that had occurred at breakfast-time.“Hullo, Mr Ratty!” said the boy; “going out? Aren’t you looking forward to the party to-night? I am. Only I’m afraid they’ll make a mess of it among them. Auntie’s ill and in bed, Rosalind and Roger are spooning about in the grounds, Armstrong’s got the dismals, and the governor’s not to be disturbed. I’ve got to look after everything. The spread will be good enough—only I think they ought to have roasted an ox whole in the hall; don’t you? That’s the proper way to do things, instead of kickshaws and things with French names that one can swallow at a gulp. I say, there’s to be a dance first. I’ll introduce you to some of the old girls if you like. It won’t be much fun for me, for Jill has made me promise to dance every dance with her, for fear you should want one. But I know a chap or two that will take her off my hands. I say, would you like to see my den?” added he, as they passed the door in question.Mr Ratman being of an inquiring turn of mind, accepted the invitation, and gave a cursory glance at the chaos which formed the leading feature of the apartment.“It’s not such a swagger crib as Roger’s,” said Tom; “but it’s snug enough. That’s Roger’s opposite. Like to look?”Once more Mr Ratman allowed himself to be escorted on a tour of discovery.“Who is that a portrait of?” asked he, looking at the lost Roger’s picture.“Oh, that’s what’s his name, the fellow who would have been heir if he hadn’t died. He looks rather a tough customer, doesn’t he? That’s the picture Rosalind painted for Roger’s birthday—a view of the park from her window, with the sea beyond. Not so bad, is it? Rosalind thinks she’s no end of an artist, but I—”“When did he die?” inquired Mr Ratman, still examining the picture.“Oh, ever so long ago—before the old Squire married Auntie. I say, come and have a punt about with my new football, will you?”“Go and get it. I’ll be down presently. I like pictures, and shall just take a look at these first!”Tom bustled off, wondering what Mr Ratman could see in the pictures to allure him from the joys of football.To tell the truth, Mr Ratman was not a great artist. But the portrait of the lost Roger appeared to interest him, as did also the sight of an open letter, hastily laid down by the owner on the writing-table.Something in the handwriting of the letter particularly aroused the curiosity of the trespasser, who, being, as has been said, of an inquiring disposition, ventured to look at it more closely.“To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday.”The coast was conveniently clear for Mr Ratman, as, fired with a zeal for information, he slipped the letter from the envelope and, with half an eye on the door, hastily read it. As he did so, he flushed a little, and having read the letter once, read it again. Then he quickly replaced it in its cover, and laying it where he had discovered it, beat a rapid retreat.He played football badly that afternoon, so that his young companion’s opinion of him lowered considerably. Nor was either sorry when the ceremony was over, and the bell warned them to return to their quarters and prepare for the evening’s festivities.Mr Ratman dressed with special care, spending some time before the mirror in an endeavour to set off his person to the best advantage. As the reader has already been told, Mr Ratman retained some of the traces of a handsome youth. The fires of honour and sobriety were extinguished, but his well-shaped head and clear-cut features still weathered the storm, and suggested that if their owner was not good-looking now, he might once have been.Perhaps it was a lingering impression of the lost Roger’s portrait which made this vain gentleman adjust his curly locks and pose his head before the glass in a style not unlike his model. Whether that was so or not, the result appeared to satisfy him, and in due time, and not till after several of the guests had already arrived, he descended in state to the drawing-room.It was the first festive gathering at Maxfield since the death of the late Squire, and a good deal of curiosity was manifest on the part of some of the guests both as to the heir and his new guardian.Roger, nerved up to the occasion by his own spirit and the encouragement of his tutor, bore his inspection well, and won golden opinions from his future comrades and neighbours.Captain Oliphant also acquitted himself well; and anything lacking in him was amply forgiven for the sake of his charming daughters, the elder of whom fairly took the “county” by storm.Quite unconscious of the broken hearts which strewed her way, Rosalind, with the duties of hostess unexpectedly cast upon her by Mrs Ingleton’s illness, exerted herself for the general happiness, and enjoyed herself in the task.Despite Tom’s forebodings, the evening went off brilliantly. The music was excellent, the amateur theatricals highly appreciated, and the dance all that could be desired. The loyal youth found no difficulty in palming his young sister off on half a dozen partners delighted to have the opportunity, and his head was fairly turned by the sudden popularity in which he found himself with visitors anxious for an introduction to the fair Rosalind.“Oh, all serene,” said he confidentially to one of those glowing youths. “She’s booked six or seven deep, but I’ll work it for you if I can. You hang about here, and I’ll fetch her up.”But the luckless ones hung about in vain. For Tom’s progress was intercepted by other candidates for the same favour, amidst whom the young diplomatist played fast and loose in a reprehensible manner.“Promisedyou, did I?” demanded he of one. “Well, you’ll have to square it up with that sandy-haired chap at the door. He says I promisedhim; but he’s all wrong, for the one Ididpromise is that little dapper chap there in the window. He’s been waiting on and off since eight o’clock. Never you mind; you hang about here, and I’ll work it if I— Hullo! here’s another one! I didn’t promise you, did I? All right, old chappie. You lean up there against the wall, and I’ll engineer it for you somehow. She’s owing me a dance about eight down the list. You can have a quarter of it, if you like, and the other two chaps can go halves in the rest.”With which the unprincipled youth absconded into the supper-room.“And who is that talking to your charming cousin?” asked a dowager who had succeeded in capturing Roger for five minutes in a corner.“Oh, that’s my tutor, Armstrong—the best fellow in the world.”“Evidently a great admirer of Miss Oliphant. No doubt the attraction is mutual?”Roger laughed, and speculated on Armstrong’s horror were he to hear of such a suggestion.“And that gentleman talking to Captain Oliphant? What relation is he?”“He? None at all. He’s a Mr Ratman, an Indian friend of my guardian’s.”“Dear me! I quite thought he was an Ingleton by his face—but I’m glad he is not; I dislike his appearance. Besides, he has already had more than is good for him.”“He’s no great favourite,” said Roger shortly.Presently Captain Oliphant and his companion stepped up to where Rosalind and her partner stood.“Mr Armstrong,” said the former, “will you kindly see that the band gets supper after the next dance?”The words were spoken politely, and Mr Armstrong, although he knew that the speaker’s solicitude on behalf of the band was by no means as great as his desire to see the tutor’s back, felt he could hardly refuse.“Rosalind,” said the Captain, looking significantly at his daughter, “Mr Ratman desires the pleasure of a dance, and will take you into the next room.”Rosalind tossed her head and flushed.“Thank you; I am tired,” said she. “I prefer not to dance at present.”“You are keeping Mr Ratman waiting, my dear.”The colour died out of the girl’s face as, with a little shiver, she laid the tips of her fingers on her partner’s arm.“That’s right,” said that genial individual. “Do as you are told. You don’t fancy it; but pa’s word is law, isn’t it?”She said nothing, but the colour shot back ominously into her cheeks.“And so you’ve run off and left us,” pursued her partner, who rather enjoyed the situation, and was vain enough to appreciate the distinction of dancing with the belle of the evening. “So sorry. I quite envy the little vicar boys and girls—upon my honour I do. Very unkind of you to go just as I came. Never mind. Not far away, is it? We shall see lots of one another.”At this moment, just as the band was striking up for a quadrille, Jill came up.“Have you seen dear Mr Arm— O Rosalind! howcanyou dance with that man?”Mr Ratman laughed.“Very well, missy. I’ll pay you out. You shall dance with me, see if you don’t, before the evening is out.”Before which awful threat Jill fled headlong to seek the tutor.“Fact is,” pursued Mr Ratman, reverting to his previous topic, “ever since I saw you, Miss Rosalind, I said to myself—Robert Ratman, you have found the right article at last. You don’t suppose I’d come all the way here from India, do you, if there weren’t attractions?”She kept a rigid silence, and went through the steps of the quadrille without so much as a look at the talker, Ratman was sober enough to be annoyed at this chilly disdain.“Don’t you know it’s rude not to speak when you’re spoken to, Miss Rosalind?” said he. “If you choose to be friends with me we shall get on very well, but you mustn’t be rude.”She turned her head away.“You aren’t deaf, are you?” said he, becoming still more nettled. “I suppose if it was the heir of Maxfield that was talking to you you’d hear, wouldn’t you? You’d be all smiles and nods to the owner of ten thousand a year, eh? Do you suppose we can’t see through your little game, you artful little schemer? Now, will you speak or not?”Her cheeks gave the only indication that she had heard this last polished speech as she gathered up her dress and swept out of the quadrille.“Wait,” said he, losing his temper, “the dance is not over.”She stepped quickly to a chair, and sat there at bay.“Come back,” said he, following her, “or I will make you. I won’t be insulted like this before the whole room. Come back; do you hear?”And he snatched her hand.Rosalind looked up, and as she did so she caught a distant vision of an eye-glass dropping from a gentleman’s eye to the length of its cord. A moment after, Mr Ratman felt a hand close like a vice on his collar and himself almost lifted from the room. It was all done so quickly that the quadrille party were only just becoming aware that a couple had dropped out; and the non-dancers were beginning to wonder if Miss Oliphant had been taken poorly, when Robert Ratman was writhing in the clutches of his chastiser in the hall.Mr Armstrong marched straight with his prey to the kitchen.“Raffles,” said he to the footman, “get me a horsewhip.”Raffles took in the situation at once, and in half a minute was across at the stable.As he returned with the whip he met Mr Armstrong in the yard, holding his victim much as a cat would hold a rat, utterly indifferent to his oaths, his kicks, or his threats.“Thanks,” said the tutor, as he took the whip; “go in and shut the door. Now, sir, for you!”“Touch me if you dare!” growled Ratman; “it will be the worse for you and every one. Do you know who I am! I’m—I’m,”—here he pulled himself upand glared his enemy in the face—“I’m Roger Ingleton!”It spoke worlds for the tutor’s self-possession that in the start produced by this announcement he did not let his victim escape. It spoke still more for his resolution that, having heard it, he continued his horsewhipping to the bitter end before he replied—“Whoever you are, sir, that will teach you how to behave to a lady.”“You fool!” hissed Ratman, with an oath, getting up from the ground; “you’ll be sorry for this. I’ll be even with you. I’ll ruin you. I’ll turn your precious ward out of the place. I’ll teach that girl—”An ominous crack of the tutor’s whip cut short the end of the sentence, and Mr Ratman left the remainder of his threats to the imagination of his audience.When, ten minutes later, the tutor, with eye-glass erect, strolled back into the drawing-room, no one would have supposed that he had been horsewhipping an enemy or making a discovery on which the fate of a whole household depended. His thin, compressed lips wore their usual enigmatic lines; his brow was as unruffled as his shirt front.“Dear Mr Armstrong, where have you been?” cried Jill, pouncing on him at the door; “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. You promised me, you know.” And the little lady towed off her captive in triumph.The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully until at eleven o’clock the festivities in the drawing-room gave place to the more serious business of the “county” supper, at which, in a specially-erected tent, about one hundred guests sat down.Tom had taken care to procure an early and advantageous seat for the occasion, and, with one of the vicar’s daughters under his patronage and control, prepared to enjoy himself at last. He had had a bad time of it so far, for he was in the black-books of almost every youth in the room, and had been posted as a defaulter in whatever corner he had tried to hide from his creditors.“It’s awful having a pretty sister,” said he confidentially to his companion; “gets a fellow into no end of a mess. I wish I was your brother instead.”“Thank you,” said the young lady, laughing.“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Tom. “You’re good enough looking, I think. But I don’t see why Rosalind can’t pick her own partners, instead of me having to manage it for her. Look out! if that chap opposite sees me he’ll kick—put the ferns between. There she is next to Roger. Like her cheek, bagging the best place. Do you see that kid there grinning at the fellow with the eye-glass? That’s my young sister—ought to be in bed instead of fooling about here. Ah, I knew it! she’s planted herself opposite the grapes. If we don’t look out we shan’t get one. That’s my governor coming in; looks rather chippy, don’t he? I say, lean forward, or he’ll see me. He’s caught me in the supper-room five or six times already this evening. By the way, where’s old Ratty? Do you know Ratty, Miss Isabel? No end of a scorch. Just the chap for you. I’ll introduce you. Hullo! where is he?” added he, looking up and down the table cautiously. “Surely he’s not going to shirk the feed? Never mind, Miss Isabel; I’ll work it round for you if I can.”Miss Isabel expressed her gratitude with a smile, and asked Tom how he liked living at Maxfield.“Oh, all right, now I’ve got a football and can go shooting in the woods. I have to pay up for it though with lessons, and—(thanks; all right; just a little more. Won’t you have some yourself while it’s here?)—Armstrong makes us stick at it. I say, by the way, do you remember that fellow who died? (Don’t take any of that; it’s no good. Wire in to a wing of the partridge instead.) Eh, do you?”“Whom? What are you talking about?” asked she, bewildered.“Ah, it doesn’t matter. He died twenty-one years ago, before Roger was born. I thought you might have known him.”“Really, Tom, you are not complimentary. You can’t expect me to remember before I was born.”“What! aren’t you twenty-one?” asked Tom, staring round at her. “Go on; you’re joking! No? Why, you look twice the age! This chap, you know, would have been the heir if he’d lived. There’s a picture of him upstairs.”“And he died, did he?”“Rather; but old Hodder—know old Hodder?”“Hush!” said his companion; “the speeches are beginning.”“What a hung nuisance!” said Tom.The oratorical interruption was a brief one. The Duke of Somewhere, as the big man of the county, rose to propose the health of the heir of Maxfield. They were glad to make their young neighbour’s acquaintance, and looked forward that day year to welcoming him to his own. They hoped he’d be a credit to his name, and keep up the traditions of Maxfield. He understood Mr Ingleton was pretty strictly tied up in the matter of guardians—(laughter)—but from what he could see, he might be worse off in that respect; and the county would owe their thanks to those gentlemen if they turned out among them the right sort of man to be Squire of Maxfield. He wished his young friend joy and long life and many happy returns of the day.Roger, rather pale and nervous, replied very briefly.He thanked them for their good wishes, and said he hoped he might take these as given not to the heir of Maxfield but to plain Roger Ingleton. He was still an infant—(“Hear, hear!” from Tom)—and was in no hurry to get out of the charge of his guardians. Whatever his other expectations might be, he felt that his best heritage was the name he bore; and he hoped, as his noble neighbour had said, he should turn out worthy of that.As he sat down, flushed with his effort, and wondering what two persons there would think of his feeble performance, his eye fell on the form of Dr Brandram, who at that moment hurriedly entered the room.He saw him whisper something to Armstrong, who changed colour and rose from his seat. An intuition, quicker than a flash of lightning, revealed to the boy that something was wrong—something in which he was concerned. In a moment he stood with his two friends in the hall.“Roger, my brave fellow, your mother has been taken seriously worse within the last hour. Come and see her.”The boy staggered away dazed. He was conscious of the hum of voices, with Tom’s laugh above all, in the room behind; of the long curve of carriage lights waiting in the garden without; of the trophy of flowers and pampas on either side of the staircase. Then, as the doctor stepped forward and softly opened a door, he followed like one in a dream.For an hour the dull roll of carriages came and went on the drive, and the cheery babel of departing voices broke the still morning air.But two guests left Maxfield that night unexpectedly.One was the soul of a good lady; the other was the horsewhipped body of a bad man.
Mr Ratman’s business interview with his friend was short and stormy.
When Captain Oliphant produced the hundred-pound note, and requested his creditor to accept a fresh bill for the balance, that injured gentleman broke out into very emphatic abuse.
“Likely, is it not?” laughed he. “You, a common thief, bring me, who’ve saved you from a convict’s cell, here to be insulted and made a fool of by your miserable brats and servants, and then have the calmness to ask me to lend you a hundred pounds? I admire your impudence, sir, and that’s all I admire about you.”
“My dear fellow, how can you blame me—”
“Blame you! You don’t suppose I’m going to take the trouble to do that! Come, hand over the other hundred, sharp. I’ve nothing to say to you till that’s done.”
And Mr Ratman, digging his hands in his pockets, got up and walked to the fireplace.
Captain Oliphant’s face fell. He knew his man by this time, and had sense enough at least to know that this was no time for argument. Yet he could not help snarling—
“I can only do part.”
“The whole—in five minutes—or there’ll be interest to add!” retorted Mr Ratman.
With a groan Captain Oliphant flung down the second bank-note on the table.
“Take it, you coward! and may it help you to perdition!”
“Thanks, very much,” said Ratman, carefully putting away the money. “I’m not going to ask you where the money came from. That would be painful. Ah, Teddy, my boy, what a nice, respectable family man you are, to be sure!”
With which acknowledgment Mr Ratman, in capital spirits, returned to his room. On the way he encountered Tom, who, being of a forgiving disposition, owed him no grudge for the trouble that had occurred at breakfast-time.
“Hullo, Mr Ratty!” said the boy; “going out? Aren’t you looking forward to the party to-night? I am. Only I’m afraid they’ll make a mess of it among them. Auntie’s ill and in bed, Rosalind and Roger are spooning about in the grounds, Armstrong’s got the dismals, and the governor’s not to be disturbed. I’ve got to look after everything. The spread will be good enough—only I think they ought to have roasted an ox whole in the hall; don’t you? That’s the proper way to do things, instead of kickshaws and things with French names that one can swallow at a gulp. I say, there’s to be a dance first. I’ll introduce you to some of the old girls if you like. It won’t be much fun for me, for Jill has made me promise to dance every dance with her, for fear you should want one. But I know a chap or two that will take her off my hands. I say, would you like to see my den?” added he, as they passed the door in question.
Mr Ratman being of an inquiring turn of mind, accepted the invitation, and gave a cursory glance at the chaos which formed the leading feature of the apartment.
“It’s not such a swagger crib as Roger’s,” said Tom; “but it’s snug enough. That’s Roger’s opposite. Like to look?”
Once more Mr Ratman allowed himself to be escorted on a tour of discovery.
“Who is that a portrait of?” asked he, looking at the lost Roger’s picture.
“Oh, that’s what’s his name, the fellow who would have been heir if he hadn’t died. He looks rather a tough customer, doesn’t he? That’s the picture Rosalind painted for Roger’s birthday—a view of the park from her window, with the sea beyond. Not so bad, is it? Rosalind thinks she’s no end of an artist, but I—”
“When did he die?” inquired Mr Ratman, still examining the picture.
“Oh, ever so long ago—before the old Squire married Auntie. I say, come and have a punt about with my new football, will you?”
“Go and get it. I’ll be down presently. I like pictures, and shall just take a look at these first!”
Tom bustled off, wondering what Mr Ratman could see in the pictures to allure him from the joys of football.
To tell the truth, Mr Ratman was not a great artist. But the portrait of the lost Roger appeared to interest him, as did also the sight of an open letter, hastily laid down by the owner on the writing-table.
Something in the handwriting of the letter particularly aroused the curiosity of the trespasser, who, being, as has been said, of an inquiring disposition, ventured to look at it more closely.
“To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday.”
The coast was conveniently clear for Mr Ratman, as, fired with a zeal for information, he slipped the letter from the envelope and, with half an eye on the door, hastily read it. As he did so, he flushed a little, and having read the letter once, read it again. Then he quickly replaced it in its cover, and laying it where he had discovered it, beat a rapid retreat.
He played football badly that afternoon, so that his young companion’s opinion of him lowered considerably. Nor was either sorry when the ceremony was over, and the bell warned them to return to their quarters and prepare for the evening’s festivities.
Mr Ratman dressed with special care, spending some time before the mirror in an endeavour to set off his person to the best advantage. As the reader has already been told, Mr Ratman retained some of the traces of a handsome youth. The fires of honour and sobriety were extinguished, but his well-shaped head and clear-cut features still weathered the storm, and suggested that if their owner was not good-looking now, he might once have been.
Perhaps it was a lingering impression of the lost Roger’s portrait which made this vain gentleman adjust his curly locks and pose his head before the glass in a style not unlike his model. Whether that was so or not, the result appeared to satisfy him, and in due time, and not till after several of the guests had already arrived, he descended in state to the drawing-room.
It was the first festive gathering at Maxfield since the death of the late Squire, and a good deal of curiosity was manifest on the part of some of the guests both as to the heir and his new guardian.
Roger, nerved up to the occasion by his own spirit and the encouragement of his tutor, bore his inspection well, and won golden opinions from his future comrades and neighbours.
Captain Oliphant also acquitted himself well; and anything lacking in him was amply forgiven for the sake of his charming daughters, the elder of whom fairly took the “county” by storm.
Quite unconscious of the broken hearts which strewed her way, Rosalind, with the duties of hostess unexpectedly cast upon her by Mrs Ingleton’s illness, exerted herself for the general happiness, and enjoyed herself in the task.
Despite Tom’s forebodings, the evening went off brilliantly. The music was excellent, the amateur theatricals highly appreciated, and the dance all that could be desired. The loyal youth found no difficulty in palming his young sister off on half a dozen partners delighted to have the opportunity, and his head was fairly turned by the sudden popularity in which he found himself with visitors anxious for an introduction to the fair Rosalind.
“Oh, all serene,” said he confidentially to one of those glowing youths. “She’s booked six or seven deep, but I’ll work it for you if I can. You hang about here, and I’ll fetch her up.”
But the luckless ones hung about in vain. For Tom’s progress was intercepted by other candidates for the same favour, amidst whom the young diplomatist played fast and loose in a reprehensible manner.
“Promisedyou, did I?” demanded he of one. “Well, you’ll have to square it up with that sandy-haired chap at the door. He says I promisedhim; but he’s all wrong, for the one Ididpromise is that little dapper chap there in the window. He’s been waiting on and off since eight o’clock. Never you mind; you hang about here, and I’ll work it if I— Hullo! here’s another one! I didn’t promise you, did I? All right, old chappie. You lean up there against the wall, and I’ll engineer it for you somehow. She’s owing me a dance about eight down the list. You can have a quarter of it, if you like, and the other two chaps can go halves in the rest.”
With which the unprincipled youth absconded into the supper-room.
“And who is that talking to your charming cousin?” asked a dowager who had succeeded in capturing Roger for five minutes in a corner.
“Oh, that’s my tutor, Armstrong—the best fellow in the world.”
“Evidently a great admirer of Miss Oliphant. No doubt the attraction is mutual?”
Roger laughed, and speculated on Armstrong’s horror were he to hear of such a suggestion.
“And that gentleman talking to Captain Oliphant? What relation is he?”
“He? None at all. He’s a Mr Ratman, an Indian friend of my guardian’s.”
“Dear me! I quite thought he was an Ingleton by his face—but I’m glad he is not; I dislike his appearance. Besides, he has already had more than is good for him.”
“He’s no great favourite,” said Roger shortly.
Presently Captain Oliphant and his companion stepped up to where Rosalind and her partner stood.
“Mr Armstrong,” said the former, “will you kindly see that the band gets supper after the next dance?”
The words were spoken politely, and Mr Armstrong, although he knew that the speaker’s solicitude on behalf of the band was by no means as great as his desire to see the tutor’s back, felt he could hardly refuse.
“Rosalind,” said the Captain, looking significantly at his daughter, “Mr Ratman desires the pleasure of a dance, and will take you into the next room.”
Rosalind tossed her head and flushed.
“Thank you; I am tired,” said she. “I prefer not to dance at present.”
“You are keeping Mr Ratman waiting, my dear.”
The colour died out of the girl’s face as, with a little shiver, she laid the tips of her fingers on her partner’s arm.
“That’s right,” said that genial individual. “Do as you are told. You don’t fancy it; but pa’s word is law, isn’t it?”
She said nothing, but the colour shot back ominously into her cheeks.
“And so you’ve run off and left us,” pursued her partner, who rather enjoyed the situation, and was vain enough to appreciate the distinction of dancing with the belle of the evening. “So sorry. I quite envy the little vicar boys and girls—upon my honour I do. Very unkind of you to go just as I came. Never mind. Not far away, is it? We shall see lots of one another.”
At this moment, just as the band was striking up for a quadrille, Jill came up.
“Have you seen dear Mr Arm— O Rosalind! howcanyou dance with that man?”
Mr Ratman laughed.
“Very well, missy. I’ll pay you out. You shall dance with me, see if you don’t, before the evening is out.”
Before which awful threat Jill fled headlong to seek the tutor.
“Fact is,” pursued Mr Ratman, reverting to his previous topic, “ever since I saw you, Miss Rosalind, I said to myself—Robert Ratman, you have found the right article at last. You don’t suppose I’d come all the way here from India, do you, if there weren’t attractions?”
She kept a rigid silence, and went through the steps of the quadrille without so much as a look at the talker, Ratman was sober enough to be annoyed at this chilly disdain.
“Don’t you know it’s rude not to speak when you’re spoken to, Miss Rosalind?” said he. “If you choose to be friends with me we shall get on very well, but you mustn’t be rude.”
She turned her head away.
“You aren’t deaf, are you?” said he, becoming still more nettled. “I suppose if it was the heir of Maxfield that was talking to you you’d hear, wouldn’t you? You’d be all smiles and nods to the owner of ten thousand a year, eh? Do you suppose we can’t see through your little game, you artful little schemer? Now, will you speak or not?”
Her cheeks gave the only indication that she had heard this last polished speech as she gathered up her dress and swept out of the quadrille.
“Wait,” said he, losing his temper, “the dance is not over.”
She stepped quickly to a chair, and sat there at bay.
“Come back,” said he, following her, “or I will make you. I won’t be insulted like this before the whole room. Come back; do you hear?”
And he snatched her hand.
Rosalind looked up, and as she did so she caught a distant vision of an eye-glass dropping from a gentleman’s eye to the length of its cord. A moment after, Mr Ratman felt a hand close like a vice on his collar and himself almost lifted from the room. It was all done so quickly that the quadrille party were only just becoming aware that a couple had dropped out; and the non-dancers were beginning to wonder if Miss Oliphant had been taken poorly, when Robert Ratman was writhing in the clutches of his chastiser in the hall.
Mr Armstrong marched straight with his prey to the kitchen.
“Raffles,” said he to the footman, “get me a horsewhip.”
Raffles took in the situation at once, and in half a minute was across at the stable.
As he returned with the whip he met Mr Armstrong in the yard, holding his victim much as a cat would hold a rat, utterly indifferent to his oaths, his kicks, or his threats.
“Thanks,” said the tutor, as he took the whip; “go in and shut the door. Now, sir, for you!”
“Touch me if you dare!” growled Ratman; “it will be the worse for you and every one. Do you know who I am! I’m—I’m,”—here he pulled himself upand glared his enemy in the face—“I’m Roger Ingleton!”
It spoke worlds for the tutor’s self-possession that in the start produced by this announcement he did not let his victim escape. It spoke still more for his resolution that, having heard it, he continued his horsewhipping to the bitter end before he replied—
“Whoever you are, sir, that will teach you how to behave to a lady.”
“You fool!” hissed Ratman, with an oath, getting up from the ground; “you’ll be sorry for this. I’ll be even with you. I’ll ruin you. I’ll turn your precious ward out of the place. I’ll teach that girl—”
An ominous crack of the tutor’s whip cut short the end of the sentence, and Mr Ratman left the remainder of his threats to the imagination of his audience.
When, ten minutes later, the tutor, with eye-glass erect, strolled back into the drawing-room, no one would have supposed that he had been horsewhipping an enemy or making a discovery on which the fate of a whole household depended. His thin, compressed lips wore their usual enigmatic lines; his brow was as unruffled as his shirt front.
“Dear Mr Armstrong, where have you been?” cried Jill, pouncing on him at the door; “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere. You promised me, you know.” And the little lady towed off her captive in triumph.
The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully until at eleven o’clock the festivities in the drawing-room gave place to the more serious business of the “county” supper, at which, in a specially-erected tent, about one hundred guests sat down.
Tom had taken care to procure an early and advantageous seat for the occasion, and, with one of the vicar’s daughters under his patronage and control, prepared to enjoy himself at last. He had had a bad time of it so far, for he was in the black-books of almost every youth in the room, and had been posted as a defaulter in whatever corner he had tried to hide from his creditors.
“It’s awful having a pretty sister,” said he confidentially to his companion; “gets a fellow into no end of a mess. I wish I was your brother instead.”
“Thank you,” said the young lady, laughing.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Tom. “You’re good enough looking, I think. But I don’t see why Rosalind can’t pick her own partners, instead of me having to manage it for her. Look out! if that chap opposite sees me he’ll kick—put the ferns between. There she is next to Roger. Like her cheek, bagging the best place. Do you see that kid there grinning at the fellow with the eye-glass? That’s my young sister—ought to be in bed instead of fooling about here. Ah, I knew it! she’s planted herself opposite the grapes. If we don’t look out we shan’t get one. That’s my governor coming in; looks rather chippy, don’t he? I say, lean forward, or he’ll see me. He’s caught me in the supper-room five or six times already this evening. By the way, where’s old Ratty? Do you know Ratty, Miss Isabel? No end of a scorch. Just the chap for you. I’ll introduce you. Hullo! where is he?” added he, looking up and down the table cautiously. “Surely he’s not going to shirk the feed? Never mind, Miss Isabel; I’ll work it round for you if I can.”
Miss Isabel expressed her gratitude with a smile, and asked Tom how he liked living at Maxfield.
“Oh, all right, now I’ve got a football and can go shooting in the woods. I have to pay up for it though with lessons, and—(thanks; all right; just a little more. Won’t you have some yourself while it’s here?)—Armstrong makes us stick at it. I say, by the way, do you remember that fellow who died? (Don’t take any of that; it’s no good. Wire in to a wing of the partridge instead.) Eh, do you?”
“Whom? What are you talking about?” asked she, bewildered.
“Ah, it doesn’t matter. He died twenty-one years ago, before Roger was born. I thought you might have known him.”
“Really, Tom, you are not complimentary. You can’t expect me to remember before I was born.”
“What! aren’t you twenty-one?” asked Tom, staring round at her. “Go on; you’re joking! No? Why, you look twice the age! This chap, you know, would have been the heir if he’d lived. There’s a picture of him upstairs.”
“And he died, did he?”
“Rather; but old Hodder—know old Hodder?”
“Hush!” said his companion; “the speeches are beginning.”
“What a hung nuisance!” said Tom.
The oratorical interruption was a brief one. The Duke of Somewhere, as the big man of the county, rose to propose the health of the heir of Maxfield. They were glad to make their young neighbour’s acquaintance, and looked forward that day year to welcoming him to his own. They hoped he’d be a credit to his name, and keep up the traditions of Maxfield. He understood Mr Ingleton was pretty strictly tied up in the matter of guardians—(laughter)—but from what he could see, he might be worse off in that respect; and the county would owe their thanks to those gentlemen if they turned out among them the right sort of man to be Squire of Maxfield. He wished his young friend joy and long life and many happy returns of the day.
Roger, rather pale and nervous, replied very briefly.
He thanked them for their good wishes, and said he hoped he might take these as given not to the heir of Maxfield but to plain Roger Ingleton. He was still an infant—(“Hear, hear!” from Tom)—and was in no hurry to get out of the charge of his guardians. Whatever his other expectations might be, he felt that his best heritage was the name he bore; and he hoped, as his noble neighbour had said, he should turn out worthy of that.
As he sat down, flushed with his effort, and wondering what two persons there would think of his feeble performance, his eye fell on the form of Dr Brandram, who at that moment hurriedly entered the room.
He saw him whisper something to Armstrong, who changed colour and rose from his seat. An intuition, quicker than a flash of lightning, revealed to the boy that something was wrong—something in which he was concerned. In a moment he stood with his two friends in the hall.
“Roger, my brave fellow, your mother has been taken seriously worse within the last hour. Come and see her.”
The boy staggered away dazed. He was conscious of the hum of voices, with Tom’s laugh above all, in the room behind; of the long curve of carriage lights waiting in the garden without; of the trophy of flowers and pampas on either side of the staircase. Then, as the doctor stepped forward and softly opened a door, he followed like one in a dream.
For an hour the dull roll of carriages came and went on the drive, and the cheery babel of departing voices broke the still morning air.
But two guests left Maxfield that night unexpectedly.
One was the soul of a good lady; the other was the horsewhipped body of a bad man.
Chapter Fifteen.Strong Hearts and Weak Tempers.In the sad confusion which followed upon Mrs Ingleton’s sudden death, no one appeared to remark the abrupt departure of Mr Robert Ratman. Roger certainly never bestowed a thought on the occurrence, and if any of the other members of the household thought twice about it, they all—even Jill—kept their ideas on the subject to themselves.To Roger the week that followed his twentieth birthday was the most dismal of his life. When a similar blow had fallen months ago he had been too bewildered and benumbed to realise fully his own loss. Now he realised everything only too vividly.His own trouble; the loss of the last near relative he had in the world; his own sickly health, chaining him down when he would fain seek comfort in action; the uncertainty of his position as heir of Maxfield; the hopeless task before him of finding his lost brother; Rosalind’s indifference to his affection—all seemed now to pile up in one great mountain to oppress him, and he half envied the gentle dead her quiet resting-place.It was in the second week after the funeral, when Maxfield once more began to assume its normal aspect, and Captain Oliphant was allowing himself to hope that, notwithstanding the removal of his latest “dear departed,” things were likely to shape themselves a trifle more comfortably for his own designs in her absence—it was in the middle of November that a letter was handed to Roger as he dressed one morning in his room.It bore the London post-mark, and looked mysterious enough to induce Roger to lay down his brushes and open it there and then. This is what it said:—“Dear Roger,—You’ll have been expecting to hear from me, as no doubt your moral friend, Mr Armstrong, has told you who I am. I don’t fancy you are specially pleased with the discovery, and it may suit you to turn up your nose at your affectionate brother. You may turn up what you like, but it doesn’t alter the fact. I am your brother. When I heard of my father’s death I was in India, and made up my mind to come home on the chance the old boy had forgiven me and left me some of the needful in his will. Your guardian, Oliphant, had little idea that the Indian chum who made such a long journey to pay him a visit at Maxfield was really the man to whom the place ought to have belonged if every one had his rights. Of course I soon found out my mistake. The old man kept up his grudge to the end, and cut me out of his will without even a shilling. So you’ve nothing to be afraid of. I dare say when you come into the property you will do something for your big brother. Meanwhile I don’t expect much out of the pair of hypocrites my father chose to leave as your guardians. But as I am hard up, and you can probably do what you like with your pocket-money, let me have a £10 note once and again, say fortnightly, addressed to Robert Ratman, to be called for at the General Post Office. If I don’t get this, I shall conclude the Ingletons are true to their reputation of being a good deal fonder of their money than their flesh and blood.“I don’t know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you’ve set me down as a cad and a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I’ve not had the advantages you have. But, cad or no cad, I’ve a right to sign myself your brother,—“Roger Ingleton,aliasRobert Ratman.”Roger read this remarkable epistle once or twice, in a state of mind bordering on stupefaction. Robert Ratman, cad, sharper, blasphemer, insolent profligate, his brother! The notion was ludicrous. And yet, when he tried to laugh, the laugh died on his lips. He walked over to the portrait on the wall and looked at the wild, mocking boy’s face there. For a moment, as he met its gaze, it seemed to grow older and coarser—the light died out of the eyes, the mouth lost its strength, the lines of shame and vice came out on the brow. Then the old face looked out again—the face of the lost Roger Ingleton.“Ratman my brother!” he groaned to himself.Then of a sudden he seemed to see it all. It was a fraud, an imposition, an impudent plot to extort money. But no! As he read the letter again that hope vanished. This was not the letter of an impostor. Had it been, there would have been more about his rights, more brotherly affection, a greater anxiety to appear in good colours. As it was, the writer wrote in the reckless vein of a man who knows he is detested and expects little; who owes a grudge to fortune for his bad luck, and being hard up for money, appeals not to his rights, but to the good nature of his more lucky younger brother.What a sad letter it seemed, read in that light. And how every word drove the unhappy heir of Maxfield deeper and deeper into the slough of perplexity.Three weeks ago, when his dead father’s letter had come into his hands, he had not hesitated for a moment as to his duty or his desire in the matter. He had cheerfully accepted the task of finding that lost, aggrieved, perhaps hardly-used brother, to whom his heart went out as he gazed on the likeness of what he once had been.But now! To abdicate in favour of this blackguard. To look for him, to tell him that Maxfield was his, to have to depend on his generosity for a livelihood, to see the good name of Ingleton represented in the county by a drunken profligate. What a task was that. The writer evidently did not know of the second will, or suspect that after all Maxfield was his own. No one knew of that document but Roger and Armstrong. For a moment there returned to the boy’s mind the words of his father’s letter—“If after reading the papers you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know—you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose.”And Armstrong, the only other being who had seen the papers, had urged him to avail himself of the permission thus accorded. Why not take the advice and save Maxfield and the family name, and himself—ay, and Rosalind—from the discredit that threatened. He could yet be generous, beyond his hopes, to the prodigal. He would pay to get him abroad, to—to—A flush of shame mounted to the boy’s cheeks as he suddenly discovered himself listening to these unworthy suggestions.“Heaven help me,” he said, “to be a man.” It was a brief inward fight, though a sore one.Roger Ingleton, weak in body, often dull of wit and infirm of temper, had yet certain old-fashioned ideas of his own as to how it behoves a gentleman to act.He cherished, too, certain still older-fashioned ideas as to how when a Christian gentleman wants help and courage he may obtain it. And he was endowed with that glorious obstinacy which, when it once satisfies itself on a question of right and wrong, declines to listen to argument.Therefore when, later than usual, he joined the family party at breakfast, it was with a grim sense of a misery ahead to be faced, but by no manner of means to be avoided.For fear the reader should be disposed to rank Roger at once among the saints, let it be added that he took his place in as genuine a bad temper as a strong mind and a weak body between them are capable of generating.“Roger, my dear boy,” said the captain mournfully, as became the weeds he wore, “you are looking poorly. You need a change. We both need one after the trouble we have been through. I think a run up to London would brace us up. Would you like it?”“I don’t know,” said Roger shortly. “I don’t think so.”“It is trying to you, I am sure, to remain here, in your delicate health, among so many sad associations—”“I’m quite well, thank you,” said the boy. “Tom, how does the football get on?”“Oh,” said Tom, rather taken aback by the introduction of so congenial a theme from so unexpected a quarter, “I’ve not played very much lately. Jill and I had a little punt about yesterday; but we did it quite slowly, you know, and I had my crape on my arm.”Jill flushed up guiltily. The housekeeper, who since Mrs Ingleton’s death had assumed the moral direction of the young lady, had expostulated with her in no mild terms on the iniquity of young ladies playing football, even of a funereal order, and she felt it very treacherous on the part of the faithless Tom to divulge her ill-doings now.She felt reassured, however, when Mr Armstrong smiled grimly.“Nobody could see,” said she; “and Tomdidwant a game so dreadfully.”“We played Association,” said Tom. “Jill got two goals and I got fifty-six.”“No, I got three,” said Jill.“Oh, that first wasn’t a goal,” said Tom. “You see, she got past me with a neat bit of dribbling; but she ran, and the rule was only to walk, you know, because of being in mourning.”“I really didn’t run, I only walked very fast,” said Jill.“I should think you might allow her the goal,” said Mr Armstrong.Mr Armstrong was always coming to Jill’s rescue; and if any of her heart had been left to win, he would have won it now. Tom gave in, and said he supposed he would have to let her count it; and was vastly consoled for his self-denial by Roger’s proposal to join him in a game that very day.Before that important function came off, however, Roger and his tutor had a somewhat uncomfortable talk in the library.“You are feeling out of sorts, old fellow,” said the latter when they were left alone.“I’ve had a letter,” said Roger.“Another?”“Read it, please.”“If you wish it, I will. Last time, however, it wasn’t a success consulting me.”“I want you to read this.”The tutor took the letter and turned to the signature.His brow knitted as he did so, and the lines grew deeper and more scornful as he turned to the beginning and read through.“If I were you,” said he, returning it, “I would frame this letter as a good specimen of a barefaced fraud.”It irritated Roger considerably, in his present over-wrought frame of mind—and particularly after the memorable inward struggle of that morning—to have what seemed so serious a matter to him regarded by any one else as a jest. For once in a way the tutor failed to understand his ward.“It does not seem to be a fraud at all,” said Roger. “Why didn’t you tell me of it before?”“I did not regard the statement seriously. Nor do I now. There is lie written in every line of the letter. A clumsy attempt to extort money, which ought not to be allowed to succeed. He gives not a single proof of his identity. I horsewhipped him on the night of your birthday for insulting a lady, and—”“What lady?” asked Roger.“Miss Oliphant,” said the tutor, flushing a little. “He then, as a desperate expedient for getting off the punishment he deserved, blurted out this preposterous story. And having once published it, it appears he means to make capital out of it. Roger, old fellow, you are no fool.”“I am fool enough to believe there is something in the story,” said Roger; “at any rate I must follow it up. If this Ratman is my brother—”The tutor, who himself was showing signs of irritation, laughed abruptly.“It may be a joke to you, but it is none to me,” said Roger angrily. “It may not concern you—”“It concerns me very much,” said the tutor. “I am your guardian, and it is my duty to protect you from schemers.”The two stood looking at one another, and in that moment each relented a little of his anger.“I know, old fellow,” said Roger, “you think you are doing me a kindness, but—”“Pardon me—kindness is not the word. I appeal to your common-sense—”Unlucky speech! Roger, who was painfully aware that he was not clever, was naturally touchy at any reference to his common-sense.“It doesn’t seem much use discussing,” said he. “I made a mistake in showing you the letter.”“I heartily regret you did.”“I hoped you would have helped me in my difficulty.”“I will do anything for you except believe, without proof, and in spite of every probability, that Ratman is your brother.”“He is just the age my brother would have been now.”“So is George the coachman, so am I, so are half a dozen men in the village.”“He certainly has some resemblance to the portrait.”“I could find you a score more like it in London.”“The long and short of it is, Armstrong, I cannot look to you to back me up in this.”“To make Robert Ratman into Roger Ingleton?—I fear not. To back you up in all else, and be at your call whether you think well or ill of me—certainly.”They parted angrily, though without a quarrel. Mr Armstrong had rarely felt himself so put out, and crashed away ruthlessly at his piano all the morning.Roger, perhaps conscious that logic was not on his side, whatever instinct and feeling might be, retired disappointed and miserable to the park, and never remembered his appointment with the eager Tom.At lunch-time he said to Captain Oliphant—“When did you think of going to town?”“At the end of the week, my boy. What do you say to coming?”“Yes—I’ll come.”The Captain darted a triumphant glance in the direction of the tutor. But the tutor was investigating the contents of a game pie in the endeavour to discover a piece of egg for Miss Jill.After a pause that young lady took up her discourse.“If father and Roger go to town, Tom, we shall have dear Mr Armstrong all to ourselves.”“Hooroo!” said Tom; “that is, if it’s holidays.”“I am thinking of going to Oxford next week,” said the tutor, elaborately folding up his napkin, addressing his co-trustee. “Have you any message I can give to any of your acquaintances there?”“I think it would be a pity for you to leave Maxfield just now. One of us should remain.”“Yes, do stay. We’ll have such larks,” said Tom. “We’ll get Rosalind to come and stay, and then we shall be able to play regular matches, ladies against gentlemen, you know.”“No. Mr Armstrong and I will stand Rosalind and you,” suggested Jill.Even these allurements failed.“I shall make my visit as short as possible. I have, as you know, a few creditors in Oxford on whom I am anxious to call. Let me give you a little cheese, Roger.”That evening when, as usual, the tutor looked in to say good night to his ward, Roger said rather gloomily—“I suppose you object to my going to London?”“On the contrary, I rather envy you.”“Of course you understand I am going up to make inquiries?”“Naturally. With Captain Oliphant’s assistance?”“No. I’m not inclined to tell him anything at present. He has no idea that Ratman is anything but an Indian acquaintance.”“My address will be ‘“Green Dragon,” Oxford,’” said the tutor.“By the way,” said Roger—both men were talking in the forced tones which belong to an unacknowledged estrangement—“Whether this matter is right or not, I propose to write to Ratman and enclose him £10.”“Naturally,” said the tutor.“I am tied down, as you know, in the matter of my pocket-money, and can’t well spare it out of my present allowance. I want the trustees to give me an extra allowance.”“In other words, you want your trustees to keep Mr Robert Ratman at the rate of £250 a year. I shall agree to that the day that he satisfies me he is Roger Ingleton.”“I expected you would refuse. I must ask Captain Oliphant.”“I’m afraid he will require my sanction to any such arrangement.”“What! Do you mean to say that I am at your mercy in a matter like this?”“I fear that is unhappily the case. I can resolve the matter by resigning my tutorship.”Had it come to that? Roger glanced up with a scared look which for the moment clouded out the vexation in his face.“Excuse me, Armstrong. All this worry is bad for my temper. I’m afraid I lost it.”“I can sympathise,” said the tutor, “for I have lost mine. Good night.”
In the sad confusion which followed upon Mrs Ingleton’s sudden death, no one appeared to remark the abrupt departure of Mr Robert Ratman. Roger certainly never bestowed a thought on the occurrence, and if any of the other members of the household thought twice about it, they all—even Jill—kept their ideas on the subject to themselves.
To Roger the week that followed his twentieth birthday was the most dismal of his life. When a similar blow had fallen months ago he had been too bewildered and benumbed to realise fully his own loss. Now he realised everything only too vividly.
His own trouble; the loss of the last near relative he had in the world; his own sickly health, chaining him down when he would fain seek comfort in action; the uncertainty of his position as heir of Maxfield; the hopeless task before him of finding his lost brother; Rosalind’s indifference to his affection—all seemed now to pile up in one great mountain to oppress him, and he half envied the gentle dead her quiet resting-place.
It was in the second week after the funeral, when Maxfield once more began to assume its normal aspect, and Captain Oliphant was allowing himself to hope that, notwithstanding the removal of his latest “dear departed,” things were likely to shape themselves a trifle more comfortably for his own designs in her absence—it was in the middle of November that a letter was handed to Roger as he dressed one morning in his room.
It bore the London post-mark, and looked mysterious enough to induce Roger to lay down his brushes and open it there and then. This is what it said:—
“Dear Roger,—You’ll have been expecting to hear from me, as no doubt your moral friend, Mr Armstrong, has told you who I am. I don’t fancy you are specially pleased with the discovery, and it may suit you to turn up your nose at your affectionate brother. You may turn up what you like, but it doesn’t alter the fact. I am your brother. When I heard of my father’s death I was in India, and made up my mind to come home on the chance the old boy had forgiven me and left me some of the needful in his will. Your guardian, Oliphant, had little idea that the Indian chum who made such a long journey to pay him a visit at Maxfield was really the man to whom the place ought to have belonged if every one had his rights. Of course I soon found out my mistake. The old man kept up his grudge to the end, and cut me out of his will without even a shilling. So you’ve nothing to be afraid of. I dare say when you come into the property you will do something for your big brother. Meanwhile I don’t expect much out of the pair of hypocrites my father chose to leave as your guardians. But as I am hard up, and you can probably do what you like with your pocket-money, let me have a £10 note once and again, say fortnightly, addressed to Robert Ratman, to be called for at the General Post Office. If I don’t get this, I shall conclude the Ingletons are true to their reputation of being a good deal fonder of their money than their flesh and blood.“I don’t know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you’ve set me down as a cad and a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I’ve not had the advantages you have. But, cad or no cad, I’ve a right to sign myself your brother,—“Roger Ingleton,aliasRobert Ratman.”
“Dear Roger,—You’ll have been expecting to hear from me, as no doubt your moral friend, Mr Armstrong, has told you who I am. I don’t fancy you are specially pleased with the discovery, and it may suit you to turn up your nose at your affectionate brother. You may turn up what you like, but it doesn’t alter the fact. I am your brother. When I heard of my father’s death I was in India, and made up my mind to come home on the chance the old boy had forgiven me and left me some of the needful in his will. Your guardian, Oliphant, had little idea that the Indian chum who made such a long journey to pay him a visit at Maxfield was really the man to whom the place ought to have belonged if every one had his rights. Of course I soon found out my mistake. The old man kept up his grudge to the end, and cut me out of his will without even a shilling. So you’ve nothing to be afraid of. I dare say when you come into the property you will do something for your big brother. Meanwhile I don’t expect much out of the pair of hypocrites my father chose to leave as your guardians. But as I am hard up, and you can probably do what you like with your pocket-money, let me have a £10 note once and again, say fortnightly, addressed to Robert Ratman, to be called for at the General Post Office. If I don’t get this, I shall conclude the Ingletons are true to their reputation of being a good deal fonder of their money than their flesh and blood.
“I don’t know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you’ve set me down as a cad and a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I’ve not had the advantages you have. But, cad or no cad, I’ve a right to sign myself your brother,—
“Roger Ingleton,aliasRobert Ratman.”
Roger read this remarkable epistle once or twice, in a state of mind bordering on stupefaction. Robert Ratman, cad, sharper, blasphemer, insolent profligate, his brother! The notion was ludicrous. And yet, when he tried to laugh, the laugh died on his lips. He walked over to the portrait on the wall and looked at the wild, mocking boy’s face there. For a moment, as he met its gaze, it seemed to grow older and coarser—the light died out of the eyes, the mouth lost its strength, the lines of shame and vice came out on the brow. Then the old face looked out again—the face of the lost Roger Ingleton.
“Ratman my brother!” he groaned to himself.
Then of a sudden he seemed to see it all. It was a fraud, an imposition, an impudent plot to extort money. But no! As he read the letter again that hope vanished. This was not the letter of an impostor. Had it been, there would have been more about his rights, more brotherly affection, a greater anxiety to appear in good colours. As it was, the writer wrote in the reckless vein of a man who knows he is detested and expects little; who owes a grudge to fortune for his bad luck, and being hard up for money, appeals not to his rights, but to the good nature of his more lucky younger brother.
What a sad letter it seemed, read in that light. And how every word drove the unhappy heir of Maxfield deeper and deeper into the slough of perplexity.
Three weeks ago, when his dead father’s letter had come into his hands, he had not hesitated for a moment as to his duty or his desire in the matter. He had cheerfully accepted the task of finding that lost, aggrieved, perhaps hardly-used brother, to whom his heart went out as he gazed on the likeness of what he once had been.
But now! To abdicate in favour of this blackguard. To look for him, to tell him that Maxfield was his, to have to depend on his generosity for a livelihood, to see the good name of Ingleton represented in the county by a drunken profligate. What a task was that. The writer evidently did not know of the second will, or suspect that after all Maxfield was his own. No one knew of that document but Roger and Armstrong. For a moment there returned to the boy’s mind the words of his father’s letter—
“If after reading the papers you choose to destroy them, no one will blame you; no one will know—you will do no one an injury. You are free to act as you choose.”
And Armstrong, the only other being who had seen the papers, had urged him to avail himself of the permission thus accorded. Why not take the advice and save Maxfield and the family name, and himself—ay, and Rosalind—from the discredit that threatened. He could yet be generous, beyond his hopes, to the prodigal. He would pay to get him abroad, to—to—
A flush of shame mounted to the boy’s cheeks as he suddenly discovered himself listening to these unworthy suggestions.
“Heaven help me,” he said, “to be a man.” It was a brief inward fight, though a sore one.
Roger Ingleton, weak in body, often dull of wit and infirm of temper, had yet certain old-fashioned ideas of his own as to how it behoves a gentleman to act.
He cherished, too, certain still older-fashioned ideas as to how when a Christian gentleman wants help and courage he may obtain it. And he was endowed with that glorious obstinacy which, when it once satisfies itself on a question of right and wrong, declines to listen to argument.
Therefore when, later than usual, he joined the family party at breakfast, it was with a grim sense of a misery ahead to be faced, but by no manner of means to be avoided.
For fear the reader should be disposed to rank Roger at once among the saints, let it be added that he took his place in as genuine a bad temper as a strong mind and a weak body between them are capable of generating.
“Roger, my dear boy,” said the captain mournfully, as became the weeds he wore, “you are looking poorly. You need a change. We both need one after the trouble we have been through. I think a run up to London would brace us up. Would you like it?”
“I don’t know,” said Roger shortly. “I don’t think so.”
“It is trying to you, I am sure, to remain here, in your delicate health, among so many sad associations—”
“I’m quite well, thank you,” said the boy. “Tom, how does the football get on?”
“Oh,” said Tom, rather taken aback by the introduction of so congenial a theme from so unexpected a quarter, “I’ve not played very much lately. Jill and I had a little punt about yesterday; but we did it quite slowly, you know, and I had my crape on my arm.”
Jill flushed up guiltily. The housekeeper, who since Mrs Ingleton’s death had assumed the moral direction of the young lady, had expostulated with her in no mild terms on the iniquity of young ladies playing football, even of a funereal order, and she felt it very treacherous on the part of the faithless Tom to divulge her ill-doings now.
She felt reassured, however, when Mr Armstrong smiled grimly.
“Nobody could see,” said she; “and Tomdidwant a game so dreadfully.”
“We played Association,” said Tom. “Jill got two goals and I got fifty-six.”
“No, I got three,” said Jill.
“Oh, that first wasn’t a goal,” said Tom. “You see, she got past me with a neat bit of dribbling; but she ran, and the rule was only to walk, you know, because of being in mourning.”
“I really didn’t run, I only walked very fast,” said Jill.
“I should think you might allow her the goal,” said Mr Armstrong.
Mr Armstrong was always coming to Jill’s rescue; and if any of her heart had been left to win, he would have won it now. Tom gave in, and said he supposed he would have to let her count it; and was vastly consoled for his self-denial by Roger’s proposal to join him in a game that very day.
Before that important function came off, however, Roger and his tutor had a somewhat uncomfortable talk in the library.
“You are feeling out of sorts, old fellow,” said the latter when they were left alone.
“I’ve had a letter,” said Roger.
“Another?”
“Read it, please.”
“If you wish it, I will. Last time, however, it wasn’t a success consulting me.”
“I want you to read this.”
The tutor took the letter and turned to the signature.
His brow knitted as he did so, and the lines grew deeper and more scornful as he turned to the beginning and read through.
“If I were you,” said he, returning it, “I would frame this letter as a good specimen of a barefaced fraud.”
It irritated Roger considerably, in his present over-wrought frame of mind—and particularly after the memorable inward struggle of that morning—to have what seemed so serious a matter to him regarded by any one else as a jest. For once in a way the tutor failed to understand his ward.
“It does not seem to be a fraud at all,” said Roger. “Why didn’t you tell me of it before?”
“I did not regard the statement seriously. Nor do I now. There is lie written in every line of the letter. A clumsy attempt to extort money, which ought not to be allowed to succeed. He gives not a single proof of his identity. I horsewhipped him on the night of your birthday for insulting a lady, and—”
“What lady?” asked Roger.
“Miss Oliphant,” said the tutor, flushing a little. “He then, as a desperate expedient for getting off the punishment he deserved, blurted out this preposterous story. And having once published it, it appears he means to make capital out of it. Roger, old fellow, you are no fool.”
“I am fool enough to believe there is something in the story,” said Roger; “at any rate I must follow it up. If this Ratman is my brother—”
The tutor, who himself was showing signs of irritation, laughed abruptly.
“It may be a joke to you, but it is none to me,” said Roger angrily. “It may not concern you—”
“It concerns me very much,” said the tutor. “I am your guardian, and it is my duty to protect you from schemers.”
The two stood looking at one another, and in that moment each relented a little of his anger.
“I know, old fellow,” said Roger, “you think you are doing me a kindness, but—”
“Pardon me—kindness is not the word. I appeal to your common-sense—”
Unlucky speech! Roger, who was painfully aware that he was not clever, was naturally touchy at any reference to his common-sense.
“It doesn’t seem much use discussing,” said he. “I made a mistake in showing you the letter.”
“I heartily regret you did.”
“I hoped you would have helped me in my difficulty.”
“I will do anything for you except believe, without proof, and in spite of every probability, that Ratman is your brother.”
“He is just the age my brother would have been now.”
“So is George the coachman, so am I, so are half a dozen men in the village.”
“He certainly has some resemblance to the portrait.”
“I could find you a score more like it in London.”
“The long and short of it is, Armstrong, I cannot look to you to back me up in this.”
“To make Robert Ratman into Roger Ingleton?—I fear not. To back you up in all else, and be at your call whether you think well or ill of me—certainly.”
They parted angrily, though without a quarrel. Mr Armstrong had rarely felt himself so put out, and crashed away ruthlessly at his piano all the morning.
Roger, perhaps conscious that logic was not on his side, whatever instinct and feeling might be, retired disappointed and miserable to the park, and never remembered his appointment with the eager Tom.
At lunch-time he said to Captain Oliphant—
“When did you think of going to town?”
“At the end of the week, my boy. What do you say to coming?”
“Yes—I’ll come.”
The Captain darted a triumphant glance in the direction of the tutor. But the tutor was investigating the contents of a game pie in the endeavour to discover a piece of egg for Miss Jill.
After a pause that young lady took up her discourse.
“If father and Roger go to town, Tom, we shall have dear Mr Armstrong all to ourselves.”
“Hooroo!” said Tom; “that is, if it’s holidays.”
“I am thinking of going to Oxford next week,” said the tutor, elaborately folding up his napkin, addressing his co-trustee. “Have you any message I can give to any of your acquaintances there?”
“I think it would be a pity for you to leave Maxfield just now. One of us should remain.”
“Yes, do stay. We’ll have such larks,” said Tom. “We’ll get Rosalind to come and stay, and then we shall be able to play regular matches, ladies against gentlemen, you know.”
“No. Mr Armstrong and I will stand Rosalind and you,” suggested Jill.
Even these allurements failed.
“I shall make my visit as short as possible. I have, as you know, a few creditors in Oxford on whom I am anxious to call. Let me give you a little cheese, Roger.”
That evening when, as usual, the tutor looked in to say good night to his ward, Roger said rather gloomily—
“I suppose you object to my going to London?”
“On the contrary, I rather envy you.”
“Of course you understand I am going up to make inquiries?”
“Naturally. With Captain Oliphant’s assistance?”
“No. I’m not inclined to tell him anything at present. He has no idea that Ratman is anything but an Indian acquaintance.”
“My address will be ‘“Green Dragon,” Oxford,’” said the tutor.
“By the way,” said Roger—both men were talking in the forced tones which belong to an unacknowledged estrangement—“Whether this matter is right or not, I propose to write to Ratman and enclose him £10.”
“Naturally,” said the tutor.
“I am tied down, as you know, in the matter of my pocket-money, and can’t well spare it out of my present allowance. I want the trustees to give me an extra allowance.”
“In other words, you want your trustees to keep Mr Robert Ratman at the rate of £250 a year. I shall agree to that the day that he satisfies me he is Roger Ingleton.”
“I expected you would refuse. I must ask Captain Oliphant.”
“I’m afraid he will require my sanction to any such arrangement.”
“What! Do you mean to say that I am at your mercy in a matter like this?”
“I fear that is unhappily the case. I can resolve the matter by resigning my tutorship.”
Had it come to that? Roger glanced up with a scared look which for the moment clouded out the vexation in his face.
“Excuse me, Armstrong. All this worry is bad for my temper. I’m afraid I lost it.”
“I can sympathise,” said the tutor, “for I have lost mine. Good night.”