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."