Mr Ratman's natural modesty prompted a precipitate retreat from the
embarrassing vicinity of the gentleman whom he had last seen with a
horsewhip in his hand; but prudence and the presence of the stranger,
and the lack of any other place to go to, prevailed upon him to remain.
The stranger, apparently unaware of the presence of a third party,
continued his conversation where it had been interrupted.
"Yes," said he, "I reckon I should know something of my own family,
although it's a generation since I set foot in these parts."
"Yes; all right," said Ratman uncomfortably. "I'll go and order
dinner."
But the entrance of the landlord prevented this manoeuvre.
"The gig from Maxfield is in the village, Mr Armstrong," said he,
addressing the tutor. "I've sent word to Robbins to call for you in
half an hour. Maybe, if Mr Ratman is going up, you could give him a
lift."
"Mr Ratman is not going up," said Mr Armstrong.
The stranger here took notice of the tutor.
"Friend of my friend, eh?" said he. "Pleased to know you, sir.
Resident in these parts, I presume? What?"
"Quite so," said Mr Armstrong, putting up his glass, and honouring the
speaker with a minute survey.
"As I was saying to our young friend here, there's been changes in this
locality since I was here about the time of Noah. You named Maxfield
just now, sir. Likely you know Squire Ingleton, my relative, at the
manor-house there?"
The tutor's glass dropped abruptly.
"Your relative? What relation were you to the old Squire?"
"_Was_ I--is he dead, then?"
"More than a year ago."
"Sir," said the stranger, with some excitement, "that man was my
sister's husband. I guess I've come here a trifle late. Dead? He
didn't look to have it in him. What say?"
It said a good deal for Mr Ratman's nerve that in the tutor's presence
he took upon himself to reply boldly--
"My father died rather suddenly a year since. So you are my uncle?"
The American mayor stared at the speaker in bewilderment, which was not
lessened by an abrupt laugh from the gentleman at the fireplace.
"I guess I'll take a seat and work this out," said he. "I'm your uncle,
am I? I never should have known it, if you hadn't been so obliging as
to tell me, young man. Which branch of the family tree do you hang on
to?"
"Your sister had a son, Roger Ingleton. That's my name."
"Is that so? And you're the present Squire of Maxfield? Well, well.
When did you come to life again?"
"There was a false report of my death," said Ratman, glancing a little
nervously at the tutor, who was diligently removing the mud from his
riding-boots.
"Wal, it's singular. I never expected to see a nephew of mine again.
Why, how long is it, now, since I went over? Thirty-seven years if it's
a day."
"I can't remember that," said Ratman tentatively.
"Seeing you weren't born, you'd find it hard," said Mr Headland. "But,
say, by all accounts you were a troublesome boy."
"I was not all I might have been," replied Mr Ratman, beginning to wish
this cross-examination was over.
"Put it that way, certainly. You ran away, and left your mother, my
sister, with a broken heart, I've heard say."
"My father and I quarrelled, and I left home--yes."
Here the tutor quitted the fire and came to where the two men sat.
"Excuse my interrupting you, sir," said he to the stranger, "but your
conversation interests me. The fact is, the Squire married a second
time, and left a son, whose guardian I happen to be. By the old man's
will my ward is the heir. You will allow I have a right to feel
interested in this gentleman, who only discovered six months ago that he
was the lost elder brother."
The good American sat back in his chair and looked from Ratman to
Armstrong, and from Armstrong back to Ratman, in a state of painful
bewilderment.
"Now," said the tutor, "my ward feels a little curiosity about his elder
brother--only natural, is it not?--and I, as his legal guardian,
naturally share that curiosity."
"Why, certainly," said the Mayor, beginning to be interested.
Mr Ratman began to lose countenance, and fidgeted uncomfortably with
the forks and spoons.
"I have heard a little of this gentleman's romantic career," continued
the tutor, with his half-drawl. "He has been good enough to tell us, in
fact, that when he left home--by the way, when was that, Ratman?"
"When I know your right to ask me questions," growled Ratman, "I'll see
about answering them."
"Seems to me," said the Mayor, assuming judicial functions for the time
being, "unless you've disgraced yourself, you can't hurt much by saying.
You say you're the Squire's son; this gentleman--I didn't catch your
name, sir?--Armstrong?--Mr Armstrong says he's not as sure as you are.
Seems to me, if you tell one thing, you may as well tell another. It's
all one story, and if it's true, it's a good one."
Mr Ratman did not like the turn affairs were taking. If he refused to
reply to the questions put to him, he was aware that he was damaging his
own claim. If he answered, how was he to know if the risk was not even
greater? And yet, what more was Armstrong likely to know about the lost
son than he himself? He might as well go through with it. So he
replied, sullenly--
"I left home a year before my mother died. He can get the date of that
from the tombstone, if he wants it."
"Thanks; I'll look at it," said the tutor with aggravating cheerfulness.
"You went up to London, didn't you?"
"I've told you so, and that I lived there with a man called Fastnet."
"And then you went abroad, I think you said?"
"Yes; to India."
"Just so; that's where you died, is it not? You stayed in London long
enough to go to the dogs, I understood you to say?"
"That didn't take long. I spent all my money in six months, and then
enlisted," said Ratman, feeling fairly launched by this time.
"Quite so. And you died, I believe, in India?"
"I was supposed to have died in a skirmish; and they sent news home that
I had. I never corrected it."
"Whereabouts was the skirmish, if it's a fair question?"
"On the frontier. I forget the name."
"That's unfortunate. By the way, to go back to London, do you recollect
where Mr Fastnet lived? I should like to call on him."
"You won't find him; he died before I went abroad--drank himself to
death."
"I'm sorry to hear that. And you enlisted under your present name of
Ratman, of course?"
"My present name is Ingleton. If I called myself Ratman, that was
because I didn't want my father to hear of me. I never told any one my
real name."
"Seems to me," said the Mayor, "it's odd how your medical adviser on the
field of battle found out where to write home to say you were dead."
"It is still more odd, sir," said the tutor, fixing the claimant with
his glass, "that this Mr Fastnet (who, you will be glad to hear, has
also come to life again, was still in good health when my ward saw him a
few weeks ago) retains a vivid recollection of the runaway son having
entertained him for a year at his own lodgings; at the end of which time
the prodigal, so far from enlisting, took to the stage, and spent
another year, at least, with a company of strolling players.
"We have your unfortunate's nephew's story," proceeded the tutor,
"carefully traced up to a certain point, and if either you or Mr Ratman
are interested in the matter, we can produce our witnesses. Your memory
is a treacherous one, Robert Ratman. It is no use asking you, I fear,
what became of you after a certain riot in Boulogne when you, as the
Ghost in `Hamlet,' and your fellow-tragedians were mobbed for not paying
the rent of your hall?"
Mr Ratman, who during this cross-examination had passed through all the
stages from blustering rage to abject discomfiture, sank back on his
chair and turned a livid face to his questioner. He had sense enough to
see that the game was up; and not being an actor himself, he was at a
loss to conceal his defeat. The tutor's cold, keen gaze took the heart
out of him.
"Lying dog!" snarled he, "I've had enough of your questions. You think
yourself clever, but I'll be even with you yet. I'll ruin the lot of
you--you and your fellow-scoundrel and his brats, who don't know yet
what it is to have a felon for a father. You'll be sorry for this."
So saying, he took up his bag, and with the best swagger he could assume
slunk from the room.
"See--stay here, young man," said the Mayor excitedly; "there's
something else."
But he was gone. The outer door slammed to and his footsteps died
gradually away down the street.
Mr Armstrong and the stranger exchanged glances in silence. Then the
Mayor turned to Mr Armstrong with a stern face.
"Seems to me, sir," said he, "that if that young man's the knave, you're
uncommon like the fool. You'll excuse me mentioning it after the
service you have just rendered to the cause of veracity, but it's a
solemn fact."
"I have heard the same opinion expressed by other authorities, and I
have no doubt it is true. You mean to tell me I should have extorted
from him a written recantation of his claim?"
"That's so; you guess right. Consequence is, I'm bound to stay now as a
witness to see this quarrel through. Here have I come on a pleasure-
trip to see my relatives, and it seems I've got to combine business and
pleasure after all."
"You forget I've no hold over this man. He does not claim the property,
although he guesses that my ward will hand it over to him if he proves
his identity. I can only show him to be a liar."
"You seem pretty sure of that."
"I am myself; and I hope, for everybody's sake, that your nephew, if he
should turn up, will be a better credit to the name than this land-
shark."
"Well, sir, I don't thank you for dragging me into the business; but,
since I am here, I stay to see it out."
"I am relieved to hear you say so."
"Tell me now," said the Mayor, "what the story is; and what does our
young friend mean by his farewell threats?"
Thereupon Mr Armstrong gave his new ally a faithful account of the
family difficulty: of Captain Oliphant's embarrassing relations to the
claimant, of Miss Rosalind's dilemma, of Roger's quixotic determination
to find his lost brother, and of his own--the tutor's--conviction of the
hopelessness of the quest.
The visitor by no means shared the last conclusion.
"I rather calculate that lost young man ain't as dead as you think,"
said he. "By all accounts he wasn't born to be drowned, and he's not
hung yet. You bet, the young brother will come up with him before
time's called."
"Well, by the last accounts he seems to have a vague clue as to his
whereabouts fifteen years ago," said the tutor; "we shall hear what he
makes of it. To-morrow you must come up to Maxfield and see my co-
trustee."
The presence of this unexpected friend of the family, in the capacity of
impartial umpire, struck the tutor as particularly opportune at this
juncture. He had been a witness to Ratman's virtual admission to his
imposture, and his natural interest in the discovery of his own nephew
was not likely to warp his determination to see fair play for Roger.
Captain Oliphant, when he heard next morning of the new arrival, by no
means shared his co-trustee's satisfaction. The news, indeed, agitated
him to a remarkable degree, and he astonished the tutor by his ill-
concealed reluctance to meet him.
"It is important that you should see him," remarked the tutor. "As the
uncle of the lost elder brother he is entitled, I think, to our
confidence. I can imagine no reason why you should be afraid to see
him."
"Afraid! Who says I am afraid to see him?"
"I can think of no other explanation of your reluctance--"
"Please, sir, Mr Headland to see you," announced Raffles.
Captain Oliphant changed colour as he turned to greet the visitor.
"You'll pardon the early call," said the latter, "but they gave me such
a shocking supper at the inn, that I resolved to try my luck up here for
breakfast. Captain Oliphant, I presume?--friend of my friend Armstrong.
Pleased to know you, sir. Pity you weren't with us last night to see
the decline and fall of your ingenious friend, R. Ratman. Your
colleague, sir, put that young man to bed in a way that would have made
you enjoy yourself. Seems to me, captain, you are well rid of him."
"I fail to understand all this," said the captain. "If you refer to Mr
Ratman's claims to be the lost Roger Ingleton--"
"My nephew," interposed the American.
"All I can say is, that I am not at all satisfied the claim is not a
just one."
"Well, sir," said Mr Headland, "if that's your opinion, it's more than
that young man thinks himself by this time. But never mind that."
"I do mind it, sir; and I should like to know what right any one has to
decide the matter for me? I would suggest that, though we are pleased
to see you, you should allow us to attend to our own business."
"I not only allow you, sir, but I expect it of you. And that reminds me
of a question that has been puzzling me ever since I heard of the
Squire's death. I wrote him a letter in the fall of last year."
The captain was seized with a sudden impulse to stir the fire, and as he
stood thus with his back turned, Mr Armstrong could not help wondering
what there was in the operation so violently to agitate the operator's
frame.
"Yes, sir, a letter dated November 9th, which must have been delivered,
as I have made inquiries, and find it was not returned. It contained
money, and as it was never acknowledged, I had fears it was lost."
"Any letters for the Squire have been opened by his executors. I
recollect none from abroad--do you, Captain Oliphant?" said the tutor.
The Captain, still with his back turned, said-- "No; it never came into
my hands."
"Mrs Ingleton would hardly be likely to have opened it. It would be
only a short time before her death."
"It's singular," said the Mayor. "My clerk posted it. He should have
registered it, but omitted."
"How was it directed?" asked the captain, turning at last, and pale
after his exertions.
"Roger Ingleton, senior, Maxfield, England."
"Hum! Did your clerk know it contained money?"
"Which means, did he purloin it? Well, sir, we shall see. An English
bank-note can be traced. That's one advantage you have over us on the
other side."
Mr Armstrong during this short colloquy experienced a curious
depression of spirits. He was thinking, not of the bank-notes, or the
American mayor, or even of Captain Oliphant, but of Rosalind and Jill
and Tom; and the thought of them just at this moment made him feel very
melancholy.
As for the captain, if his thoughts for a moment turned in the same
direction, they came back instantly, with a strong revulsion of hate
against the man who stood in his way at every turn; who seemed to read
him through, to unmask him silently whenever he sought to take refuge in
a lie, to pin him ruthlessly down to the consequences of his own
delinquencies. But for Armstrong he might have been a free man--free of
his debts, free of his frauds, clear in his children's eyes, able to
hold up his head to all the world. As it was, everything seemed to
conspire with his enemy to pinion him and hold him fast, a prey to the
Nemesis that was on its way! What would he not give to have this
stumbling-block out of the path, and feel himself free to breathe and
hope once more?
In such a mood he spent the morning; and about midday, shaking off his
visitor, wandered out into the park for fresh air and space to think.
As he paced, there returned to him memories of old half-forgotten days,
of faces that once looked into his trustfully, voices that once made his
heart glad, children that once ran to welcome him; visions of vanished
hopes, ambitions, ideals. Where were they all now? Who believed in him
to-day? Who would believe in him a week hence? What voices rejoiced
him now? Into whose life did he carry strength and cheer? The park
stretched bleak and desolate before him; the earth lay sullen under his
feet, the very trees drooped around him, and the great restless ocean
beyond moaned at his coming. It was nothing to him that the smell of
spring was in the air; that the lark was carolling high overhead; that
the declining sun was darting his rays through the trees.
Near at hand rose a sound of laughter. He durst not turn that way, lest
he should meet his own children.
Far away, through a break in the trees, he could catch a glimpse of the
old church at Yeld with the Vicarage beside it, where dwelt the one
being he dreaded most--his own daughter. From behind wafted a sound of
music through an open window, where sat the man who had found him out
and could ruin him by a word.
Which way was he to turn? Which way shall a man turn who would escape
from himself?
For two long hours he wandered on caring not which way he took, and
feeling himself step by step closer beset by his dismal forebodings.
Presently he found himself beyond the park boundaries on the open downs
which stretched to the edge of the cliff. The touch of the salt sea-
breeze on his fevered brow startled him and made him shiver. The last
gleam of daylight was fading in the west, and when presently it
flickered out and left him in the dark, he felt that the last ray of his
own hope had vanished too. And yet, strange as it may seem, this man
had never been quite as honest with himself as he was now. The game was
fairly up. He had long since given up deluding himself that he was
better than he seemed. Now the time was come when it hardly seemed
worth while to delude other people. It was no use. Nor, to such a pass
had he come, did it seem much use to be a coward. The dog whose last
hope has gone will gather himself together for a final fling at his
persecutors; the poltroon driven back against the wall, unable to
retreat farther, will sometimes turn and make a stand such as he never
deemed himself capable of before. And so Captain Oliphant, because he
could do nothing else, plucked up a little courage and groped about in
the dark for some new fragments of his lost manhood.
He would go back and face the worst. If he was to be ruined, he would
pull the mask off himself, and not leave it to Armstrong or any one else
to do it. Whatever befell, nothing could well be more wretched than the
plight in which he now stood. He had no amends to make, but he could at
least simplify the labours of those whose business it was to expose and
punish him. With which poor spark of resolution he turned dismally to
go back to Maxfield.
As he did so he became aware of footsteps close at hand on the cliff-
path. Whoever the passenger might be--at such an hour and place it was
not likely to be any one but a coastguard or a fisherman--Captain
Oliphant was in no mood for company. He therefore stepped off the path
and sat down on a seat on the edge of the cliff till the intruder had
passed.
It was not so dark but that the latter perceived the movement, and
halting suddenly, said--
"Who's that?"
The voice was that of Mr Ratman. What brought him here at this moment,
to extinguish, perhaps, the little gleam of courage that flickered in
the breast of his wretched dupe?
For a moment the captain was tempted to run like a thief from a
policeman; but his very desperation came to his rescue.
"What do you want here, Ratman?"
"Hullo, it's Oliphant! Here's a piece of luck. You're the very man I
wanted to see. I've changed my mind since I said good-bye yesterday, my
boy, and mean to remain here on the spot and see the end of this
business. I was on my way to see you. Come along."
"You'd better say what you want to say here. You won't find any
admirers of yours up at the house."
"Ah! then you've heard of last night's business? What on earth brings
this Yankee idiot here at this time to spoil everything? Now, Teddy,
the long and short of this business is, that you must stir yourself.
You've shuffled long enough. First of all you were going to marry the
widow; you boggled that. Then you were going to succeed to the
property; you've boggled that. Then you were to clear the tutor out of
the way; you've boggled that. Then you were to raise the wind and pay
me off, and you've boggled that. I've given you long enough rope,
goodness knows. I mean to haul in now."
Captain Oliphant rose from his seat with a dismal laugh. "I'm tired of
hearing you say that, Ratman. I wish you'd do it and be done with it."
Ratman peered through the gloom at the speaker in surprise. "Hullo!"
said he, "that's a new tune for you. Now look here; I suppose you've
not forgotten our talk yesterday?"
"Well?"
"You've two things to do; you've to recognise me as Roger Ingleton when
the time comes. There'll be proofs and witnesses. They must satisfy
you, mind. Make no mistake of that. Then I must have Rosalind. I love
her. On the day I'm your son-in-law you shall have back every bill I
hold against you. Now, is it a bargain? It's a cheap one for you, I
can tell you."
The blood rose to Captain Oliphant's brow. A few hours ago he would
have faltered and evaded, half whined, half promised; now sheer
desperation made him reckless.
He laughed bitterly.
"Recognise you--you shark! Never! And if you ever dare to speak of my
daughter, I'll shake you like a cur. There now, do as you like; you've
got my answer."
Ratman dropped his jaw in utter amazement. For a minute the words would
not come. Then, with a face so livid that Oliphant could see its
whiteness through the night, he hissed--
"You mean it? You defy me?--me, with these papers in my hand, and the
whole story of your villainy in my keeping? You--"
As he held up the bills a wild impulse prompted the wretched captain to
make a grab at them.
There was a short struggle. Oliphant, with his back to the cliff, kept
his hold for a moment; then a fierce blow sent him reeling backwards to
the edge, with the torn half of the documents in his hand. There was a
gasp, a half cry, and next moment only one man stood in the place,
peering with ashen face into the black darkness below.