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