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