Chapter Ten.
Robert Ratman, esquire, Gentleman.
The next morning, as Captain Oliphant, somewhat depressed by the good news of last might was, attempting to write to his dear cousin expression his thankfulness for the mercies vouchsafed to their precious boy, he was considerably disturbed to feel himself slapped on the shoulder and hear a voice behind him exclaim—
“Got you, my man. How are you, Teddy!”
The captain turned with, a startled face, and confronted a stylishly-dressed man of about thirty-five, who, but for the dissipated look of his eyes and the vulgarity of his ornaments, might have passed for a gentleman. He wore a light suit—diamonds and turquoises blazed from his fingers, a diamond stud flashed from his shirt front, and from his heavy watch chain hung a bunch of seals and charms enough to supply half a dozen, men of ordinary pretensions His light hat was tilted at an angle on his head, his brilliant kid boots sparkled beneath the snow-white “spats,” and the lavender gloves he flourished in his hands were light enough for a ball-room.
Once he might have been a handsome man. There were still traces of determination about his mouth, his nose was finely cut, and his lustreless eyes still retained occasional flashes of their old spirit. There was a recklessness in his face and demeanour which once, when it belonged to an honest man, might been attractive; and when he took off his hat and you saw the well-shaped head with its crisp curly hair, you could not help feeling that you saw the ruin of a fine fellow.
It was when he began to talk that you would best understand what a ruin it was. He was chary of his oaths and loose expressions—but when he spoke the words came out vulgarly, with a sleepy, half-tipsy drawl, which jarred on the ear.
Any words from the lips of Robert Ratman, however, would have jarred on the ears of Captain Oliphant.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” said the new arrival, putting his hat cheerfully on the writing-table and helping himself to an easy-chair. “As usual, writing billets doux to the ladies! Ah, Teddy, my boy, at your time of life too! Now, for a youngster like me—”
“I thought you would not be able to leave Southampton till the end of the week?”
“Couldn’t resist the temptation of giving you a pleasant surprise. Why, Teddy, you look exactly as if you thought it was the arm of the law on your shoulder and heard the rattle of the handcuffs. Never mind. They’re all safe. I know where they keep them.”
“Ratman,” said the captain, “you have a very poor idea of humour. You have made me blot my letter, and I shall have to write it over again.”
“Take your time, old boy. No hurry. I shall not be going away for six months or so.”
Captain Oliphant came to the conclusion he had better finish the letter with the blot than attempt a new one. Having done so, he put it in his pocket, and turned with a good show of coolness to his guest.
“When do we run down to Maxfield?” inquired the latter.
“Not for some time. There is illness in the house. You must wait.”
“Oh, I don’t mind if you don’t. Who is the invalid? Young Croesus?”
“Yes—dangerously ill. I expect every day to hear that it is all over.”
Ratman laughed.
“Order two suits of black while you’re about it. But, Teddy, my boy, doesn’t it strike you you’d be more usefully employed down there than here? It seems unfeeling of a guardian to be enjoying himself in town while his ward is in extremis at home, doesn’t it? Who is nursing him?”
“My daughter, chiefly.”
Ratman laughed coarsely.
“Ho, ho, clever Teddy! You’ve left a deputy to look after your interests, have you? Poor boy—no wonder you expect news of him!”
Captain Oliphant, crimson and trembling, rose to his feet.
“Ratman!” muttered he between his teeth, “I may be all you take me for—but don’t talk of my daughter. She—she,”—and he almost choked at the word—“she is as good as I—and you—are black. Talk about me if you like—but forget that I have children of my own.”
“My dear boy, you are quite amusing. I will make a point of forgetting the interesting fact. So the boy is being well looked after?”
“Too well,” replied the captain, pulling himself together after his last outbreak. “The doctor is daft about him; and besides him, as I told you, there is the tutor.”
“Ah! I forgot about him. Is he a nice sort of chap?”
“He’s your worst enemy as well as mine. While he is about the place there’s no chance for either of us.”
“Thanks—don’t bring me into it. Say there’s no chance for you. I can take care of myself. And how about mamma?”
“She is at present too ill and distracted by her son’s danger to think of anything else. If the boy dies I shall not need to trouble her. If he gets well, I may find it my duty to become his stepfather.”
“Charming man, and fortunate mamma! Meanwhile, what are you going to do for me?”
“My dear fellow, you must wait. I can put you up at Maxfield if you behave decently, but as to money, you will spoil all if you are impatient. I am not the only trustee, remember. I have to be careful.”
“That’s all very well. Sounds beautiful. But do you know, Teddy, I’ve not quite as much confidence in you as I should like to have. I can’t enjoy my holiday without some pocket-money. The big lump might wait, if properly secured. But the interest would be very convenient to me just now. What shall I give you a receipt for?” added he, taking a seat at the table; “a hundred?”
“Don’t be a fool, Ratman! I’ve nothing I can give you just now,” said the captain angrily.
Ratman put down his pen, and whistled a stave, drubbing his fingers on the table. Then he took the pen again.
“A hundred, eh?” he repeated.
The captain ground his teeth in impotent fury.
“No. Fifty.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll make it seventy-five, if you don’t mind.”
Captain Oliphant, with black countenance, slowly counted the notes out onto the table, while his friend with many flourishes wrote out the receipt. Before signing it he counted the money.
“Quite right, perfectly right. Thanks very much, Teddy. Now let us go out and see the sights. You forget it’s years since I was in town.”
“Tell me first,” said the captain, going to the window, was turning his back, “about that—you know—that affair in—”
“About your robbing the mess-funds?” supplied his friend cheerfully. “Certainly, my dear boy. Quite a simple matter. Shortly after you left, Deputy-Assistant something or other came with a long face. ‘This is a bad job,’ says he; ‘your friend Oliphant’s left the accounts in an awful mess. Doesn’t look well at all. Where is he?’ ‘Nonsense, my dear Deputy-Assistant,’ says I; ‘must be a mistake. Oliphant’s a man of his word. Besides, he’s just come into a fortune. Bound to be right if you look into it.’ ‘Will you make it good if it’s wrong?’ asks he. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says I, ‘within reason. He’s a young family.’ ‘Only way of hushing it up. Either that or bringing him back between a file of soldiers.’ ‘You don’t mean that?’ says I. ‘What’s the figure?’ ‘£750,’ says he.”
“Liar!” growled the captain, wheeling round. “It wasn’t half that.”
“They’re bound to make something out of it—always happens. Well, as you’d told me you’d got the pickings of a cool half million, I felt I couldn’t go wrong in covering you. So I came down with five hundred of needful. Got them to promise to let the rest stand till I had done myself the pleasure of a run over here just to remind you that they have you on their mind. You’ve disappointed me, Teddy, my boy, but I won’t desert you. Don’t say you’ve no friends. I’ll stick by you, I rather fancy.”
The captain was probably able to form a pretty clear estimate how much of this glib story was fact and how much fiction.
Whatever the proportion may have been, he had to acknowledge that this friend of his held him in an uncomfortable grip, and had better—for the present at least—be conciliated.
So the two went out arm in arm for a stroll—the first of many they took during their fortnight’s sojourn in town.
The news from Maxfield became unpleasingly damping. Here, for instance, is a letter the doting father received from his son and heir a week after Ratman’s arrival.
“Dear Pater,—Isn’t it fizzing that old Roger is pretty nearly out of the wood? The fever’s come down like anything, and he’s getting quite chirpy. I can’t fancy how a chap can hang on at all with nothing to eat but milk. It wouldn’t fill up my chinks. If ever I get a fever, keep me going on beefsteak and mashed potatoes. It’s been a great lark having no lessons. Armstrong’s forgotten my existence, I think. He and Rosalind have regular rows about sitting up with him—I mean Roger, and Rosalind generally has to cave in. It does her good to cave in now and then. Armstrong’s the only one can make her. I can’t; nor can Brandram. Brandram’s a stunner. I drive him in and out of Yeld every day, and he’s up to no end of larks. And now Roger’s pulling round, he’s as festive as an owl. Jill’s in jolly dumps because she’s out of it all. Rosalind sits on her and tells her she’s too much of a kid to be any good; and she doesn’t get much change out of Armstrong. So she has to knock about with me all day, which is awful slow. I say, go and see Christy’s Minstrels when you’re in town, and get them to let Jockabilly do the break-down. It will make you split. If that French chap is hanging about, tip him a bob for me and be civil to him, because he was decent enough to me. Auntie Eva said something about your bringing a gentleman home with you. I hope he’s a jolly sort of chap. Rosalind’s temper is all anyhow. When I told her a visitor was coming, she shut me up with a regular flea in my ear. Never mind, she’s been a brick to old Roger and Auntie Eva, so we must make allowances. Old Hodder calls up nearly every day to ask after us all. He’s grown quite young since he was left alone in his cottage, and Armstrong came down like a sack of coals on that beast Pottinger. My dear father, if you would like to know what I most hope you’ll bring home for me, it’s a football—Rugby—for the coming winter. Armstrong’s promised to coach me in the drop kick. Can you do it? I shall be glad to see you home, as I’m jolly low in pocket-money, besides the affection one feels for those who are absent. Jill joins in love.
“Your affectionate ‘Tom.’
“P.S.—Auntie Eva is not nearly so down on her luck now that Roger’s taken his turn. If he’s well enough she’s going to have a little kick-up on his birthday, which will be rare larks.”
“A letter!” inquired Ratman, who had watched the not altogether delighted expression on his friend’s face as he read it. “Good news? May I read it?”
“If you like,” said the captain, tossing it across the table.
Ratman, who evidently had a better appreciation of juvenile vagaries than the father, read it with an amused smile on his face.
“Nice boy that,” said he; “he and I will be friends.”
“Remember,” said the captain, “our bargain. Do and say what you like with me, but before my children—”
“Don’t be afraid, Teddy, my boy. Depend on me for doing the high moral business. The innocent babes shall never guess that you owe me three years’ pay, and that I could walk you off to the next police station for a sharper. It’s amusing when you come to think of it, isn’t it? But, I say, it looks as if you’ll have to trouble mamma after all. The boy’s getting well in spite of his nurses. I’m really impatient to see the happy family. When shall we go?”
“Next week. We must be decent, and wait till he’s better now.”
“Oh, all right. If we can’t go to the funeral we’ll go to the birthday party, eh? It’s all one to me, Teddy, as long as you don’t make a fool of me in the long run.”
“You wait, and it’ll be all right,” said the captain, with a trace in his voice of something like desperation.
At the end of the following week these two nice gentlemen presented themselves at Maxfield. Captain Oliphant had written for the brougham to meet them, and as Tom and Jill were in it, Mr Ratman was spared the embarrassment of meeting the whole household at one time. Before the house was reached he had impressed Tom with the conviction that there was a considerable possibility of “larks” in his father’s visitor. But Jill, who had acquired the habit of contrasting every gentleman she saw with her dear Mr Armstrong, was obdurate to his fascinations.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” said she shortly, when for the twentieth time he renewed his friendly overtures. “I don’t like you, and hope you’re not going to stay long.”
Ratman took his rebuff as complacently as he could; and Jill, having exhausted her conversation with this outburst, put her hand apologetically into her father’s, and remained silent the rest of the drive.
At Maxfield, the visitor, who appeared to experience no difficulty in making himself at home, received a polite welcome from the widow, whose style he generally approved, and considered a good deal better than his gallant comrade deserved. Then, as none of the rest of the household put in an appearance, he retired serenely to his comfortable apartment to dress for dinner.
Captain Oliphant’s first anxiety was naturally for his dear young ward. He found him sitting up in an arm-chair, with Rosalind reading Shakespeare to him.
“Hullo, guardian!” said he, “you see the place hasn’t got rid of me yet—thanks to my kind nurse here.”
“I am indeed thankful, my dear boy, for your recovery. And how is my Rosalind?”
She came and kissed him.
“Very well, dear father. But Roger has to keep very quiet still, so you must only stay a minute or two, or I shall get into disgrace with the doctor. He has been so good. Have you seen cousin Eva?”
“Yes, my child. But come with me; I want to introduce you to Mr Ratman.”
She looked inclined to rebel, but after a moment closed her book, and, having smoothed the invalid’s cushions, followed her father from the room.
The captain felt decidedly nervous as she walked silently at his side. At her own door she paused abruptly and said—
“Won’t you come in, father? I want to say something to you.”
“A storm brewing,” said the captain to himself. “I expected it.”
He followed her into her studio and closed the door.
“What is it?”
“I am going to leave Maxfield, father. I cannot stay here any longer, living on other people. I am going to accept an engagement at the vicarage as governess.”
“What!” exclaimed her father. “What freak is this, miss? I forbid you to do anything of the kind.”
“I am very sorry you don’t approve. I thought you would. It will enable me to support myself, and perhaps help to keep Jill. I shall get my board and lodging, and £30 a year, I am going on Monday. I wanted to tell you before any one else knew of it.”
“I repeat you must abandon the idea at once. It is most derogatory in one of our family. In addition to which, I particularly desire to have you here during Mr Ratman’s visit.”
“It is chiefly on that account I have decided to go. It is not right, father, indeed it is not, to go on as we are.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, and looked into his eyes.
It was an ordeal on which Captain Edward Oliphant had not calculated. The sight of her there, the touch of her hands, the clear flash of her eyes, recalled to him all sorts of unpleasant memories. They reminded him of a day long ago, when the girl’s mother had stood thus and pleaded with him for the sake of their children to be pure and honest and self-respecting. It reminded him of his own miserable schemings and follies, and how he had rejected that dear appeal, and ever since slipped and slipped out of reach of any love but the love of himself. It reminded him of the day when he heard that the one prop of his manhood had gone from him; and of how, even then, his sorrow was tempered by the thought that he was a free man to follow his own paths without question or reproof. Now, suddenly, the same hands seemed for a moment to lie on his shoulders, the same eyes to look into his, the same voice to fall on his ear, and he staggered under the illusion.
For a moment at least hope was within his reach. But the sound of a man’s voice in the passage without recalled him, with a shiver, to himself.
It was Ratman’s voice—the voice of the man to whom he owed money, who held the secret of his crime, who claimed his villainy and—who could say?—might even have to be pacified with a human sacrifice.
He shook her off rudely and said in dry, hard tones—
“Rosalind, I am disappointed in you. I will not discuss the matter with you. You know my wish; I expect you to obey me.”
And he left the room.
She remained standing where she was till the bell rang for dinner. Then with a shiver she went down-stairs.
On the stairs she met Mr Armstrong.
“Your father has returned,” said he.
“Yes, with a friend. Are you going down, or shall you stay with Roger?”
“May I?” he asked.
“You know how glad he will be.”
So the tutor turned back, and thought to himself that Miss Rosalind was evidently anxious that he should not be a witness to her introduction to her father’s friend.
Mr Ratman, brilliantly arranged in evening dress, and evidently already very much at home, was comfortably leaning against the mantelpiece in the hall as she descended. He did not wait for an introduction.
“I could tell Miss Oliphant anywhere,” said he, advancing, “by her likeness to her father. May I offer you my arm?”
“I am not at all like father,” said she quietly, scanning him as she spoke in a way which made even him uncomfortable, and then putting her hand on her father’s arm.
Thus repulsed, the visitor cheerfully offered his arm to Mrs Ingleton, congratulating her as he did so on the recovery of her son.
During the meal he was aware that the young lady’s eyes were completing their scrutiny, and although, being a bashful man, he did not venture too often to meet them with his own, he was conscious that the result was not altogether satisfactory to himself. His few attempts to talk to her fell flat, and in spite of the captain’s almost nervous attempts to improve the festivity of the occasion, the meal was an uncomfortable one.
“Where’s old Armstrong?” demanded Tom.
“With Roger,” replied Rosalind.
“Have you seen Armstrong?” inquired the boy of the visitor; “he’s a stunner, I can tell you. He can bend a poker double across his knee. You’ll like him awfully; and he plays the piano like one o’clock. He’s our tutor, you know—no end of a chap.”
Mr Ratman was fain to express a longing desire to make the acquaintance of so redoubtable a hero.
“Does he lick you?” he inquired.
“Sometimes, when it’s wanted; but, bless you, he could take the lot of us left-handed; couldn’t he, Jill?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jill enthusiastically; “and he saved Roger’s life, and prevented Hodder being turned out, and won such a lot of prizes at Oxford.”
“He must be a fine fellow,” said Ratman, with a disagreeable laugh. “You admire him too, of course, Miss Oliphant?”
“Yes, he’s honest,” said she.
“Teddy, my boy,” said the visitor, when he and his friend had been left alone at the table, “that girl of yours is a treasure. She don’t fancy me, but she’ll get over that. I like her, Teddy; I like her.”
That evening, on his way to say good night to his dear ward, Captain Oliphant stopped at his daughter’s door.
She was hard at work over a picture.
“Rosalind,” said he, “you have disappointed me. But if your mind is made up, I know it is no use my setting up my authority against your self-will. Therefore, to relieve you of the sin of disobedience to your father’s wishes, I withdraw my refusal to your proposal. You may do as you like. Good night!”