Chapter Three.
A Missing Inscription.
A week later, Mr Pottinger, as he trotted into his office, found a letter and a telegram lying side by side on his desk.
He opened the telegram first and read—
“Bombay, January 17. Consent. Am starting, Oliphant.”
“That’s all right,” said the lawyer to himself. “We shall have one competent executor, at any rate.”
He endorsed the telegram and proceeded to open the letter. It too was a very brief communication.
“Sir, I beg to say I accept the duties of trustee and guardian conferred on me by the will of the late Roger Ingleton, Esquire.
“Yours, etcetera,
“Frank Armstrong.”
“Humph!” growled the attorney. “I was afraid so. Well, well, it’s not my affair. The Squire knew my opinion, so my conscience is clear. An adventurer, nothing less—a dangerous man. Don’t like him! Well, well!”
To do Mr Pottinger justice, this opinion of his was of no recent date. Indeed, it was of as long standing as the tutor’s first arrival at Maxfield, eighteen months ago. It was one of the few matters on which he and his late client had differed.
Calmly indifferent as to the effect of his communication on the lawyer, Mr Armstrong was at that moment having an audience with his co-trustee and mistress, Mrs Ingleton.
“Mr Armstrong,” said she, “I hope for all our sakes you see your way to accept the duties my dear husband requested of you.”
“I have written to Mr Pottinger to notify my consent.”
“I am so glad. I shall have to depend on you for so much. It will be so good for Roger to have you with him. His father was always anxious about him—most anxious. You know, Mr Armstrong,” added she, “if there is any—any question as to salary, or anything I can do to make your position here comfortable, you must tell me. For Roger’s sake I am anxious you should be happy here.”
“Thank you, madam. I am most comfortable,” said Mr Armstrong, looking anything but what he described himself. He had a detestation of business interviews, and wished profoundly he was out of this.
“I am sure you will like Captain Oliphant,” said the widow. “I have not seen him for many years—indeed, since shortly after Roger was born; but we have heard from him constantly, and Mr Ingleton had a high opinion of him. He is a very distant cousin of mine, you know.”
“So I understand.”
“Poor fellow! his wife died quite young. His three children will be quite grown up now, poor things. Well, thank you very much, Mr Armstrong. I hope we shall always be good friends for dear Roger’s sake. Good-bye.”
Roger, as may be imagined, had not waited a whole week before ascertaining his tutor’s intentions.
He had been a good deal staggered at first by his father’s will, with its curious provisions; but, amongst a great deal that was perplexing and disappointing in it, he derived no little comfort from the fact that Mr Armstrong was to be one of his legal protectors.
“I don’t see, you know,” said he, as he lounged against his tutor’s mantelpiece one evening. “I don’t see why a fellow of nineteen can’t be trusted to behave himself without being tied up in this way. It’s my impression I know as well how to behave now as I am likely to do when I am twenty-one.”
“That is a reflection in advance on my dealings with you during the next two years,” said the tutor with a grin, as he swung himself half round on the piano-stool so as to get his hand within reach of the keys.
“I don’t mind you,” said the boy, “but I hope this Cousin Edward, or whoever he is, won’t try to ‘deal’ with me too.”
“I am informed he is virtue and amiability itself,” said the tutor.
“If he is, all serene. I’ll take my walks abroad with one little hand in yours, and the other in his, like a good boy. If he’s not, there’ll be a row, Armstrong. In anticipation of which I feel in the humour for a turn at the foils.”
So they adjourned into the big empty room dedicated to the manly sports of the man and his boy, and there for half an hour a mortal combat raged, at the end of which Roger pulled off his mask and said, panting—
“Where did you learn foils, Armstrong? For a year I’ve been trying to run you through the body, and I’ve never even yet scratched your arm.”
“I fenced a good deal at Oxford.”
“Ah! I wonder if I shall ever go to Oxford? This will cuts me out of that nicely.”
“Not at all. How?”
“Well, you can’t be my tutor here while I’m an undergraduate there, can you? I’d sooner give up Oxford than you, Armstrong.”
“Kind of you—wrong of you too, perhaps. But at twenty-one you’ll be your own master.”
“I may not be in the humour then. Besides, I shall have my hands full of work here then. It’s hard lines to have to kick my heels in idleness for two years, while I’ve so many plans in my head for improving the place, and to have to ask your leave to spend so much as a halfpenny.”
“It is rather tragic. It strikes me, however, that Cousin Edward will be the financial partner of our firm. I shall attend to the literary part of the business.”
“And poor mother has to umpire in all your squabbles. Upon my word, why couldn’t I have been treated like a man straight off, instead of being washed and dressed and fed with a spoon and wheeled in a perambulator by three respectable middle-aged persons, who all vote me a nuisance.”
“In the first place, Roger Ingleton, I am not yet middle-aged. In the second place, I do not vote you a nuisance. In the third place, if you stand there much longer like that, with your coat off, you will catch your death of cold, which would annoy me exceedingly.”
This was one of many conversations which took place. It was difficult to say whether Mr Armstrong took his new duties seriously or not. He generally contrived to say something flippant about them when his pupil tackled him on the subject, but at the same time he rarely failed to give the boy a hint or two that somewhere hidden away behind the cool, odd exterior of the man, there lurked a very warm corner for the fatherless heir of Maxfield.
For the next week or two the days passed uneventfully. The manor-house settled down to its old routine, minus the old man who had once been its master. The villagers, having satisfied themselves that things were likely to be pretty much the same for them under the new régime as the old, resumed their usual ways, and touched their caps regularly to the young Squire. The trampled grass in Yeld churchyard lifted its head again, and a new inscription was added to the family roll on the door of the vault.
“Armstrong,” said the heir one day, as he stood inspecting this last memorial, “I have a good mind to have my brother’s name put on here too.”
This was the first time the tutor had ever heard the boy mention his brother. Indeed, he had, like Dr Brandram, doubted whether Roger so much as knew that he had had a brother.
“What brother?” he inquired vaguely.
“Oh, he died long ago, before I was born. He was the son of father’s first wife, you know,” pointing to the inscription of Ruth Ingleton’s name. “He is not buried here—he died abroad, I believe—but I think his death should be recorded with the others. Don’t you?”
“Certainly,” said the tutor.
“I must try to find the exact date,” said Roger as they walked away. “My father would hardly ever talk about him; his death must have been a knock-down blow to him, and I believe it broke his mother’s heart. Sometimes I wish he had lived. He was called Roger too. I dare say Brandram or the Vicar can tell me about it.”
Mr Armstrong was a good deal concerned at this unexpected curiosity on the boy’s part. He doubted whether it would not be better to tell him the sad story at once, as he had heard it from the doctor. He disliked secrets extremely, especially when he happened to be the custodian of them; and painful as the discovery of this one might be to his ward, it might be best that he should know it now, instead of hovering indefinitely in profitless mystery.
It was, therefore, with some sense of relief that, half-way home, he perceived Dr Brandram in the road ahead. The doctor was, in fact, bound for Maxfield.
“By the way, doctor,” said the tutor, determined to take the bull by the horns, and glaring at his friend rather fiercely through his eye-glass, “we were talking about you just now. Roger has been telling me about an elder brother of his who died long ago and thinks some record of the death should be made on the vault. I think so too.”
“I was saying,” said Roger, “my father never cared to talk about it; so, except that he died abroad, and that his name was the same as mine, I really don’t know much about him. Did you know him?”
The doctor looked uncomfortable, and not altogether grateful to Mr Armstrong for landing him in this dilemma.
“Don’t you think,” said he, ignoring the last question, “as the Squire did not put up an inscription, it would be better to leave the tomb as it is?”
“I don’t see that,” said the boy. “Of course I should say where he really did die. Where was that, by the way?”
“I really did not hear. Abroad, I understood your father to say.”
“Was he delicate, then, that he had to go away? How old was he, doctor?”
“Upon my word, he was so seldom at home, and, when he was, I saw so little of him, that my memory is very hazy about him altogether. He can’t have been more than a boy of fifteen or sixteen, I should say. By the way, Roger, how does the new cob do?”
“Middling. He’s rather lumpy to ride. I shall get mother to swop him for a horse, if she can. I say, doctor, what was he like?”
“Who?—The cob? Oh, your brother! I fancy he was a fine young fellow, but not particularly good-looking.”
“At all like me?”
“Not at all, I should say. But really, as I say, I can recall very little about him.”
The doctor uttered this in a tone which conveyed so broad a hint that he did not relish the subject, that Roger, decidedly mystified, desisted from further inquiries.
“What on earth,” said the former to Mr Armstrong, when at last they had reached Maxfield and the boy had left them, “what on earth has put all this into his head?”
“I cannot tell you. I rather hoped you would tell him all you knew; it would come better from you. If I know anything of Roger, he will find it out for himself, whether you like it or not.”
“Nice thing to be a family doctor,” growled Dr Brandram, “and have charge of the family skeletons. Between you and me, Armstrong, I was never quite satisfied about the story of the boy’s death abroad. The old man said he had had news of it, and that was all anybody, even the poor mother, ever got out of him.”
“Really, Brandram,” said the tutor, “you are a most uncomfortable person. I wish you would not make me a party to these mysteries. I don’t like them, they are upsetting.”
“Well, well, old fellow,” replied the doctor, “whatever it was once, it’s no mystery now; for the poor fellow has long ago made good his right to an inscription on the tombstone. You need have no doubt of that.”
A letter with an Indian post-mark, which arrived that same evening, served for the present, at least, to divert the thoughts of Roger as well as of his tutor to other channels.
The letter was from Captain Oliphant addressed to Mrs Ingleton.
“My very dear cousin,” it read, “need I say with what deep sympathy I received the news of our dear Roger’s sudden call? At this great distance, blows of this kind fall with cruel heaviness, and I assure you I felt crushed as I realised that I should no more grasp the hand of one of the noblest men it has been my privilege to call by the name of friend. If my loss is so great, what must yours be? I dare not think of it! I was truly touched by our dear one’s thought of me in desiring that I should join you in the care of his orphaned boy. I regard this dying wish as a sacred trust put upon me, which gratitude and love alike require that I should accept. Ere this letter reaches you, I shall myself be nearing England. The provision our dear Roger has made has emboldened me to resign my commission, so that I may devote my whole time without distraction to my new charge. You know, dear cousin, the special bond of sympathy that unites us; your boy has been robbed of a parent; my children long since have had to mourn a mother. I cannot leave them here. They accompany me to England, where perhaps for all of us there awaits a community of comfort. I bespeak your motherly heart for them, as I promise you a father’s affection for your boy. I will write no more at present. The ‘Oriana’ is due in London, I believe, about February 20, and we shall, I need hardly assure you, not linger long before bringing in our own persons to Maxfield whatever sympathy four loving hearts can carry amongst them.
“With love to the dear boy, believe me, dear cousin, your loving and sympathising fellow-mourner,—
“Edward Oliphant.”
Mrs Ingleton, highly gratified, handed the beautiful letter first to her son, then to Mr Armstrong.
Roger was hardly as taken with it as his mother.
“Civil enough,” said he, “and I dare say he means all he says; but I don’t warm to the prospect of being cherished by him. Besides, there is something a trifle too neat in the way he invites his whole family to Maxfield. What do you think, Armstrong?”
Mr Armstrong was perusing the letter with knitted brows and a curl of his lips. He vouchsafed no reply until he had come to the end. Then he shook the glass ominously out of his eye and said—
“I’ll tell you that when I see him.”
Roger knew his tutor well enough to see that he did not like the letter at all, and he felt somewhat fortified in his own misgivings accordingly.
“I wonder what mother will do with them all?” said the boy. “Surely we aren’t to have the place turned into a nursery for two years.”
“I understand the young people are more than children,” said the tutor.
“So much the worse,” growled Roger.
On the morning before the “Oriana” was due, Mrs Ingleton suggested to her son that it would be a polite thing if he were to go to town and meet the travellers on their arrival. Roger, not particularly charmed with the prospect, stipulated that Mr Arm strong should come with him, and somewhat shocked his fond parent by expressing the hope that the vessel might be a few days late, and so allow time for a little jaunt in London before the arrival of his new guardian.
Mr Armstrong meekly acquiesced in the proposal, and scarcely less exhilarated than his pupil, retired to pack for the journey.
Roger meanwhile occupied the interval before starting by writing a letter in the study. Since his father’s death he had taken quiet possession of this room, one of the pleasantest in the house. A feeling of reverence for the dead had prompted him to disturb its contents and furniture as little as possible, and hitherto his occupation had scarcely extended beyond the arm-chair at the fire, and the writing-table. To-day, however, as he sat biting his pen and looking for an inspiration out of the window, his eye chanced to rest for a moment on a frame corner peeping from behind a curtain. He thought nothing of it for a while, and having found his idea, went on writing. But presently his eyes strayed again, and once more lit upon the misplaced piece of gilding.
He went over mechanically to adjust it, pondering his letter all the while.
“Why ever can’t they hang things where they can be seen?” said he as he drew back the curtain.
The last words dropped half-spoken from his lips, as he disclosed the portrait of a certain boy, flashing at him with his reckless eyes, and half-defying him out of the canvas.
Like Mr Armstrong, when he had encountered the picture a month ago, Roger Ingleton instinctively guessed in whose presence he stood.
The discovery had something in it both of a shock and a disappointment. If this was really his elder brother, he was strangely different from what he had in fancy pictured him. He had imagined him his own age, whereas this was a boy considerably his junior. He had imagined him dark and grave, whereas this was fair and mocking; and he had imagined him amiable and sympathetic, whereas this was hostile and defiant.
Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated. A chord deep in his nature thrilled as he said to himself, “My brother.” He, the young man, felt himself captive to this imperious boy. He wished he knew the mind of the picture, or could hear its voice. What were the eyes flashing at? At whom or what were the lips thus curled? Was it wickedness, or anger, or insolence, or all together, that made the face so unlike any other face he knew?
How long he spent over these speculations, half afraid, half enamoured of the picture, he could not say. He forgot all about his letter; nor did he finally descend from the clouds till a voice behind him said—
“What have you got there, old fellow?”
“Oh, Armstrong,” said the boy, turning round hurriedly, like one detected in mischief, “look here at this picture.”
The tutor was looking.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“My elder brother, I’m sure. I didn’t know we had it.”
“There’s not much family likeness in it,” said Mr Armstrong. “Are you sure it is he?”
“I feel positive of it. Stay, perhaps there’s something written on the back,” and he lifted the picture from the nail.
The paper at the back was almost black with dust and age. They wiped it carefully with a duster, and took it to the window.
“No,” said Roger, “nothing there.”
“Yes,” said the tutor, “what’s this?”
And he pointed out a few faint marks in very faded ink, which, after considerable trouble, they deciphered.
“R.I., born 3 September 1849, died 186—,” (the last figure was illegible).
“That settles it,” said Roger, “all except the exact date when he died. Upon my word, I’m quite glad it is my brother after all. I shouldn’t have liked if he’d turned out any one else.”
“Do you know,” added he, as he was about to replace the picture, “I think I shall take it up to my room. I’ve taken rather a fancy to him.”
That afternoon the two friends took the train to London, where, considerably to the relief of both, they heard that the “Oriana” was not expected in dock for three days.