Chapter Twenty Three.
Captain Oliphant pays one of his Debts.
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.