Chapter Twenty Two.
Mr Ratman visits his Property.
“Dear Armstrong,” wrote Roger from London about a week after the tutor’s return to Maxfield, “you will be surprised to hear I am just off to Paris to look for a Mr Pantalzar. This is how it comes about. Long Street does not exist, as I told you, nor any trace of the family Callot. But old Directories are still available, and in one of these I found that fifteen years ago there was a Long Street, and that Number 2 was then occupied by a person of the uncommon name I have mentioned. The name seemed too promising a one to be let drop; so I tracked it down to the year before last, when I found a Pantalzar was proprietor of a cook-shop in Shoreditch. Of course, when I went to inquire, my gentleman had vanished. I’m sick of asking the interminable question, ‘Does So-and-so live here?’ The present cook-man, however, remembered the queer name as that belonging to his predecessor, and informed me that, not having made the business pay over here, he had decamped two years ago without saying good-bye to his creditors, and announced his intention of starting a café in Paris. This, then, is my off-chance. Unless he has changed his name, I should be able to discover him in Paris; and if he turns out to be the man who once lived at Number 2 Long Street, he may be able to tell me something about the Callots; and the Callots, if by a miracle I can find them, may be able to tell me something about Rogers, the Ghost in Hamlet. I only wish you were coming to back me up, but, from what you say, I would ever so much rather you remained on the spot at Maxfield. I hope it will be possible to help Oliphant out of his fix. Try. You’d better write to the Poste Restante at Paris. Remember me at home.
“Yours ever,—
“R. Ingleton.”
The tutor read this letter with a somewhat troubled countenance. It proved to him that his ward was desperately in earnest in his uphill quest, and it filled him with some concern to feel that he himself was not, where he should have liked to be, at the boy’s side.
But to leave Maxfield at present seemed impossible. Rosalind claimed his help on behalf of her father; and the possibility that any day Mr Ratman might turn up and court exposure decided the tutor to remain where he was. Another motive for this step was a haunting perplexity as to the hallucination under which he had apparently laboured with regard to the estate accounts. He never flattered himself he was a particularly good man of business, but it puzzled him to explain why a few weeks ago there should have appeared to be discrepancies and irregularities to the tune of several hundred pounds, whereas now everything was in startling apple-pie order.
Much to Mr Pottinger’s annoyance, he took to visiting the honest lawyer’s office every other day, and spent hours in trying to discover where it was he had made his great mistake. Mr Pottinger was unable to render him any assistance; and the captain, when once he referred to the subject, only smiled pityingly and advised him to take a few lessons in the elements of finance; which advice, to do him justice, the tutor humbly proceeded to take. The result was to deepen his perplexity and cause him to regret that he had so compliantly countersigned an account which, every time he studied it in the light of his new wisdom, appeared to bristle with problems.
Faithful to her promise, at the end of a week Rosalind presented herself at Maxfield.
“Well, my child?” said the parent blandly, laying down his newspaper.
“I said I would come and speak again about what you were saying the other day. Have you heard any more from your creditor?”
“Things remain, as far as he is concerned, in statu quo; and I am no nearer being able to satisfy him to-day than I was a week ago; unless, indeed—”
“All I have to say,” said Rosalind nervously, “is, that I would work like a slave to help you, if I could.”
“Is that all?” asked the captain with falling face.
“You know it is, father. You knew it a week ago. You knew I would even go to this man and on my knees beg him to be merciful.”
Her father laughed dismally.
“In other words,” said he, “you can do nothing. I do not complain; I expected nothing, and I have not been disappointed. I was foolish to think such a thing possible; Heaven knows I have been punished for my folly.”
She tried hard to keep back the tears, and rose to go.
“Stay!” said he sternly; “I have a question to ask you. A week ago you seemed to hold a different mind to this. What has changed it?”
“No,” said she, “it was out of the question; you said so yourself.”
“I ask you,” repeated he sternly, and not heeding her protest, “what has changed it? Have you taken counsel with any one on the subject? Have you spoken to any one of this wretched business?”
“Yes; I have spoken to Mr Armstrong.”
“Exactly. I thought as much. I understand. Leave me, Rosalind.”
“Father, you are wrong— Oh, but you must hear me,” she said, as he raised his hand deprecatingly and took up his newspaper. “You must not misunderstand. I told Mr Armstrong of your difficulties, and who your creditor was. I told him no more. My only object was to see if there was any way to help you.”
“You mean to tell me,” said he, interrupting in an angry voice, “that you considered it consistent with your duty as a daughter to gossip about my private affairs with a scoundrel who—”
“No, father,” she said. “Mr Armstrong is a gentleman—”
“Naturally you say so. But enough of this. I forbid you, as I have already done, to hold any communication with Mr Armstrong. Know that, of the two men, the man you affect to scorn is infinitely less a villain than this smug hypocrite. Go!”
She made no reply, but went, choking with misery and a smarting sense of injustice. No longer was it easy to hug herself into the delusion that this was all a horrid dream. Her father stood on the brink of ruin, and she could not help him.
“If only,” said she, “it had been anything else! O God, pity my poor father!”
The captain’s thoughts were of a very different kind. He had clung to the hope that Rosalind would after all solve his difficulties by undertaking the venture he had set before her. He had already in imagination soothed his own conscience and smoothed away all the difficulties which beset the undertaking.
“It might be for her good, after all, dear girl! She will reclaim him. A fortune lies before them; for Roger will be easily convinced, and will surrender his claim to them. Ratman is too long-sighted not to see that I can help him in the matter, and that on my own terms. We shall start fresh with a clear balance-sheet, and live in comfort.” Now, however, these bright hopes were dashed, and to the captain’s mind he owed his failure, first and last, to Mr Frank Armstrong. Had he not come home, he said to himself, Rosalind would have yielded.
With him still at Maxfield everything came to a dead lock. Ratman could not be propitiated, still less satisfied. The accounts would be restlessly scrutinised.
Rosalind, and in less degree Tom and Jill, would be mutinous. Roger, at home or abroad, would be beyond reach.
All the grudges of the past months seemed to culminate in this crowning injury; and if to wish ill to one’s fellow is to be a murderer, Captain Oliphant had already come perilously near to adding one new sin to his record.
But where, all this while, was the ingenuous Mr Ratman? Why had he not, true to his word, come to claim his own—if not the Maxfield estate, at any rate the little balance due to him from his old Indian crony?
The captain, after a week or two of disappointed dread, was beginning to recover a little of his ease of mind, and flattering himself that, after all his creditor’s bark was worse than his bite, when the blow abruptly fell.
Mr Armstrong had gone for the day to visit one of his very few old college friends on the other side of the county, and Tom, released from his lessons (the captain’s animosity for the tutor, by the way, stopped short at withdrawing his son from the benefit of the gratuitous education of which for the last year that youth had been the recipient) was trundling a “boneshaker” bicycle along the Yeld lanes, when he perceived the jaunty form of Mr Ratman, bag in hand and cigar in mouth, strolling leisurely in the direction of Maxfield.
Tom, who was only a beginner in the art of cycling, was so taken aback by this apparition, that, after one or two furious lurches from one side of the road to the other, and a frantic effort to keep his balance, he came ignominiously to the ground at the very feet of the visitor.
“Hullo!” said that worthy; “as full of fun as ever, I see.”
“Hullo, Ratty!” said Tom, picking himself up; “got over your kicking?”
This genial reference to the circumstances under which the so-called lost heir had last quitted Maxfield grated somewhat harshly on the feelings of the gentleman to whom it was addressed.
“Look here, young fellow,” said he, “you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall have to pull your ear.”
“Try it,” retorted Tom.
Mr Ratman seemed inclined to accept the invitation; but as he was anxious for information just now, he decided to forego the experiment.
“Is your father at home?” he demanded.
“Rather. You’d better go back the way you came. We know all about you up there,” said Tom.
“That’s all right. And how are your pretty sisters, Tommy?”
If any insult more than another could disturb the temper of Master Oliphant, it was to be called “Tommy,” as many of the rustic youths of the neighbourhood knew to their cost. He therefore replied shortly, “Find out,” and proceeded to address himself to the task of remounting his machine.
“That’s what I’m going to do. Here, let me hold it for you, or you’ll break your neck.”
“Look here,” said the outraged Tom, thoroughly roused by this crowning indignity, “I don’t want to be seen out here talking to cads. I don’t mind fighting you. If you don’t care for that, keep your cheek to yourself, and go and talk to somebody who’s fond of rot. I’m not.” And the young bruiser, who had an uncommonly broad pair of shoulders, looked so threatening that Mr Ratman began to feel a little concerned.
“Ha, ha!” said he, “how well you do it! I always liked you, Tommy, my boy. I’ll let your tutor know what a credit you are to him.”
“I wish to goodness Armstrong was at home,” growled Tom; “he’d make you sit up.”
This was just the information Mr Ratman had been anxious to get. The prospect of encountering Mr Armstrong had interfered considerably with his pleasure in arranging this visit. But if he was out of the way—well, so much more the luck of Mr Ratman. Therefore, without wasting time in further parley with this possible brother-in-law, he proceeded jauntily on his way.
“You won’t fight, then?” said Tom by way of farewell.
“Some day.”
“All right. Coward! Good-bye, Mr Roger Ingleton, major!”
Having relieved himself of which appropriate sentiment, Tom felt decidedly better, and walked his bicycle down the hill, determined to keep clear of Maxfield till the evening.
Mr Ratman, somewhat ruffled, but on the whole cheerful, swaggered on to his destination.
The captain was luxuriously smoking a cigar and solacing himself with a sporting paper, when Raffles sent his heart to his mouth by announcing—
“Mr Ingleton, sir, to see you.”
“Ah, Ratman!” said he with a forced air of welcome as his creditor entered. “I didn’t recognise you by your new name. You’re keeping it up, then?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr Ratman, taking an easy-chair and helping himself to a cigar from the captain’s box. “It’s you who are keeping it up, I fancy. I’ll trouble you to drop the Ratman.”
The captain laughed unpleasantly.
“As you like,” said he.
“Now to business. Of course, you’re ready to make good these little bills,” and he pulled four or five blue slips from his pocket.
“No, I’m not. You may as well know it at once.”
“Hum! What do you propose, then? Do you know there’s a writ out?”
“I propose nothing. I want to know what you propose.”
The two men regarded one another in silence; one insolent and sneering, the other desperate and scowling.
“What do I propose?” said Ratman, puffing away cheerfully. “Scarcely anything—only to make a little communication to the War Office, give a few instructions to the Sheriff, write a paragraph or two to the county papers, and tell a few interesting anecdotes to your charming daughters.”
Captain Oliphant started to his feet with a smothered exclamation.
“Not the last, Ratman! I’m in your clutches; but for Heaven’s sake don’t bring them into it!”
Ratman laughed.
“You will insist on forgetting my name, my dear fellow. Yes, that’s my little programme. I fancy I may as well begin at the end.”
“Look here,” pleaded the victim; “I know it’s no use appealing to your pity, for you have none; or your honesty, for you’ve less of that than I have. But doesn’t it occur to you that it would be decidedly against your interest to ruin me just now?”
“What do you mean?” said Ratman with a yawn.
“Why, you claim a certain name, and you have to prove your claim. Roger has got the romantic notion into his head that if his elder brother can be found, that brother shall have the property. He is more than half inclined to credit your story already. You have to satisfy two other persons, of whom I am one. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr Ratman, who began to be interested. “I anticipate no difficulty there.”
“You forget that at present only a sickly boy stands between myself and the property. It would surely mean something on my part for me to admit a second life between.”
“What is the use of talking nonsense?” said Ratman. “Even if you did, for the sake of a little longer credit I might give you, own my right to my own name, what’s the use of that, when this man Armstrong has to be satisfied too? If you could crack that nut there might be something in it.”
The captain groaned. He knew that every project would be pulled up short at this sticking-point.
“Come,” said Ratman encouragingly, “if you could work things in that direction, it might be worth my while to give you time.”
“I can do nothing. The fellow is immovable. In six months—”
“In six months everything will be too late. And now, what about the other matter? Is that all right?”
Once more the captain groaned. “I can say nothing about it yet. She knows my wishes, but as Robert Ratman she will not hear a word of it. As Roger Ingleton, the elder, you may depend on it the matter will take another view. All depends on your success there. When that’s achieved, the rest will come if you give her time.”
Mr Ratman sneered.
“You are a glib talker, Oliphant. I admire you. Now listen. You want credit, and you know how to buy it. One way or another, this business must come to an end. I’ll take new bills with interest at three months. By that time everything must be square and smooth; otherwise you’ll be sorry you and your children were born, my boy. Order dinner. I’m going back by the six train. Pass me that paper, and don’t disturb me any more by your talking.”
As Mr Ratman, very well satisfied with his day’s business, strolled serenely back through the park that afternoon, he was surprised to hear light footsteps behind him, and, on turning, to discover that his pursuer, of all people, was Miss Rosalind Oliphant.
“Hullo!” said he, “this is flattering, with a vengeance.”
“Mr Ratman, I want to speak to you, please,” said Rosalind, very pale and nervous.
“Excuse me,” said he, “that’s not my name; my name is Roger Ingleton. What’s the matter?”
“It’s about my father. Have you seen him?”
“Just left the dear man.”
“He says he owes you money, and that you threaten to ruin him. Is that so?”
“Upon my word, if you want to know, it is.”
“How much is it, please?”
Ratman laughed.
“Nothing. A trifle. Fifteen hundred pounds or thereabouts.”
“Fifteen hundred!” faltered she. “Does he owe you all that.”
The little she had to offer was a drop in the bucket only.
“Look here,” said he; “Miss Rosy, your father’s in a fix. I don’t want to be hard on him, but I must have my money or its equivalent. Now, I should consider it a very fair equivalent to be allowed to call him father-in-law. I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I’ve a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It’s the only chance your father’s got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands.”
She drew herself up with an air and a flush of colour which redoubled his admiration, and without a word, turned away with rapid steps.
Mr Ratman was sorely tempted to follow this beautiful creature, who, in all his chequered career, had been the only human being to discover the few last dregs of affection in his nature. As much as it was possible in such a man, he was in love with this debtor’s daughter. The sensation was novel and exhilarating enough to afford him food for cheerful reflection as he walked on towards the station.
So engrossed was he in his day-dreams that he forgot that even country trains are occasionally punctual, and that, at least, he had not much time left him to catch the one he aimed at. Indeed, it was not till, within a few minutes of the station, he caught sight of the train already standing at the platform that it occurred to him to bestir himself. He ran, shouted, and waved his arm all at the same time, but to no effect. The whistle blew as he entered the yard, and as he reached the platform the guard’s van was gliding out of the station.
Thoroughly ruffled—for this was the last train to town—Mr Ratman vented his wrath on the world in general, and the railway officials in particular, even including in his objurgations an unlucky passenger who had arrived by the train and shared with him the uninterrupted possession of the platform.
“Easy, young man,” said the latter, a substantial-looking, bony individual with a wrinkled face, and speaking with a decided American twang. “You’ll hurt yourself, I reckon, if you talk like that. It’s bad for the jaws.”
Mr Ratman took a contemptuous survey of the stranger and quitted the platform.
His first idea was to return to Maxfield and demand entertainment there for the night. But since he would have to walk all the way, and the first train in the morning left Yeld at eight, he decided to put up at the little hotel of the village instead, and with that object threw himself and his bag into the omnibus of that establishment which waited on the trains.
Somewhat to his disgust, the stranger, after collecting his baggage, entered the same vehicle and took a seat opposite him.
“Wal,” said he, “you’ll have time to cool down before the next train, young man. Putting up at the hotel?”
“Where else should I put up?” growled Ratman. “What business is it of yours?”
“I guess it’s my business to get all the information I can on this trip. I came over this side to learn.”
“You’ve come to a queer hole to do it,” said Ratman, beginning to feel he might as well resign himself to circumstances.
“Just so. It’s changed a bit since I was here last. We had to drive from Barbeck then.”
“So you know the place, do you?” inquired Ratman.
“That’s so,” was the laconic rejoinder. “A resident, likely?”
“Well, not at present, or I shouldn’t be going to the inn.”
“Down here on business, I reckon? I was a bagman myself once.”
“You’re wrong again. I’ve been down to see my property, if you want to know.”
“Large estate, no doubt? Anywhere near my friend Ingleton’s plot, now?”
Mr Ratman stared at the stranger with something like consternation.
“Ingleton!” he exclaimed. “What do you know of Ingleton?”
Here the omnibus pulled up.
“Wal, I reckon I should know something of my own family,” drawled the stranger as he alighted. “What say?—shall we have a snack of something in the parlour! Come along.”
The landlord led the way into the coffee-room. He knew Mr Ratman by this time.
“Sorry we can’t give you and your friend the private room, sir, but there’s only one other gentleman in the coffee-room, and he’s going directly.”
As they entered, the other gentleman, who was drying his boots at the fire, turned round, and Mr Ratman had the rapture of finding himself face to face with Mr Armstrong.