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.”