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.