The sight of this untoward accident completely unnerved the prisoner. He sullenly let the weapon drop from his fingers, and with the air of a gambler who has played and lost his last stake, sank listlessly on the sofa on which not ten minutes before he had been sleeping.
“Luck’s against me,” he said with an oath. “Look to the boy; I shan’t trouble you any more. I’ve done him harm enough without this. I wish I’d never heard of his elder brother.”
The tutor, busy binding up his ward’s hand, only half heard the words; but Roger, amidst all his pain, heard it and looked up.
“Then you are not my brother?” he said faintly.
“Brother? No. And if you hadn’t left the papers about in your room a year ago I should never have known it was worth my while to pretend it.”
When, a few moments later, Gustav entered with two constables, Mr Ratman welcomed the visitors with a sigh almost of relief, and placed himself quietly in their hands. As he passed the chair where Roger sat, half faint with pain and loss of blood, he stopped a moment and said—
“Your brother! No. If I had been I shouldn’t have come to this.”
About ten days later a small party was gathered in Roger’s cosy den at Maxfield.
The young Squire was there, with his hand in a sling, still pale and weak, but able to sit up on the sofa and enjoy for the first time the society of a few choice friends. Among those friends it was not surprising to find Rosalind. That young lady had recently exchanged the duties of governess at the Vicarage for those of temporary sick-nurse at the manor-house, and to-night, in her simple mourning, with a flush of pleasure on her cheek as now and again she turned her eyes to the patient whose recovery did her care such credit she looked—at least Roger, an impartial witness, thought so—more beautiful than ever. But as Roger made the same discovery every time he and his nurse met, the opinion may be regarded as of relative value. Tom was there, enjoying himself as usual, indeed rather more than usual, because in the stable hard by, munching his oats, was a horse (the gift of the Squire) who owned him, Tom, as lord and master. Jill was there too, a little pensive as she looked round for some one who was not there, but trying hard to enjoy herself and seem glad. Besides these intimates there was Mr Headland, feeling like a father to everybody; Dr Brandram, in professional attendance; and the Vicar himself, accidentally present to congratulate his young parishioner on his recovery.
The absentee of the evening was Mr Armstrong, who had gone to London the previous day on matters connected with the approaching assizes.