Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 3

Having arrived at which conclusions, the tutor returned the packet to its outer envelope and locked the whole up in his desk. Which done, he descended to the breakfast-room.

As he had expected, no one was there. What was worse, there was no sign either of fire or breakfast. To a man who has not tasted food for about twenty hours, such a discovery could not fail to be depressing, and Mr Armstrong meekly decided to summon Raffles to his a.s.sistance. As he pa.s.sed down the pa.s.sage, he could not forbear halting for a moment at the door of a certain room, behind which he knew the mortal remains of his dead employer lay. As he paused, not liking to enter, liking still less to pa.s.s on, the sound of footsteps within startled him. It was not difficult, after a moment's reflection, to guess to whom they belonged, and the tutor softly tapped on the door.

The only answer was the abrupt halting of the footsteps. Mr Armstrong entered and found his pupil.

Roger was standing in the ulster he had worn last night. His eyes were black and heavy with weariness, his face was almost as white as the face of him who lay on the couch, and as he turned to the open door his teeth chattered with cold.

"I couldn't leave him alone," whispered he apologetically, as the tutor laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"Of course--of course," replied Mr Armstrong. "I guessed it was you.

Would you rather be left alone?"

"No," said the lad wearily. "I thought by staying here I should get some help--some--I don't know what, Armstrong. But instead, I'm half asleep. I've been yawning and shivering, and forgotten who was here-- and--" Here his eyes filled with tears.

"Dear old fellow," said the tutor, "you are f.a.gged out. Come and get a little rest."

Roger sighed, partly to feel himself beaten, partly at the prospect of rest.

"All right!" said he. "I'm ashamed you should see me so weak when I wanted to be strong. Yes, I'll come--in one minute."

He walked over to the couch and knelt beside it. His worn-out body had succ.u.mbed at last to the misery against which it had battled so long, and for a moment he yielded himself to his sorrow. The tutor waited a moment, and then walked quietly from the room.

For a quarter of an hour he paced restlessly in the cold pa.s.sage outside; then, as his pupil did not appear, he returned to the chamber of death. Roger Ingleton, as he expected, had fallen asleep where he knelt.

The wretched days between the death and the funeral dragged on in the usual dismal fashion. Mrs Ingleton kept her room; the domestics took the occasion to neglect their work, and Roger Ingleton, minor, pa.s.sed through all the stages from inconsolable misery to subdued cheerfulness.

Mr Armstrong alone went through no stages, but remained the same unimpa.s.sioned individual he had been ever since he became a member of the Maxfield household.

"Armstrong," said the boy, the day before the funeral, "do you know, I'm the only male Ingleton left?"

"I didn't know it. Have you no uncles or cousins?"

"None on our side. Some distant cousins on, mother's side, but they're abroad. We were going over the lot yesterday, mother and I; but we couldn't sc.r.a.pe up a single relation to come to-morrow. We shall have to get you and Brandram and fathers solicitor to come to the funeral, if you don't mind."

"Of course I shall come," said Mr Armstrong.

"And, by the way, it seems rather queer, doesn't it, that I shall have charge of all this big property, and, I suppose, be master of all the people about the place."

"Naturally. Amongst your humble and obedient servants the present tutor of Maxfield will need to be included."

"Oh, you!" said Roger, smiling; "yes, you'll need to look out how you behave, you know, or I shall have to terminate our engagement. Isn't it queer?"

Queer as it was, the tutor winced at the jest, and screwed his eye-gla.s.s a little deeper into his eye.

"Seriously, though," said Roger, "I'm awfully glad I've got you here to advise me. I want to do things well about the place, and keep square with the tenants, and improve a great many things. I noticed a whole lot of cottages to-day that want rebuilding. And I think I ought to build a club-room for the young fellows in the village, and give a new lifeboat to replace the 'Vega,' What do you think?"

"I'll tell you this time to-morrow. Meanwhile what do you say to a ride before dark? It would do you good."

They had a long trot through the lanes and along the sh.o.r.e, ending with a canter over the downs, which landed the heir of Maxfield at home with a glow in his cheeks and an appet.i.te such as he had not known for a week.

Next day the funeral took place in the family vault at the little churchyard of Yeld. The villagers, as in duty bound, flocked to pay their last respects to the old Squire, whose face for the last twenty years they had scarcely seen, and of whose existence, save on rent-day, many of them had been well-nigh ignorant.

Many an eye turned curiously to the slim, pale boy, as he stood alone, the last of his house, at the open tomb; and many a speculation as to his temper and prospects occupied minds which were supposed to be intent on the solemn words of the Burial Service.

Roger himself, with that waywardness of the attention which afflicts us even in the gravest acts of our life, found himself listening to the words in a sort of dream, while his mind was occupied in reading over to himself the names of his ancestors inscribed on the panels of the vault.

"John Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, who died ye ninth day of June, 1760, aetat 74.

"Peter Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, his son, obiit March 6, 1794.

"Paul Ingleton, only son of above Peter; born January 1, 1790, died September 20, 1844.

"Ruth, beloved wife of Roger Ingleton, Esquire, of Maxfield Manor, who died on February 14, 1865, aged 37."

Now a new inscription would be added.

"Roger Ingleton, son of the above-named Paul Ingleton, who died January 10, 1885."

And when that was added, there would yet be s.p.a.ce for another name below.

Roger shuddered a little, and brought his mind back with an effort to the solemn act which was taking place.

The clergyman's voice ceased, and the fatherless lad stooped to get a last view of the flower-covered coffin. Then, with a heart lonelier than he had ever known it before, he turned away.

The people fell back and made a silent lane for him to pa.s.s.

"Poor lad," said a country wife, as she looked after him, "pity knows, he'll be this way again before long."

"Hold thy tongue," said another; "thee'd look white and shaky if thee was the only man of thy name left on earth--eh, Uncle Hodder?"

"Let un go," said the venerable proprietor of the tutor's borrowed horse last week, "let 'un go. The Ingletons was all weaklings, but they held out to nigh on threescore and ten years. All bar the best of them-- there was naught weak about him, yet he dropped off in blossom-time."

"Ay, ay, poor lad," said the elder of the women in a whisper, "pity of the boy. He'd have taken the load on his shoulders to-day better than yonder white child."

"Hold thy tongue and come and take thy look at the old Squire's last lying-place."

Roger overheard none of their talk, but wandered on, lonely, but angry with himself for feeling as unemotional as he did. He told the coachman he would walk home, and started along the half-thawed lanes, hoping that the five miles solitary walk would help to bring him into a frame of mind more appropriate to the occasion.

But try as he would, his mind wandered; first to his mother; then to Maxfield and the villagers; then to his pet schemes for a model village; then to Armstrong and his studies; then to a certain pair of foils that hung in his room; then to the possibility of a yacht next summer; then to the county festivities next winter, with perhaps a ball at Maxfield; then to his approaching majority, and all the delights of unfettered manhood; then--

He had got so far at the end of a mile, when he heard steps tramping through the mud behind him.

It was Mr Armstrong.

The boy's first impulse was to put on an air of dejection he was far from feeling; but his honesty came to his rescue in time.

"Hullo, Armstrong! I'm so glad it's you. You'll never guess what I was thinking about when I heard you?"

"About being elected M.P. for the county?" asked the tutor gravely.