Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 46

"I hate the business, as you say, but you may count on me; only don't ask me to hail Mr Ratman as Squire of Maxfield, or subscribe a penny to his maintenance, a day before his claim is proved."

"You are a brick; I was a cad ever to doubt it. Let us start next week for Boulogne."

"Quite so," said the tutor, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his gla.s.s viciously into his eye; "let us go to Boulogne by all means."

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE GHOST OF HAMLET.

It is possible to conceive of a more hopeful task than hunting up and down a large French town for tidings of a strolling player who, for one night only, played the ghost in _Hamlet_ twenty years ago. But Roger, as, early in the year, he stepped ash.o.r.e at Boulogne with Armstrong at his side, felt sanguine and of good cheer.

His recovery had been slow, and not without interruption. As soon as he could be moved he had returned to Maxfield, only to find Rosalind still away, and his guardian obdurate to any suggestion for expediting her return.

As to the proposed journey to Boulogne, the gallant captain looked upon that as a symptom of serious mental exhaustion on the part of the invalid. Roger, however, was in a mood impervious to argument.

When the time actually came, the captain surprised every one by giving in more readily than any one had expected. The truth was, Mr Ratman, though lost to sight, contrived to make himself very dear to his debtor's memory, and already a legal doc.u.ment had reached Maxfield demanding the payment in full of a certain bill within a certain date on pain of certain consequences. And Captain Oliphant felt it would be distinctly convenient, for a while, to be relieved of the presence both of his co-trustee and his ward. He felt himself quite competent to deal with the trust moneys which were shortly about to come in without a.s.sistance.

When, therefore, Roger with some hesitation returned to the charge, he said, somewhat severely--

"You are old enough to decide for yourself, my boy. You know my view of the matter. I conclude you are not going alone?"

"No; Armstrong is coming."

"Naturally. I wish you joy. On your return I shall be happy to resume my responsibility for your welfare. I cannot profess to feel oppressed by it in your absence."

This was enough. True, the captain contrived to get in a parting shot by announcing that Rosalind was likely to return shortly to Maxfield.

But even that did not suffice to change the lad's purpose.

"Don't be very long away," said Jill to Mr Armstrong. "You are always going and leaving us. Rosalind will be very, very sorry to find you are away. She likes you--she told me so; but she doesn't like you half as much as I do."

The tutor flushed uncomfortably.

"Oh," said Tom, "you're always spoons on somebody, Jill. I heard you tell that Duke chap you liked him better than anybody in the world."

"O Tom! how dare you tell such a wicked falsehood? I told him I liked him _nearly_ as much as Mr Armstrong, but not quite. Really I did, Mr Armstrong."

"I am very jealous of the Duke," said Mr Armstrong gravely.

Once across the Channel, Roger's spirits rose. He had a presentiment he was on the right track. Like a knight of old, set down to a desperate task, the fighting blood rose joyously within him. Whatever it cost, whoever deserted him, whoever opposed him, he would find his brother, and give to him his own.

For days they went hither and thither, inquiring at cafes, theatres, cabarets, custom-houses, police stations, and even cemeteries, without success. Most of the persons accosted laughed and shrugged their shoulders to be asked if they remembered the visit of strolling players to the town as far back as twenty years. Others bridled up suspiciously, as if the question were a preliminary to their detection in some old evil deed. Others utterly failed to comprehend the question; and a few pityingly tapped their own foreheads, and shook their heads at the two half-witted English holiday-makers. But no one could tell a word about Rogers.

A fortnight pa.s.sed, and the thoughts of both, dispirited and worn, turned homeward. Rosalind, a letter had informed them, was back at Maxfield.

Of the two, perhaps Mr Armstrong displayed less disposition to own himself beaten. He had worked like a horse all the time. Roger had been compelled to own that without him his mission would have been a feeble farce. Not a stone did the dogged tutor leave unturned. Not a difficulty did he shirk. Not a man or woman, however forbidding, did he hesitate to tackle, who in the remotest degree might be suspected of being likely to give information. Now that it came to giving in, he hung back, reluctant to dip his colours.

"To-day's Thursday," said he. "Let's give ourselves till Sat.u.r.day. If nothing turns up by then, I am your man to slink home."

Roger, a little ashamed to find the first last and the last first in the race after all, readily a.s.sented. And the two worked unflagging for two days longer.

Friday evening came, and the two sat dismally down to _table d'hote_ with defeat staring them in the face. They said very little, but each knew the mortification in the other's breast.

At last, when the meal was over, Mr Armstrong said--

"I suppose we had better go and get our tickets."

"I suppose so."

But the _bureau_ was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary walk along the beach. They walked on further than usual in the clear moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch.

"It's nine o'clock," said he; "we must go back."

"Let's take the country road back."

"It is a mile longer."

"Never mind. It is our last night."

So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road back to Boulogne.

About two miles from the town the cheery lights of a wayside _auberge_ attracted their attention.

"Let us get some coffee here," said Armstrong.

This solitary tavern rejoiced in the name of "Cafe d'Angleterre," but if its owner expected thereby to attract the custom of Mr John Bull, he was singularly mistaken. The chief customers of the place were labourers and navvies, who by their noisy jargon were evidently innocent of all pretensions to a foreign tongue.

Seeing two strangers, presumably able to pay ready money for what they consumed, the old landlord invited his visitors into the bar parlour, where at his own table he set before them that delightful concoction of chicory and sifted earth which certain provincial Frenchmen call _cafe_.

And being a gregarious and inquisitive old man, and withal proud of his tolerable stock of English, he took the liberty of joining them.

"Inglese?" inquired he, with a pantomimic shrug.

"Quite so," said the tutor, putting up his gla.s.s, and inspecting the fellow carefully.

"This is the 'Cafe d'Angleterre,'" said the landlord, "but, _helas_! it is long since the Inglese gentleman come here. They like too well the great town."

"Ah, Boulogne has grown. Can you remember the place twenty years ago?"

"Can I? I can remember forty years."

"I wonder," broke in Roger, too impatient to allow his tutor to lead up gradually to the inevitable question, "if you can remember some English players coming over here about eighteen years ago and acting a play called _Hamlet_ in English."

The landlord blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and stared round at the speaker as if he had been a ghost.

"Why do you ask me that? _'Amlet_! Can I forget it?"

Here was a bolt out of the blue! The tutor's eye-gla.s.s dropped with a clatter against his cup, and Roger fetched a breath half gasp, half sigh.