Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 53

"Your relative? What relation were you to the old Squire?"

"_Was_ I--is he dead, then?"

"More than a year ago."

"Sir," said the stranger, with some excitement, "that man was my sister's husband. I guess I've come here a trifle late. Dead? He didn't look to have it in him. What say?"

It said a good deal for Mr Ratman's nerve that in the tutor's presence he took upon himself to reply boldly--

"My father died rather suddenly a year since. So you are my uncle?"

The American mayor stared at the speaker in bewilderment, which was not lessened by an abrupt laugh from the gentleman at the fireplace.

"I guess I'll take a seat and work this out," said he. "I'm your uncle, am I? I never should have known it, if you hadn't been so obliging as to tell me, young man. Which branch of the family tree do you hang on to?"

"Your sister had a son, Roger Ingleton. That's my name."

"Is that so? And you're the present Squire of Maxfield? Well, well.

When did you come to life again?"

"There was a false report of my death," said Ratman, glancing a little nervously at the tutor, who was diligently removing the mud from his riding-boots.

"Wal, it's singular. I never expected to see a nephew of mine again.

Why, how long is it, now, since I went over? Thirty-seven years if it's a day."

"I can't remember that," said Ratman tentatively.

"Seeing you weren't born, you'd find it hard," said Mr Headland. "But, say, by all accounts you were a troublesome boy."

"I was not all I might have been," replied Mr Ratman, beginning to wish this cross-examination was over.

"Put it that way, certainly. You ran away, and left your mother, my sister, with a broken heart, I've heard say."

"My father and I quarrelled, and I left home--yes."

Here the tutor quitted the fire and came to where the two men sat.

"Excuse my interrupting you, sir," said he to the stranger, "but your conversation interests me. The fact is, the Squire married a second time, and left a son, whose guardian I happen to be. By the old man's will my ward is the heir. You will allow I have a right to feel interested in this gentleman, who only discovered six months ago that he was the lost elder brother."

The good American sat back in his chair and looked from Ratman to Armstrong, and from Armstrong back to Ratman, in a state of painful bewilderment.

"Now," said the tutor, "my ward feels a little curiosity about his elder brother--only natural, is it not?--and I, as his legal guardian, naturally share that curiosity."

"Why, certainly," said the Mayor, beginning to be interested.

Mr Ratman began to lose countenance, and fidgeted uncomfortably with the forks and spoons.

"I have heard a little of this gentleman's romantic career," continued the tutor, with his half-drawl. "He has been good enough to tell us, in fact, that when he left home--by the way, when was that, Ratman?"

"When I know your right to ask me questions," growled Ratman, "I'll see about answering them."

"Seems to me," said the Mayor, a.s.suming judicial functions for the time being, "unless you've disgraced yourself, you can't hurt much by saying.

You say you're the Squire's son; this gentleman--I didn't catch your name, sir?--Armstrong?--Mr Armstrong says he's not as sure as you are.

Seems to me, if you tell one thing, you may as well tell another. It's all one story, and if it's true, it's a good one."

Mr Ratman did not like the turn affairs were taking. If he refused to reply to the questions put to him, he was aware that he was damaging his own claim. If he answered, how was he to know if the risk was not even greater? And yet, what more was Armstrong likely to know about the lost son than he himself? He might as well go through with it. So he replied, sullenly--

"I left home a year before my mother died. He can get the date of that from the tombstone, if he wants it."

"Thanks; I'll look at it," said the tutor with aggravating cheerfulness.

"You went up to London, didn't you?"

"I've told you so, and that I lived there with a man called Fastnet."

"And then you went abroad, I think you said?"

"Yes; to India."

"Just so; that's where you died, is it not? You stayed in London long enough to go to the dogs, I understood you to say?"

"That didn't take long. I spent all my money in six months, and then enlisted," said Ratman, feeling fairly launched by this time.

"Quite so. And you died, I believe, in India?"

"I was supposed to have died in a skirmish; and they sent news home that I had. I never corrected it."

"Whereabouts was the skirmish, if it's a fair question?"

"On the frontier. I forget the name."

"That's unfortunate. By the way, to go back to London, do you recollect where Mr Fastnet lived? I should like to call on him."

"You won't find him; he died before I went abroad--drank himself to death."

"I'm sorry to hear that. And you enlisted under your present name of Ratman, of course?"

"My present name is Ingleton. If I called myself Ratman, that was because I didn't want my father to hear of me. I never told any one my real name."

"Seems to me," said the Mayor, "it's odd how your medical adviser on the field of battle found out where to write home to say you were dead."

"It is still more odd, sir," said the tutor, fixing the claimant with his gla.s.s, "that this Mr Fastnet (who, you will be glad to hear, has also come to life again, was still in good health when my ward saw him a few weeks ago) retains a vivid recollection of the runaway son having entertained him for a year at his own lodgings; at the end of which time the prodigal, so far from enlisting, took to the stage, and spent another year, at least, with a company of strolling players.

"We have your unfortunate's nephew's story," proceeded the tutor, "carefully traced up to a certain point, and if either you or Mr Ratman are interested in the matter, we can produce our witnesses. Your memory is a treacherous one, Robert Ratman. It is no use asking you, I fear, what became of you after a certain riot in Boulogne when you, as the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' and your fellow-tragedians were mobbed for not paying the rent of your hall?"

Mr Ratman, who during this cross-examination had pa.s.sed through all the stages from bl.u.s.tering rage to abject discomfiture, sank back on his chair and turned a livid face to his questioner. He had sense enough to see that the game was up; and not being an actor himself, he was at a loss to conceal his defeat. The tutor's cold, keen gaze took the heart out of him.

"Lying dog!" snarled he, "I've had enough of your questions. You think yourself clever, but I'll be even with you yet. I'll ruin the lot of you--you and your fellow-scoundrel and his brats, who don't know yet what it is to have a felon for a father. You'll be sorry for this."