Roger Ingleton, Minor Part 38

Alone in his room that night Roger came to himself. A week or two ago he had hugged himself into the notion he was resolved to do his duty at all costs and in spite of all discouragement. Here had he been wasting a fortnight, forgetting duty, forgetting that he had a mission, posing as the heir, and accepting the compliments of a lot of time-servers who, now that he thought about them, valued him for nothing but his name and expectations.

And one of these--the least desirable of the lot--had been this Fastnet, the companion in profligacy of his lost brother, the one man, perhaps, from whom he might hope to obtain a clue as to the fate or whereabouts of the man whose rights he, Roger, was usurping!

He was tempted to telegraph to Armstrong to come to his help. But he dismissed the thought. In this quest Armstrong was not with him. He shrank from making a confidant of the captain. There was no one else to help him. He must play the game single-handed or not at all.

Once more his courage failed. Ratman his brother, Fastnet his brother's friend! At what a cost to the good name of his house was this wrong to be put right, this self-sacrifice to be accomplished. But ere he slept the honest man gained a victory over the poltroon. Providence had sent him stumbling into the track. It was not for him to draw back.

Next morning both he and his guardian found letters on the breakfast- table re-directed in Rosalind's hand from Maxfield. The latter, as he glanced at his, scowled, and crushed the missive angrily into his pocket. It was a letter from Ratman, reminding him that a certain bill was falling due on the following day, and requiring him, on pain of exposure, to honour it.

Roger's letter was in the same hand. It was dated London, a day or two back. Ratman said--

"Dear Brother,--I received your letter and enclosure. It is what I expected from you, but I hope it is not to be the last. I don't wonder at your suspecting my story--I don't particularly care whether you believe it or not. No doubt, with your respectable surroundings and the prospect before you, you are not over-anxious to claim brotherhood with a fellow of my sort. As long as you believe in me sufficiently not to leave me in the lurch, I shall be fairly content. But I cannot live on air, and have little else to support me. Don't be afraid I shall turn up again now until you want me. If I did, it would be not so much to see you as to see some one else to whom, rake as I am, I have lost my heart, and to whom I look to you to put in a good word on my behalf.

You ask for proofs. I can't give you any that I know of. Everything is changed at Maxfield since I was there. Even the old hands like Dr Brandram or Hodder would not recognise me after all these years. In fact, they have seen me and have not done so. They think I'm dead.

That's my fault; for when I was ill in India--goodness knows how many years ago--with, as I thought, not a day more to live, I told a comrade to send home news of my death, and they all believed it. So you see it is easier to talk about proof than give it. The only person who might be able to remember me after I left home--I had a hideous row with my father at the time--was a man called Fastnet, with whom I lodged in London, and who helped to make me the respectable specimen of humanity I have become. I lost sight of him long since, and for all I know he has joined the majority with all the others. I merely mention this to show you how hopeless it is of me to attempt to prove what I say. You may make your mind quite easy on that score. I shall probably return to India as soon as I am in funds. Except for the one reason I have named, I don't want to see Maxfield again--I've had enough of it. Nor do I see any advantage in meeting you, so I give no address. But any letters addressed to the G.P.O. I shall receive.

"Your brother,--

"Roger Ingleton."

This letter dispelled any lingering doubt, or perhaps hope, in Roger's mind that he was on a wrong scent. The writer, in protesting his inability to give any proof of his ident.i.ty, had mentioned the two very circ.u.mstances which the old Squire had referred to in his posthumous letter. He had admitted that he had gone to the bad in London in company with a youth named Fastnet. The news of his death had reached England from abroad. Besides, the reckless, devil-may-care tone of the epistle more than ever convinced the younger brother that this was no fraudulent claimant, but the honest growl of an outcast who little guessed what his name was worth to him. Otherwise, why should he keep out of the way?

Captain Oliphant came to his room while these reflections were occupying his mind. He was too much preoccupied by the unpleasant contents of his own letter to notice the trouble of his ward.

"Roger," said he, "business calls me away from town for a day or two. I am sorry to interrupt our pleasant time together, but I hope it will not be long. Make yourself comfortable here, and take care of yourself."

"Are you going to Maxfield?" inquired Roger.

"No. But an old comrade I find is in trouble and wants my advice. It is a call I can hardly turn a deaf ear to."

Had Roger guessed that the friend on whom so much devotion was to be expended was Mr Robert Ratman, he would have displayed a good deal more curiosity than he did as to his guardian's business. As it was, he was not sorry to be left thus to his own devices.

"You know your way to the club by this time," said the captain. "Make yourself at home there--and keep out of mischief."

That evening Roger went somewhat nervously to his guardian's club.

Since last night he had grown to detest the place and the company. But just now it was the one place where he might expect to hear something of his lost brother.

His new friends greeted him boisterously--and, relieved of the restraint of his guardian's presence, made more than usually merry in his honour.

They chaffed him about his expectations, and quizzed him about Rosalind.

They laughed at his rustic simplicity, and amused themselves by putting him to the blush. They plied him with wine and cigars, and rallied him on his pure demure face. One or two toadies sidled up and professed a sympathy which was more offensive than the badinage.

He endured all as best he could, for one reason and one only. The loudest and coa.r.s.est of his tormentors was Mr Fastnet.

At last, however, when, not for the first time, Rosalind's name had been dragged into the conversation, the blood of the Ingletons rose.

The man who had spoken was a young _roue_, little more than Roger's own age, and reputed to be a great man in the circles of the fast.

"Excuse me," said Roger, abruptly interrupting the laugh that followed this hero's jest, "do you call yourself a gentleman?"

A bombsh.e.l.l on the floor could hardly have made a greater sensation.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, that you're not a gentleman."

The young gentleman staggered back as if he had been shot, and gaped round the audience, speechless.

"Hullo, hullo," said some one, "this is getting lively."

Another of the party walked to the door and turned the key, and several others hastily finished up the contents of their gla.s.ses.

Roger needed all his nerve to keep cool under the circ.u.mstances, but he succeeded.

All eyes were turned to the young gentleman, whose move it clearly was next.

He was very red in his face and threatening in his demeanour, but when it came to giving his feelings utterance his courage dwindled down into a--

"Bah! sanctimonious young prig!"

The astonishment was now transferred to the onlookers.

"Hullo, Compton, I say," said Fastnet, "did you hear what he called you?

Is that all you've got to say?"

The Honourable Mr Compton's face gradually bleached, as he looked from one to the other.

"He said you were no gentleman," repeated Fastnet, determined there should be no mistake about the matter. "Isn't that so, youngster?"

appealing to Roger.

"That is what I said," said Roger.

The lily-livered hero was hanging out his true colours at last.

"It's lucky for him," snarled he, "he is only a visitor in this house."

Fastnet and one or two of the others laughed disagreeably.

"Ingleton," said the former, taking control of the proceedings generally, "are you willing to repeat what you said outside?"

"Certainly," said Roger; "anywhere you like. And I shall be delighted to add that he is a coward."

"There, Compton. Surely that satisfies you?"

Mr Compton, very white and downcast, took up his hat.

"Thank you," said he, with a pitiful affectation of superciliousness; "I take no notice of young b.u.mpkins like him," and he turned on his heel.

Fastnet stepped before him to the door.