Roger Ingleton, Minor | Page 5

outer man was too narrow a tenement for what it contained.
Almost at the first flash of the light his big black eyes opened, and he
started to a sitting posture, bewildered, scared.
"Oh! why, hullo, Armstrong! what's the matter?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Roger, but--"
The boy bounded out of bed and stood facing his tutor in his night-
dress.
"But I want you to dress as sharp as you can. Your father is unwell."
"Unwell?" repeated the boy, shivering. "You do not mean he is dead?"
"No--no; but ill. He has had a stroke. Dr Brandram is with him. I

thought it better not to wait till the morning before fetching you."
"Mother--does she know?"
"By this time."
"Why ever did we not go back?" groaned the boy. "Is there any hope,
Armstrong?"
"Some--yes. Go to your mother and tell her so. The carriage will be
ready in five minutes."
In five minutes the boy and his mother descended to the hall, where
already their host and hostess were down to bid them farewell. It was
difficult to imagine that the slender dark-eyed handsome woman, who
stood there and looked round for a moment so white and trembling and
bewildered, was really the mother of the young man on whose arm she
leant. Even under a blow such as this Mrs Ingleton belied her age by a
decade. She was still on the sunny side of forty. You and I might have
doubted if she was yet thirty.
Captain Curtice and his wife had the true kindness to attempt no words
as they sympathisingly bade their visitors farewell. When the hall-door
opened and let in the cold blast, the poor lady staggered a moment and
clung closer to her son's side. Then abandoning composure to the
wintry winds, she found her best refuge in tears, and let herself be led
to the carriage.
The tutor helped to put her in, and looked inquiringly at his pupil.
"Come in too, please," said the latter; "there is room inside."
Mr Armstrong would fain have taken his seat beside Robbins on the
box. He hated scenes, and tears, and tragedies of all sorts. But there was
something in his pupil's voice which touched him. He took his place
within, and prayed that the moments might fly till they reached
Maxfield.

Scarcely a word was spoken. Once Roger hazarded a question, but it
was the signal for a new outburst on his mother's part; and he wisely
desisted, and leant back in his corner, silent and motionless. As for the
tutor, with the front seat to himself, he nursed his knee, and gazed
fixedly out of the window the whole way.
What weeks those two hours seemed! How the horses laboured, and
panted, and halted! And how interminably dismal was the dull muffled
crunching of the wheels through the snow!
At length a blurred light passed the window, and the tutor released his
knee and put up his eye-glass.
"Here we are," said he; "that was the lodge."
Roger slowly and reluctantly sat forward, and wrapped his mother's
shawl closer round her.
Raffles stood on the door-step, and in the hall beyond Mr Armstrong
could see the doctor standing.
As he stepped out, the page touched him on the arm.
"No 'urry," whispered he; "all over!"
Whereupon the tutor quietly crept away to the seclusion of his own
room.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE LIVING AMONG THE DEAD.
The household of Maxfield, worn-out by the excitement of the night,
slept, or rather lay in bed, till hard on midday.
The tutor, as he slowly turned on his side and caught sight of the winter
sun through the frost-bespangled window, felt profoundly disinclined
to rise. He shrank from the tasks that awaited him--the task of

witnessing the grief of the widow and the pale looks of the orphan heir,
the dismal negotiations with undertakers and clergymen and lawyers,
the stupid questions of the domestics, the sickly fragrance of
stephanotis in the house. Then, too, there was the awkward uncertainty
as to his own future. What effect would the tragedy of last night have
on that? Was it a notice to quit, or what? He should be sorry to go. He
liked the place, he liked his pupil, and further, he had nowhere else to
go. Altogether Mr Armstrong felt very reluctant to exchange his easy
bed for the chances and changes of the waking world. Besides, lastly,
the water in his bath, he could see, was frozen; and it was hopeless on a
day like this to expect that Raffles would bring him sufficient hot, even
to shave with.
However, the tutor had had some little practice before now in doing
what he did not like. With a sigh and a shiver, therefore, he flung aside
his