Roger Ingleton, Minor | Page 6

blankets and proceeded to break the ice literally, and take his bath.
After that he felt decidedly better, and with the help of a steady ten
minutes grind at the dumb-bells, he succeeded in pulling himself
together.
He had reached this stage in his toilet when a knock came at the door.
"Come in, Raffles," said Mr Armstrong, beginning to see some
prospect of a shave after all.
It was not Raffles, but Dr Brandram, equipped for the road.
"I'm off, Armstrong," said he. "I'd ask you to come and drive me, only I
think you are wanted here. See the boy eats enough and doesn't mope.
You must amuse him if you can. You understand what I told you last
night was not for him. By the way,"--here the doctor held out a sealed
packet--"this was lying on the old man's table last night. It was
probably to give it to you that he sent for you in the afternoon, and then
forgot it. Well, good-bye. I shall come to-morrow if the roads are
passable. I only hope, for my sake, all this will not make any difference
to your remaining at Maxfield."
Mr Armstrong finished his toilet leisurely, and then proceeded to

examine the packet.
It was a large envelope, addressed, "Frank Armstrong, Esquire," in the
old man's quavering hand.
Within was another envelope, firmly sealed, on which the same hand
had written these words--
"To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his
twentieth birthday."
The effort of writing those few words had evidently been almost more
than the writer could accomplish, for towards the end the letters
became almost illegible, and the words were huddled in a heap at the
corner of the paper. The sealing, too, to judge from the straggling blots
of wax all over and the ineffective marks of the seal, must have been
the labour of a painful morning to the feeble, half-blind old man.
To the tutor, however, as he held the missive in his hand, and looked at
it with the reverence one feels for a token from the dead, it seemed to
make one or two things tolerably clear.
First, that the contents, whatever they were, were secret and important,
else the old man would never have taken upon himself a labour he
could so easily have devolved upon another. Secondly, that this old
man, rightly or wrongly, regarded Frank Armstrong as a man to be
trusted, and contemplated that a year hence he would occupy the same
position with regard to the heir of Maxfield as he did now.
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 assistance.
As he passed down the passage, 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 pass 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 fagged 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
succumbed at last to