Roger Ingleton, Minor | Page 7

the misery against which it had battled so long,
and for a moment he yielded himself to his sorrow. The tutor waited a
moment, and then walked quietly from the room.

For a quarter of an hour he paced restlessly in the cold passage outside;
then, as his pupil did not appear, he returned to the chamber of death.
Roger Ingleton, as he expected, had fallen asleep where he knelt.
The wretched days between the death and the funeral dragged on in the
usual dismal fashion. Mrs Ingleton kept her room; the domestics took
the occasion to neglect their work, and Roger Ingleton, minor, passed
through all the stages from inconsolable misery to subdued
cheerfulness. Mr Armstrong alone went through no stages, but
remained the same unimpassioned individual he had been ever since he
became a member of the Maxfield household.
"Armstrong," said the boy, the day before the funeral, "do you know,
I'm the only male Ingleton left?"
"I didn't know it. Have you no uncles or cousins?"
"None on our side. Some distant cousins on, mother's side, but they're
abroad. We were going over the lot yesterday, mother and I; but we
couldn't scrape up a single relation to come to-morrow. We shall have
to get you and Brandram and fathers solicitor to come to the funeral, if
you don't mind."
"Of course I shall come," said Mr Armstrong.
"And, by the way, it seems rather queer, doesn't it, that I shall have
charge of all this big property, and, I suppose, be master of all the
people about the place."
"Naturally. Amongst your humble and obedient servants the present
tutor of Maxfield will need to be included."
"Oh, you!" said Roger, smiling; "yes, you'll need to look out how you
behave, you know, or I shall have to terminate our engagement. Isn't it
queer?"
Queer as it was, the tutor winced at the jest, and screwed his eye-glass a
little deeper into his eye.

"Seriously, though," said Roger, "I'm awfully glad I've got you here to
advise me. I want to do things well about the place, and keep square
with the tenants, and improve a great many things. I noticed a whole lot
of cottages to-day that want rebuilding. And I think I ought to build a
club-room for the young fellows in the village, and give a new lifeboat
to replace the `Vega,' What do you think?"
"I'll tell you this time to-morrow. Meanwhile what do you say to a ride
before dark? It would do you good."
They had a long trot through the lanes and along the shore, ending with
a canter over the downs, which landed the heir of Maxfield at home
with a glow in his cheeks and an appetite such as he had not known for
a week.
Next day the funeral took place in the family vault at the little
churchyard of Yeld. The villagers, as in duty bound, flocked to pay
their last respects to the old Squire, whose face for the last twenty years
they had scarcely seen, and of whose existence, save on rent-day, many
of them had been well-nigh ignorant.
Many an eye turned curiously to the slim, pale boy, as he stood alone,
the last of his house, at the open tomb; and many a speculation as to his
temper and prospects occupied minds which were supposed to be intent
on the solemn words of the Burial Service.
Roger himself, with that waywardness of the attention which afflicts us
even in the gravest acts of our life, found himself listening to the words
in a sort of dream, while his mind was occupied in reading over to
himself the names of his ancestors inscribed on the panels of the vault.
"John Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, who died ye ninth day of June,
1760, aetat 74.
"Peter Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, his son, obiit March 6, 1794.
"Paul Ingleton, only son of above Peter; born January 1, 1790, died
September 20, 1844.

"Ruth, beloved wife of Roger Ingleton, Esquire, of Maxfield Manor,
who died on February 14, 1865, aged 37."
Now a new inscription would be added.
"Roger Ingleton, son of the above-named Paul Ingleton, who died
January 10, 1885."
And when that was added, there would yet be space for another name
below.
Roger shuddered a little, and brought his mind back with an effort to
the solemn act which was taking place.
The clergyman's voice ceased, and the fatherless lad stooped to get a
last view of the flower-covered coffin. Then, with a heart lonelier than
he had ever known it before, he turned away.
The people fell back and made a silent lane for him to pass.
"Poor lad," said a country wife, as she looked after him, "pity knows,
he'll be this way again