Roger Ingleton, Minor | Page 8

before long."
"Hold thy tongue," said another; "thee'd look white and shaky if thee
was the only man of thy name left on earth--eh, Uncle Hodder?"
"Let un go," said the venerable proprietor of the tutor's borrowed horse
last week, "let 'un go. The Ingletons was all weaklings, but they held
out to nigh on threescore and ten years. All bar the best of them-- there
was naught weak about him, yet he dropped off in blossom-time."
"Ay, ay, poor lad," said the elder of the women in a whisper, "pity of
the boy. He'd have taken the load on his shoulders to-day better than
yonder white child."
"Hold thy tongue and come and take thy look at the old Squire's last
lying-place."
Roger overheard none of their talk, but wandered on, lonely, but angry

with himself for feeling as unemotional as he did. He told the
coachman he would walk home, and started along the half-thawed lanes,
hoping that the five miles solitary walk would help to bring him into a
frame of mind more appropriate to the occasion.
But try as he would, his mind wandered; first to his mother; then to
Maxfield and the villagers; then to his pet schemes for a model village;
then to Armstrong and his studies; then to a certain pair of foils that
hung in his room; then to the possibility of a yacht next summer; then
to the county festivities next winter, with perhaps a ball at Maxfield;
then to his approaching majority, and all the delights of unfettered
manhood; then--
He had got so far at the end of a mile, when he heard steps tramping
through the mud behind him.
It was Mr Armstrong.
The boy's first impulse was to put on an air of dejection he was far
from feeling; but his honesty came to his rescue in time.
"Hullo, Armstrong! I'm so glad it's you. You'll never guess what I was
thinking about when I heard you?"
"About being elected M.P. for the county?" asked the tutor gravely.
"How did you guess that? I tried to think about other things, you know,
but--"
"Luckily you chose to be natural instead. Well, I hope you'll be elected,
when the time comes."
The two beguiled their walk in talk which, if not exactly what might
have been expected of mourners, at least served to restore the boy's
highly-strung mind to its proper tone, and to make the aspect of things
in general brighter for him than it had been when he started so dismally
from the graveyard.

"Now," said he, with a sigh, as they entered the house, "now comes the
awful business of reading the will. Pottinger is sure to make an
occasion of it. It would be worth your while to be present to hear him
perform."
"Thanks!" said the tutor; "I'll look to you for a full account of the
ceremony by and by. I'll accompany it to slow music upstairs."
But as it happened, Mr Armstrong was not permitted to escape, as he
had fondly hoped, to his piano. Raffles followed him presently to his
room and said--
"Please, sir, Mr Pottinger sends his compliments, and will be glad if
you will step down to the library, sir."
Mr Armstrong scowled.
"What does he want?" he muttered.
"He wants a gentleman or two to say 'ear, 'ear, I fancy," said the page,
with a grin.
Mr Armstrong gave a melancholy glance at his piano, and screwed his
glass in his eye aggressively.
"All right, Raffles; you can go."
"What does the old idiot want with me, I wonder," said he to himself,
"unless it's to give me a month's notice, and tell me I may clear out?
Heigho! I hope not."
With which pleasant misgivings, he strolled down-stairs.
In the library was assembled a small but select audience to do Mr
Pottinger, the Yeld attorney, honour. The widow was there, looking
pale but charming in her deep mourning and tasteful cap. Roger was
there, restless, impatient, and a little angry at all the fuss. Dr Brandram
and the Rector were there, resigned, as men who had been through
ceremonies of the kind before. And a deputation of dead-servants sat on

chairs near the door, gratified to be included in the party, and mentally
going over their services to the testator, and appraising them in
anticipation.
"We were waiting for you, Mr Armstrong," said the attorney severely,
as the tutor entered.
Mr Armstrong looked not at all well pleased to be thus accosted, and
walked to a seat in the bay-window behind Mr Pottinger.
The man of the law put on his glasses, took a sip of water from a
tumbler he had had brought in, blew his nose, and glancing round on
his audience with all the enjoyment