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Updated: May 1, 2025
Mrs Ingleton, highly gratified, handed the beautiful letter first to her son, then to Mr Armstrong. Roger was hardly as taken with it as his mother. "Civil enough," said he, "and I dare say he means all he says; but I don't warm to the prospect of being cherished by him. Besides, there is something a trifle too neat in the way he invites his whole family to Maxfield. What do you think, Armstrong?"
The former was from Dr Brandram to Mr Armstrong "Come at once." The letter was a missive addressed to Roger at Maxfield from London, and forwarded back to Boulogne. It was from Mr Fastnet. "Dear Ingleton, Oddly enough I stumbled yesterday across the very piece of paper I spoke to you of. Here it is for what it was worth." Roger eagerly opened the yellow sheet.
I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I've a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It's the only chance your father's got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands."
If he gets well, I may find it my duty to become his stepfather." "Charming man, and fortunate mamma! Meanwhile, what are you going to do for me?" "My dear fellow, you must wait. I can put you up at Maxfield if you behave decently, but as to money, you will spoil all if you are impatient. I am not the only trustee, remember. I have to be careful." "That's all very well. Sounds beautiful.
About ten days later a small party was gathered in Roger's cosy den at Maxfield. The young Squire was there, with his hand in a sling, still pale and weak, but able to sit up on the sofa and enjoy for the first time the society of a few choice friends. Among those friends it was not surprising to find Rosalind.
"Surely he's not going to shirk the feed? Never mind, Miss Isabel; I'll work it round for you if I can." Miss Isabel expressed her gratitude with a smile, and asked Tom how he liked living at Maxfield. "Oh, all right, now I've got a football and can go shooting in the woods. I say, by the way, do you remember that fellow who died? "Whom? What are you talking about?" asked she, bewildered.
Even her laugh had failed to give her away. She was altogether too near for safety to the point of exhaustion. She had endured her second night without sleep. She had not really eaten an adequate meal since her lunch in town the day Paula had engineered her out of the way for that talk with Maxfield Ware.
How they all got up to Maxfield the tutor was never able to say, for the pain of his broken arm became so intense that he was as near swooning as he had ever been in his life, and but for the timely services of the doctor, who was able to give him some little relief, he might have disgraced himself for ever by fainting light off.
They looked like pirates in the pictures of Howard Pyle or Maxfield Parrish; one or two of them were pirates, and one worse than a pirate; but most of them were hard-working, willing, and cheerful. They were white, or, rather, the olive of southern Europe, black, copper-colored, and of all intermediate shades.
When, after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played on; the sun still flashed on the distant sea, the park still stretched away below him but all seemed part of another world to the heir of Maxfield.
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