Torwood's trust

hen the ladies left the dinner-table for the drawing-room, some of the old constraint seemed to fall upon the party.

It was not easy for anyone bearing the name of Belassis, to be thoroughly comfortable at Ladywell under existing circumstances. Matilda and Bertha were in constant dread of what their mother might say or do next; and she, on her part, was in a state of suppressed restlessness and irritation, which she found very hard to bear.

She had not heard what it was that passed between her husband and Miss Marjory at the dinner-table; but she felt convinced that there was some secret from which she was excluded, and she would gladly have questioned the guest from Whitbury, and elicited from her the desired information.

Miss Marjory, however, had no disposition to be pumped by Mrs. Belassis—no inclination, in fact, for any intercourse whatever with her. If anything occurred which should make it desirable for her to be told of her husband’s former marriage, Miss Marjory was quite prepared to make the necessary communication; but then, she would make it after her own fashion, and in her own words: she had no notion of being questioned or cross-examined. She was perfectly aware that Mrs. Belassis was anxious to obtain a few minutes’ private conversation, and equally determined not to permit such an interview to take place.

It may, under exceptional circumstances, be possible to catch a weasel asleep; but under no circumstances whatsoever, waking or sleeping, was Miss Marjory to be caught if she did not intend to be.

Mrs. Belassis soon gave up the attempt as hopeless, yet she had not the least idea that her manœuvres had been observed.

It was not long before the gentlemen joined them in the drawing-room. Tor’s face was somewhat grave; the Signor looked flushed and indignant. Lewis seemed nervous and preoccupied; Belassis the same, only to a greater extent.

Instructed beforehand by his wife (he did not himself fully understand why), he had started inquiries respecting Mr. Torwood, and Signor Pagliadini had taken up the subject with great zeal, and put the most searching questions to their host.

The two Belassis’, father and son, had too much upon their minds to take great interest in what passed, and, indeed, a good deal of it was beyond their power of comprehension; but it was evident that the Italian had become excited, and that the coolness and imperturbability of their host had annoyed him more than a little.

Miss Marjory saw at a glance that something had occurred, and took advantage of a noisy moment to say in a low voice:

‘Has anything happened? Has he made himself disagreeable? I thought I had pretty well silenced him.’

Tor could not but smile, as he answered:

‘I thought you must have been talking to him. He seemed as if he had been driven to desperation.’

‘Desperate, is he?’ questioned Miss Marjory briskly. ‘How very amusing! I must certainly see what can be done for him. Mind you ask him here for a few days. I think it is time he was brought under our jurisdiction. I will keep an eye upon him, when once we get him to Ladywell.’

‘I will ask him, certainly. Whether he will come, is a different matter.’

‘You have not quarrelled, have you?’

‘No; but he nearly lost his temper. He does not, I am sure, feel anything but enmity towards me. He may not care to become my guest.’

‘And how do you feel?’

‘Strange to say, I can’t help liking him, though he is so troublesome. I’m sure I have never known him under his present name, but I am equally sure that I have known him and liked him at some time or other, and I can’t shake off the old feeling of liking. I suppose he was some old chum of—of—Tor’s, you know. When he comes back, I dare say it will be all clear.’

There was no time for private conference now. People were looking impatiently at Tor, as if to suggest that he should institute the needful formalities.

‘I think,’ said he, speaking generally to the company, ‘that we had better adjourn to the library whilst the matter that has brought us together to-day is discussed.’

Then, as there was a general move towards the door, Tor said, turning to the Italian:

‘I’m afraid this next half-hour will be but a dull one for you—it is merely some family matter that has to be settled and discussed. No doubt you would rather smoke your cigar upon the terrace. I will join you there as soon as I can.’

‘You are very good, but I do not care for solitude and smoke,’ answered the Signor. ‘If I am not intruding, I should be much more interested by listening to Mademoiselle’s decision. I have heard from Miss Meredith what is the nature of this family gathering.’

Tor thought this showed a very fair assurance on the part of a stranger, but there was not time to argue the point now.

‘Monsieur must please himself,’ he said coldly; ‘but all the conversation will be in English, and it is of a nature which cannot possibly interest a stranger.’

As Miss Marjory was to be present, by her own and Maud’s special wish, he could not say that only the family could be admitted; so the Signor, with something like mockery in his smile and bow, followed Tor into the library.

Maud lifted her eyebrows as she saw him enter; but she had rather a liking for the handsome Italian, and was more surprised than annoyed by his appearance.

She was seated in a prominent position in the great room, and looked quite equal to the occasion. A flush was on her cheek, and a light in her eyes which added greatly to her attractions, and Tor looked at her with an admiring pride.

He had never asked her, in so many words, what her decision was going to be; but he knew it nevertheless. He knew she could never have been so proud, so gay, so self-possessed, had she been about to surrender her life and her future into the hands of Lewis Belassis—to sell herself in a loveless marriage!

There was an unbroken silence in the room.

‘Uncle Belassis,’ said Tor, courteously and coldly, ‘I believe it is your place, as executor and legal adviser of our late father, Philip Debenham, and as guardian of my sister during her minority, to read the will now in your possession, and any other documents you may have, which bear upon the present question.’

He pulled forward, and placed at the head of the table, a heavy leather-covered chair, and Mr. Belassis came forward, with all the dignity he could assume, and sat down facing the whole company. He placed his papers upon the table, and tried to cover his nervous embarrassment by a pompous air of importance, which was peculiarly difficult for him to assume in Miss Marjory’s presence.

Maud signed to Tor to come and sit beside her. She was quite able to stand alone, but she felt as if her brother was in himself a tower of strength, and she liked to feel him near.

Mr. Belassis unfolded his document, and, after a few preliminary remarks, in which he spoke much of his dearly beloved and honoured friend and brother, Philip Debenham, and his most dear niece, towards whom he had always felt like a father, and played, as far as was permitted him, a father’s part, he proceeded to read such portion of the late Philip Debenham’s will as referred to the inheritance of his daughter.

Everyone present was perfectly aware of the condition imposed, before the money which had been his wife’s could pass to his daughter; but yet, when the words were really read, which willed away two thirds of a large fortune from his own child to his wife’s nephew, simply because she might refuse to become his wife, a murmur of mingled distrust and indignation seemed to go round the assembled company; and, in the silence that followed, Mrs. Lorraine’s quiet voice was distinctly heard, saying with distressful earnestness:

‘My poor, dear, loving brother never, never could have made such a will! He loved his children too well. He was too noble, too good, too just! Oh, there is something very, very wrong in it all!’

‘Silence, Olive! for shame!’ interposed Mrs. Belassis sternly. ‘You forget yourself strangely.’

Tor’s eyes flashed a look at Mrs. Belassis, which it was perhaps as well for her peace of mind that she did not see. He rose, and crossed over towards where the two sisters were sitting.

‘Pardon me, Mrs. Belassis,’ he said; ‘but so long as Mrs. Lorraine honours me by her presence in my house, it is my place to shield her from insult. She has full liberty to speak her mind freely on this and all other subjects. No one in the world has the right to bid her be silent, least of all in my house. Aunt Olive, I think Maud would like to have you beside her. Let me give you my arm across the room.’

Mrs. Belassis glared at him with an expression of vindictive malice, not often so openly displayed in polite society.

‘You shall rue this bitterly, Philip Debenham!’ she hissed, in a whisper which only he and Mrs. Lorraine could hear. ‘You shall have good cause to know that I am not to be insulted with impunity.’

Tor smiled and bowed in his haughty careless fashion, and led Mrs. Lorraine away.

All this had passed so rapidly, that people were yet exchanging whispered comments upon the wording of the strange will.

Miss Marjory, of course, had plenty to say, and it was not her custom to whisper.

‘It’s the most ridiculous will I ever heard in my life!’ she exclaimed, with an emphatic gesture of contempt. ‘It’s positively idiotic! People are very odd, and there’s no accounting for tastes; but really this is beyond everything. Philip Debenham, I believe you could get the whole thing upset in a court of law. The man must have been mad when he drew it up. I should dispute it if I were you.’

Mr. and Mrs. Belassis looked pinched and blue, despite the warmness of the evening. The Signor seemed listening with the most profound interest to every word that was spoken.

Maud gave Tor a look of half-impatient entreaty, and he interposed to say to Belassis:

‘Have you anything more to add, before my sister registers her decision?’

‘I have a letter written by her dear dead father, whom that lady has thought fit——’ Here Miss Marjory turned suddenly round and looked him full in the face. The effect was instantaneous. The words died away into silence, and he concluded feebly enough: ‘A letter to Maud—from her father. Will you read it, my dear?’

‘I see,’ said Tor, ‘that it is neither sealed nor fastened. No doubt you are master of its contents. I think it would be better that you should read it to us. Is that your wish, Maud?’

‘Yes,’ she answered readily. ‘I would rather it was read aloud.’

Belassis had no choice but to obey. Perhaps he did not object to the task. The letter might possibly convince the company that the will did but embody the real wishes of Philip Debenham, senior.

He cleared his throat, and began:

‘My dear and only Daughter,’

(‘As if papa would ever have begun a letter like that!’ breathed Maud indignantly.)

Dead silence followed the reading of this elegantly worded epistle.

Philip Debenham had been a man of high culture and refined scholarly tastes. His letters had been models of the art of diction. Anything clumsy in construction, or faulty in expression, had certainly never issued from his pen; and anyone who had ever known him in his lifetime, or had even known what manner of man he was, must be convinced that whether or not that letter was written by himself, its contents had never been composed by him.

The prolonged silence occasioned Belassis a feeling of discomfort he hardly understood. He broke it himself, by turning to Maud with a smile meant to be insinuating and paternal.

‘There, my dear girl, you hear now what was the real wish of your dear father. May I hope that his wishes will be carried out by you, and that I shall soon have the happiness of welcoming you as a daughter?’

Maud’s eyes glowed with a strange light. Dim remembrances of her dead father had risen up within her, and she felt a burning indignation against anyone who could so have abused his confidence and exercised so great a power over him.

She rose and spoke with a firmness which showed that she was actuated by no mere girlish caprice.

‘My decision was made long ago, Uncle Belassis; but even had it not been, what I have now heard would have settled the matter. My father never wrote that letter, except at your dictation. He only made that will under your coercion. I know it as well as possible, in spite of anything you may choose to say. Uncle Belassis, I will never marry your son; and I will never call you uncle again; you have been a false friend, a cruel guardian, and a dishonest man. I have made my decision, and you hear it now. I will lose the money. I will not marry any son of yours. Philip will take care of me. He will be my guardian as well as my brother now.’

She turned to him with a proud and loving look; and he stood up beside her, and drew her hand within his arm. It was a quiet but significant gesture, and Maud looked up in his face with a smile.

Then she turned to Lewis, and held out her other hand.

‘Lewis,’ she said, ‘you know I like you. I am sorry I cannot like you better. It is not your fault that you are a Belassis—you are not a bit like one; and I am very sorry for you. I am glad you will be rich, anyway, and we will always be friends.’

But the conclave was not over yet. Miss Marjory’s tongue could never be silent in moments of excitement, and now that she had held her peace as long as it was possible to do so, she burst out again.

‘It’s the most infamous conspiracy I ever heard of—as clear a case of coercion as ever was brought into a court of law. Will! letter! Stuff and nonsense! I believe the whole thing is a great forgery!’

Belassis looked furious; but he dared not fly out at Miss Marjory.

‘Anybody is welcome to examine them; they are absolutely genuine—will and letter both. Who knows Philip Debenham’s handwriting and signature? I appeal to them.’

But Miss Marjory paid no heed to him. She had flown back to her former train of thought.

‘Philip Debenham, you must dispute that will. If there is any equity in law, you can get it reversed as easily as possible. There could not be a clearer case of bribery and corruption, or whatever they call it—at least of coercion and fraud. Anyone with half an eye could see exactly how it had all happened. You have as good a case, I should say, as a man could wish. Take counsel’s opinion at once, and act accordingly. I should dispute that will to the death, if I were you.’

‘There will be no need to do that,’ said Lewis, coming forward and speaking for the first time, ‘for I decline to take advantage of it. I am convinced, like other people, that there is something odd about that condition. Anyway, it is a very unjust one. When the money comes to me, I shall make it over to Maud. I should be ashamed to live upon her fortune.’

Miss Marjory jumped up, and shook him by the hand.

‘Spoken like a man!’ she said with approbation. ‘You are no Belassis, young man, in spite of your name. I have a great respect for your character from this moment.’

‘No—no, Lewis,’ interposed Maud. ‘The money is yours, and you must have it. I think I am rather glad for you to have something. You must not make it over to me.’

‘If you do, you idiot of a boy,’ growled Belassis, whose face was purple, ‘I’ll cut you off with a shilling! I’ll turn you out of my house—I’ll make a beggar of you before a week is over!’

‘I think I’d as soon be a beggar, as loafing round at home doing nothing,’ remarked Lewis slowly. ‘I dare say if I tried I could get some sort of a berth. I’m not such a fool as I look.’

‘I’ll help you!’ cried Miss Marjory eagerly—‘I’ll stand your friend. I’ll soon find something you can do. I like to see a man who wishes to be independent. Don’t be downhearted. Trust to me.’

‘And to me,’ said Tor, ‘if you take a step like that. I’ll try to ensure that you never repent it.’

Belassis looked daggers at his son, and would have spoken again, but that his wife, who had crossed the room during the confusion, laid a warning hand upon his arm.

‘Say no more now. Lewis is a mere baby; but he is obstinate, and will only commit himself deeper and deeper if you oppose him now. We will soon take the nonsense out of him when we have him alone.’

‘He must not do it—it would ruin us!’ gasped Belassis helplessly.

‘He shall not do it. I will take care of it. Now come, don’t give way, or play the fool. Quite enough odium and contempt has fallen to our share to-day, without your adding to the burden by your cowardice. We had better get away as fast as we can, or that hateful little yellow woman will be making fresh discoveries.’

‘I’m sure I don’t want to stay,’ groaned her husband, with evident sincerity. ‘It’s the most awful evening I’ve ever spent in my life. Let’s get up and go. I’ll tell them that I’ll not stay here to be insulted any longer.’

He tried to assume his dignified air, but was promptly snubbed by his wife.

‘You’ll do no such thing! You’ll just sit there till I make the move! We’ve had quite enough of your muddling for one evening!’

Mrs. Belassis spoke viciously, because she felt vicious, not because she had any special grudge against her husband at this particular moment.

Her eyes wandered round in search of one face, and when her glance encountered that of Signor Pagliadini, something like a magnetic attraction seemed to draw the two into an isolated corner.

Mrs. Belassis was furious. The last link which bound her to a peaceable policy was now snapped asunder, and she was eager to declare war at all hazards. She was still greatly in the dark as to how the onslaught could be made; but she knew that her nephew could be attacked with advantage in some quarter or other, and that the Italian knew better than she did how to plan the campaign. Desperation gave her boldness.

‘Monsieur,’ she began, in a vigorous whisper, ‘does it not seem to you time to put an end to this game?’

‘High time!’ he answered gloomily.

‘If we do not bestir ourselves,’ continued she, feeling her way so as to lead him as far as possible to commit himself, ‘things will have got beyond our power. We must not let them go too far.’

A very sombre light glowed in the handsome eyes of the stranger.

‘I agree entirely with Madame.’

She looked eagerly at him.

‘Are you prepared, then, to act?’

After a momentary hesitation, he answered:

‘I believe I am.’

‘And I,’ said she, ‘will assist you.’

He did not respond warmly to this generous offer; but Mrs. Belassis would not be discouraged.

‘Two heads, you know, Monsieur, are better than one!’

‘Madame is right.’

‘And I am not an ally to be despised. I know much of all the history of the family.’

‘True—very true!’ he seemed to reflect.

‘Perhaps, Madame, we had better meet somewhere soon, where we can discuss this difficult question.’

‘To-morrow, then,’ she answered eagerly. ‘Meet me to-morrow by that fallen tree, where we talked before. At eleven o’clock I will be there. Do not forget.’

‘I will not,’ he answered.

But this appointment with Mrs. Belassis did not hinder him from accepting with alacrity Tor’s invitation to pay a short visit to Ladywell; and two days later was fixed as the date when he might commence his sojourn there.

‘That man and Mrs. Belassis,’ remarked Miss Marjory, as she watched the departure of the company—‘mark my word, that man and Mrs. Belassis mean mischief!’

END OF VOL. II.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

G., C. & Co.