Torwood's trust

t will be necessary now to make a break in the continuity of the story, and return to the spotless bedchamber in Dr. Schneeberger’s house, where the real Phil Debenham lay so long.

For many weeks after Tor had left him, he remained in a state of helpless torpor—knowing nothing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing—merely taking what nourishment was given in a mechanical fashion, from which all power of volition seemed absent.

But gradually a change came over the sick man. By slow degrees, and without any visible alteration in his condition, his brain began to recover its faculties, and long before he was inclined to evince any sign of life, he was able to hear, and in part to comprehend, what went on around him.

At first his thoughts were very dim and indistinct, and he was chiefly disturbed by a haunting dread that Tor had left him. He missed him, in a blind, unreasoning way, and was vaguely distressed by the absence of his friend, before he had really realized that he was alone.

As his brain-power gradually strengthened he took in other things.

He found that, to this unknown household, wherever it might be, he was known as Herr Torwood, and over this strange metamorphosis he puzzled long and helplessly, and threw himself again into unconsciousness for some days.

When he woke again, his mind was still clearer. He gave, however, no sign of comprehension, partly because the effort to awake his benumbed faculties seemed greater than he cared as yet to make, partly because a vague mistrust and uneasiness had fallen upon him, and he felt that he must gain a clearer insight into his surroundings, before he allowed it to be seen that he had come to himself.

One day, whilst he was in this state, the little German, whom he supposed to be a doctor, because of his daily visits and careful examinations—one day this German doctor brought with him a medical friend, to whom he talked long and learnedly over the supposed condition of his patient’s brain.

Doctors and Germans, however, are not above gossip, and after the medical side of the subject had been exhaustively discussed, they fell into another vein.

‘The Herr Debenham, his rich friend, will be very much disturbed at this long insensibility,’ remarked Dr. Schneeberger.

‘Where, then, is this Herr Debenham? Does he visit his friend often?’

‘No, he cannot. He is in England. I think he is a great lord there. He has come into some very vast property, I believe. Gretchen thinks so, from what he told her when he was here, after he had brought his friend to us. His letters come from a Ladywell Manor. I believe an English Manor is equal to a Schloss with us. He may be a Graf, for all I know.’

‘He pays well for his friend here, I suppose?’

‘Very well. He is a true Englishman for that. He was so anxious to leave Herr Torwood with me, that I believe he would have paid any sum I chose to ask. Ah! yes; he is a liberal patron. I have a great respect for Herr Debenham. Such a handsome Englishman, too!’

‘Well to be his friend, then,’ said the other. ‘Does he purpose to come and see this one ever?’

‘I am to send for him the moment I detect any sign of returning sensibility. He is very anxious to be with his friend when he awakes from this long sleep. I confess I, too, am anxious that he should be here, in case what he expects should take place.’

‘What does he expect?’

‘He tells me that upon a former occasion, when the Herr Torwood became unconscious for a short time, he came to himself, believing himself to be Herr Debenham; and it was a good while before he could be convinced of his own identity. Now this is a very curious symptom, and will be interesting to watch; but as I am a stranger to Herr Torwood, I would rather his own friend was with him to convince him of his error. I might find it difficult.’

‘What an odd thing!’ said the second doctor. ‘I never heard of a similar case. I wonder if it will be so?’

‘Herr Debenham, I am sure, anticipates it. He has alluded to it more than once in his letters. He tells me that they have, from time to time, passed under each other’s names during their travels, which may perhaps account, to a certain extent, for the confusion of ideas.’

‘Perhaps; still, it is an odd symptom. One would be curious to watch its development.’

And then the two doctors took their departure, leaving the patient, they supposed to be so utterly vacant, in a very perturbed state.

Phil’s mind was not altogether clear, the true balance of his faculties was not entirely restored. He could understand a great deal, but he could not weigh possibilities, or grasp a complex situation, as he could have done at another time.

Had he been able to do this, it is probable he might have guessed somewhat at Tor’s motive for acting as he had done. His entire confidence in his friend would have sustained him until he could see him face to face, and learn the truth from his own lips. But in its present clouded state, his mind could only take in one thing at a time; and the fact which he had firmly grasped, through overhearing this conversation, was that his friend had defrauded him of his name and position, and was living upon his estate, whilst he had taken care that the real possessor should not be believed when he did recover consciousness, and have power to assert his claim.

Ladywell was a name well known to Phil. The Manor House had been his ideal of all a house should be, from his childhood’s days, when he and little Maud had played in secluded corners of the park. The old uncle, who was regarded as something of an ogre, to be feared and avoided, was only dimly remembered; but Phil had always known that he was his great-uncle’s natural heir, and with the buoyant hopefulness of his nature, had entertained a dim expectation that the property might, by some lucky chance, come to him, either by testamentary bequest, or (in absence of will) as heir-at-law.

Evidently this is what had taken place. The old man had died. The property had come to him, and Tor, forgetting under pressure of temptation all his old honour and uprightness, had taken advantage of Phil’s helplessness, and of the fact that he was a perfect stranger to his own relations, and had claimed the inheritance as his own, calmly transferring his own name and personality to his unconscious friend, and adopting Phil’s instead.

Phil writhed in helpless irritation and dismay when the whole force of the situation broke upon him. He had no clue to Tor’s real motive; naturally it did not occur to him to imagine it. He could think of nothing but the treacherous way in which he had been defrauded, and of what possible steps he could take to free himself from the net which had been cast about him.

One thing was self-evident. He must remain in a state of apparent insensibility for the present. If he betrayed one gleam of consciousness, Tor would be summoned; and once let Tor’s strong hand close over him, and Phil knew that he should be powerless. He had not lived eighteen years in close company, without knowing Tor’s strength of will and purpose; and he knew that in an open struggle he would simply be crushed. Tor’s word, not his, would be believed; and if he were to be resolute in his declaration that he was Philip Debenham, he might, for all he knew, be housed in a madhouse before many days were over.

It was a terrible suspicion, and quite sufficed to keep up all Phil’s determination to remain quiet until he had matured some plan of escape.

From time to time some of the old loving confidence in Tor would assert itself, and Phil would be half tempted to have him summoned, and learn from his own lips how it was that he had acted thus; but then again doubts and fears filled his mind, and the risk seemed too great a one to run.

Suppose Tor was his enemy? Suppose, having made one false step, he had then advanced until retreat should be impossible? Such things had happened before, and might happen again. When once a man had fallen, had begun a course of deceit and treachery, it was a hard matter to draw back. Phil was ready to believe that Tor might have acted, in the first place, simply from an impulse of ambition; but he could not get over his fear, that having once announced to the world that he was Philip Debenham, and assumed the position at Ladywell Manor to which the name entitled him, he would be prepared to stick to his colours at all cost, and would never admit himself a liar, an impostor, and a forger.

No; come what might, Tor would make up his mind, and he would yield to nothing but actual force. He would never submit to humiliation and disgrace, and he had evidently taken every means in his power to ensure himself against danger. He would never willingly let Phil escape from his clutches, and therefore it would be necessary to use subtlety before he could hope to obtain his freedom.

For many days Phil lay silent and motionless, making plans and weighing possibilities. As the helplessness of his condition grew more and more apparent, so did his bitterness increase against his former friend.

‘Friend’ indeed! Phil often smiled mournfully over the mockery of the word; and would lie for hours brooding over the strange, mysterious change which must have come over Tor, before he could stoop to such treachery and baseness. ‘Mine own familiar friend,’ he would sometimes murmur to himself over and over again; ‘mine own familiar friend,’ until the words seemed to haunt him night and day, as the most expressive in the whole language of thought. Yes, it was ever so; it was no new thing, this sudden betrayal of confidence, this treacherous attack from one who had answered to the sacred name of friend. It had been true thousands of years ago, and it was true that day. The history of the world could furnish countless instances of that same crime; and as the great Roman Emperor found, it was the hand of the familiar friend which was readiest to strike the deathblow.

‘Et tu, Brute?’

Those words of dignity and pathos have passed into a household word, but never before had Phil so realized their melancholy and touching significance.

‘Mine own familiar friend’—yes, indeed. It was to that very familiarity, that implicit confidence which existed between them that Tor owed the power to practise this great deception. This was an added pang, and cost Phil many hours of bitter thought.

He had learned during these days of consciousness how this household, of which he seemed a member, divided its time. He knew when food would be brought up for him, and at what hour the doctor paid his daily visit. He knew when to expect the maid to sweep out the room and dust the furniture, and he equally knew when he should be left long hours in solitude.

One day, at this time, he tried the experiment of getting up. He found his strength less impaired than he had feared, for he had but a dim idea of the flight of time, and did not know if months or weeks had passed since he had been laid low, nor did he understand exactly what it was that had ailed him.

After a few trials, made day by day, he was able to stand and walk without any great difficulty; the giddiness he experienced at first diminished with every trial.

Soon he was able to stand and sit for some time; and he then began a careful search for any papers which Tor might have left behind, by accident or design, which could throw any light upon the subject which so haunted him.

He soon saw that an exchange of personal trifles had been effected; watches and seals, cigar-cases, pencils, pocket-books, all had been changed, evidently because they bore upon them some clue to the owner’s identity. In Tor’s pocket-book, which had been left behind, was a sealed packet, which, to Phil’s great astonishment, contained English bank-notes to the value of £500.

He looked utterly amazed, and then his face clouded.

‘Is it a bribe? or is it a trap?—I cannot tell. But if I can escape, this money will be everything in my chance of success. Ah! and here is a paper—what can this be?’

It was the lawyer’s letter informing Phil of his accession to wealth and property. The very reading of it, with the associations called up by the various items of intelligence, was enough to set Phil’s heart beating with impatient longing. The other papers Tor had taken away with him, so that Maud’s letter and Mr. Maynard’s could explain nothing; although in them lay the clue to Tor’s reckless deed.

Phil placed everything exactly as he had found it, and lay down again to meditate.

His plan—the plan which for days and days had been slowly shaping itself in his brain, was this: He must escape from his present captivity, but must escape in such a way that no uneasiness should be excited in Tor’s mind—he must remain in ignorance of the matter.

Once free from restraint and with money in his pocket, Phil would go in disguise to Ladywell, and watch what the enemy was about. He could then calculate what were his chances of success, should he bring an action against him; and he might possibly be able to detect some extenuating circumstances which should make the crime less black.

Not willingly had Phil believed his friend a traitor; and there still lurked in his heart some hopes of a future reconciliation. But doubt and distrust were very strong, and the feeling of helplessness most trying. Tor had taken possession of every credential Phil could have brought forward as proof of his identity, and, as it were, cut away the ground from under his feet in every possible way.

Phil knew nothing of his likeness to his family, and was not man of the world enough to see that his own knowledge and recollection of the events of his childhood and of his native place, as opposed to Tor’s ignorance, would go far towards making good his case, were it brought before competent authority. He could only see at present that it would be his bare word, against Tor’s word backed by all the credentials which should have been his. He knew Tor would be no mean opponent, and his heart sank at the thought of a hand-to-hand fight.

No, he must go disguised, whilst Tor believed him still in Germany, and then he would try to read the riddle; and if he dared, he would confront his false friend face to face, and wrest the truth from him by threat, or by sheer force of justice.

But this plan of escape involved the co-operation of the German doctor, in whose care he had been left; and it might be a difficult, even a dangerous matter to secure it.

However, Phil was not without a certain dogged obstinacy of his own, and he determined that he would at least make a bold attempt, and trust to chance for success.

Upon the following day, when the doctor visited him, he received him with wide-open eyes, and a look of quiet comprehension, which sent the little man into a silent ecstasy of delight.

‘Dr. Schneeberger,’ began Phil, after he had calmly and rationally replied to some dozen searching questions, ‘will you sit down for a few minutes and listen to something of importance that I have to say?’

‘Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. I am only too delighted. What news this will be for your good friend! I think I ought to send him a telegram at once to inform him.’

‘Not just yet, if you please, doctor,’ said Phil quietly; ‘I want you first to hear what I have to say to you.’

‘I will listen to anything, so long as you do not too greatly fatigue yourself.’

‘I will be careful not to do so. Now, doctor, I am going to ask you a few questions. Was I not brought here several weeks ago by a tall, good-looking Englishman, who gave his name as Debenham? And did he not inform you that my name was Torwood?’

Dr. Schneeberger nodded his head.

‘Certainly—exactly. You have accurately stated the case.’

‘And did he, or did he not, warn you that when I recovered my senses, I should be under the impression that my name was Debenham?’

The doctor stared.

‘Well—ah! let me see—well, yes, he certainly did give me some such warning; but I cannot imagine how you came to know it.’

He was looking very curiously at his patient, as if to detect some new and strange phenomenon in his case. But Phil confronted him with an unwavering eye, and spoke on connectedly and quietly.

‘I know it, or guessed it, from what I know of the circumstances which surround me, and from what I heard and remarked whilst I seemed to you to be still unconscious.’

‘You have recovered, then, gradually?’ cried the doctor eagerly. ‘It was not the work of a moment?’

‘I have been slowly recovering for several days; but this is the first time that I have felt any inclination to rouse myself and let it be known. You have doubtless known similar cases?’

Dr. Schneeberger assented readily, and talked a good deal of the brain and its various developments. Phil listened with praiseworthy patience, until a pause gave him the opportunity to proceed.

‘When this friend of mine informed you that he considered it probable I should claim the name of Debenham upon my recovery, did it not strike you as a very odd thing for him to suppose?’

‘Well, yes; certainly it was a remarkable symptom, one which interested me greatly.’

‘Did you ever know of a case in which, after the brief confusion of ideas on first recovery, a man did not know his own name?’

‘Well, no; I certainly have not known of such a case; but one is always making fresh discoveries in the book of Nature.’

‘Or of art,’ suggested Phil. ‘And now, doctor, your candid opinion: do you think it likely, do you consider it practically possible, for a man to recover the full use of his faculties, and yet not to know who he is?’

The doctor hummed and hawed a little, but admitted that it seemed rather an improbable idea, when looked at in that light.

‘I want you to look at it in this light; not simply from a medical point of view. Treat me as a man, not as a patient, and tell me if it never occurred to you what could be the reason for such a statement on the part of my friend.’

‘He said it had occurred before, and might recur in this instance.’

‘And it never struck you as possible that I might really be Philip Debenham, and he the Torwood he wished to make me out?’

The doctor stared, and eyed him suspiciously.

‘No, certainly; such an idea as that never occurred to me for a moment.’

‘Think over the idea for a moment, doctor, and see what you make of it.’

Dr. Schneeberger looked puzzled, and seemed to turn the matter over in his mind, looking all the while meditatively at Phil.

‘You see that I know what I am saying?’

‘Yes, you certainly do that.’

‘I am talking to you now in a foreign tongue. I am ready to answer any and every question you like to put upon any subject with which I am acquainted. I can tell you, as I mean to do, the whole of my past history, or talk to you in half a dozen languages. Do you think it is possible that I do not know my own name?’

‘It seems improbable; but we will have your friend over, and hear all he has to say. Why should he say he is a Debenham if he is not?’

‘He had a very adequate motive, as I will show you. My name gained for him wealth and position, and landed property of considerable value. I will tell you all about it immediately; but first promise me one thing—not to write yet to my friend to tell him of the change in my state. You must promise me this.’

‘But I promised him——’

‘Never mind that promise now. Wait at least until you have heard my story. One day cannot make much difference. You will do dreadful mischief if you do not listen to me.’

The poor little man, unused to face difficulties of this kind, gave way without much demur.

‘I will hear your story, at least. That cannot do harm, nor lose much time. If it will not tire you, mein Herr, I am ready to listen to it now.’

So Phil began the story of his life, and told it clearly and consecutively from beginning to end. He told of his eccentric great-uncle and the Ladywell property, to which he was natural heir. He told all the family history, and was too clear and succinct to speak from mere hearsay. Finally, he told of his awakening from this strange sleep, to find that the property had suddenly become his own, and that his trusted friend and comrade had played Jacob’s part toward him, and had supplanted him in his inheritance.