Torwood's trust

hil’s perplexities, however, did not trouble him much, when once he found himself in the quiet seclusion of Meredith’s house.

Implicitly trusted by the blind man, and liked by his daughter, Phil found himself wonderfully at home there, and with every hour a deeper contentment settled upon his spirit.

He wandered with Roma that evening in the dewy, moonlit garden, and neither remembered to wonder what it was that made the quiet hour so sweet. To neither did the sudden intimacy which had grown up between them seem strange. Rather it appeared as if they had known one another all their lives.

‘Or in another life before this one, Roma,’ said Phil, as they stood looking at the stars together. He had accidentally called her ‘Roma’ before now, and neither had observed what seemed so natural. ‘Surely this life is not the first. Do you not often feel that long, long ago you have lived out a previous existence—somewhere?’

‘I suppose everyone has some such feeling from time to time,’ answered Roma dreamily. ‘Only we cannot be sure of it.’

‘Why do we want to be sure? Why should we not be content to dream and to wonder? Certainty does not bring satisfaction—rather the reverse. Life is eternal, is it not—without beginning and without end? We must have lived before this. When we did so, I am sure that you and I were very near together. Does it not seem so to you, Roma?’

She smiled a little.

‘Perhaps it does.’

‘You feel it too; then there is no room for doubt. One life has been spent side by side—shall this one be so spent, too?’

The last words were little more than a whisper. He was not sure that she had heard, for her head was turned slightly aside.

‘Have you no answer?’ he asked, taking her hand, and forcing her to look at him.

‘An answer?’

‘Yes, Roma. You admit that we are not strangers really. Love knows no dates—time has no power over it. Days are as years, and years as days. We have known each other for years. You have said it yourself.’

‘Not quite,’ she answered gently. ‘We were talking then of dreams and sweet fancies. Life, Signor, is not made up of these.’

‘Signor!’ he repeated reproachfully. ‘How can you be so cold? Call me Filippo.’

‘Filippo!’ she repeated wonderingly.

‘I mean Marco,’ he answered, with a confusion which was not noticed in the darkness. ‘I was thinking of my friend whom I saw this afternoon. Will you not call me Marco sometimes?’

‘I—I do not know,’ faltered Roma. ‘I think—I think we ought not to stay here.’

‘Why not? Is it unpleasant to you to be with me?’

‘It is not that,’ said Roma softly.

‘Then we will stay,’ answered Philip, taking her hand and placing it upon his arm. ‘Come, let us go together to the park—Ladywell park—and look at the moonlight through the great trees. Your father is tired to-night, and will be best alone. Come, you shall tell me how you like Ladywell, and if——’

He pulled up there, but Roma answered softly:

‘Ladywell is lovely—the loveliest place in the world, I think.’

He smiled, and said half to himself:

‘You would be happy, then, to call it home?’

Roma took her hand away, and said in a pained voice:

‘Do not talk so, Signor.’

He understood, he thought, what she would imply, and smiled to himself, well pleased.

They were now in the park, wandering amid the chequered lights and shades of the wooded hollows. Phil looked round him with a sense of recollection.

‘Is there not a well somewhere here, Roma?—a wishing-well?’

‘Yes; but how do you know?’

‘I must have been here, I think, in that former life, of which we were talking just now. Full moon and a summer’s night—is not this just the right time? Shall we go and wish there together now, Roma? Surely such an opportunity is not to be lost!’

She smiled an assent.

‘Are you superstitious, Marco?’

He looked at her with a glad, proud smile.

‘I think I could be so to-night.’

Phil led the way through the woodland path, down to the secluded well. He remembered the path as well as if he had only traversed it yesterday, and Roma forgot to be surprised.

It was in reality a spring, this so-called ‘wishing-well:’ a clear bubbling spring, rising up in a natural stone basin, lined with moss and fringed with fern. A quaint stone cup hung by a rusty iron chain beside the spring, and round the edge of the basin a quaint inscription was carved, stating the magic properties of the well.

Phil stood looking thoughtfully into the dimpling water, where faint reflected lights and shadows played, and then he took the cup and filled it.

‘Have you a wish ready, Roma?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then wish and drink; for something within tells me that the hour is favourable, and the spirits propitious to our wishes.’

Roma smiled and drank, and Phil tossed the remaining drops upon the grass in a silvery shower, pronouncing a few mystic words.

‘Why so?’ asked Roma.

‘We always used to do it——’ there was a momentary pause—‘in my country, at a fairy well, which my sister and I sometimes visited as children. But I must wish now, and the cup must not be used twice upon the same night. I must take the bolder course, and brave the wrath of the spirits. Do they not say that those who do so, gain a more generous fulfilment, or a marked repudiation of their wish?’

‘How do you know?’ asked Roma again.

‘I suppose wishing-wells are pretty much the same all the world over,’ he answered lightly. ‘Anyway, I will be bold. Now for it!’

He bent his head over the sparkling spring, and took a long, deep draught. Then he stood upright, and his face looked earnest and steadfast.

‘You have wished a long wish,’ remarked Roma, when at length he moved.

‘I have—a long and complex wish—so complex that I fear even the spirits of the well will find it hard to answer every part, even if they try.’

‘You should have faith,’ said Roma, smiling. ‘To doubt them is fatal.’

‘Then I will not doubt,’ he answered quickly. ‘I will believe they can accomplish all; but they have a hard task before them!’

Roma looked curiously at him.

‘I wonder what you can have wished.’

‘Something concerning my own personal history—you know we must not reveal our wishes.’

‘Of course not,’ she answered seriously; but as they lingered round the quiet spot, where the silence was only broken by the murmuring of the magic spring, Phil began again to speak, and Roma fancied he was still thinking of his complex wish.

‘Now I want you to give me an opinion,’ he said, ‘for I am very much perplexed. Which should be the stronger claim upon us, the claim of justice or that of gratitude?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Roma. ‘It is a hard question, as you put it.’

‘It is a hard question, put it as you will. I mean just what I say. When justice urges you to one course, and gratitude to another, which motive should be allowed to triumph?’

Roma’s brow became knit by a frown of perplexity.

‘It is not easy to decide without knowing more; but I think gratitude should be held very sacred.’

‘And injustice allowed to go on?’

‘Oh no; not quite that. Injustice can never, never be right. It should always be checked, if possible. Only gratitude should not be set on one side.’

‘You answer by a paradox in this case. Either gratitude or justice must be set aside.’

‘I cannot think but that both might be considered: there must be some right way of doing right—there always is. Can you not tell me more?’

‘I can only tell you that one who was my friend, and to whom I owe much gratitude, has now turned traitor, and done me a grievous wrong. I must right myself before the world. I cannot submit to be defrauded of my all, to be made an outcast and a wanderer upon the face of the earth; but I can only do so by bringing disgrace upon the man I once loved well, and to whom I certainly owe a debt of gratitude.’

Roma pondered deeply. It seemed a hard case, and she scarcely knew what to advise.

‘Is there no middle course?’

‘I fear he will not accept a compromise. What I know of his character, and what I have heard of his actions, lead me to suppose that he will fight to the death, and leave me no option but to expose and disgrace him.’

‘I suppose you have come to England for legal advice,’ said Roma.

‘Yes, and to take a calm and dispassionate view of things. It is an unpleasant position to be placed in, is it not?’

‘Very indeed.’

‘And have you no advice for me?’

‘I’m afraid I know so little of the world that mine would be sadly unpractical.’

‘Perhaps unworldly counsel might be better than that of the law,’ answered Phil thoughtfully. ‘Let me hear what you have to suggest, Roma.’

‘Have you so quarrelled with this friend that you could not get speech of him?’

‘Well—no, hardly that yet, I think; for I have only just learnt the injury he has done me.’

‘Then I think I should go back and make him see me, and I should tell him that I did not want to harm him, but that justice must be done. I should say how it hurt me to have to fight anyone who had been good to me. I should say how grateful I still felt for his kindness; but I should be firm, and say at the same time, that if he would fight for the wrong instead of yielding to the right, I should be obliged to become his enemy.’

‘It might be a dangerous step for me to take,’ said Phil. ‘For he is very strong.’

‘What course are you thinking of pursuing?’

‘I cannot make up my mind. A sudden blow would be most effective.’

‘If he has ever been a friend to you, and if you owe him gratitude,’ said Roma gravely, ‘you ought not to strike him unawares. You owe it to him to be frank, even though he may have been treacherous to you. Never do wrong because another does it. You do not mind my speaking out?’

‘No, indeed. I thank you for it, Roma; and I will take your advice. I had almost pledged myself to it before; now my mind is made up. Whatever is done shall be done openly, and my friend shall have due warning before I strike a blow.’

‘I am sure you will never regret your decision,’ said Roma warmly.

That episode of the wishing-well made a deep impression upon Phil and his companion. The mutual confidences they had exchanged seemed to draw them more closely together, and the secret which was known only to them, and which was to be inviolably kept, was a link which strengthened the bond between them.

‘She is a noble woman and a sweet woman,’ Phil said to himself that night. ‘I will win her for my wife when I have my own again; and I think she will not shrink then at the idea of calling Ladywell her home. I can be paving the way with the father, though my lips are sealed at present, for I cannot give a false name and antecedents when I plead such a cause as that. With Roma, I cannot think my task will be a hard one. I am sure she is not indifferent to me. I think, too, she must know how I love her.’

It was not difficult to lead Michael Meredith to speak of his daughter. He was proud of her, and proud of any admiration bestowed upon her. He knew by the way in which his guest spoke and acted, that he had from the first been struck and impressed by Roma, and he was pleased that it was so.

‘She has been my stay and solace all through my declining years,’ said Meredith, in his studied, artificial way.

‘I wonder you have kept her with you so long,’ hazarded Phil.

‘Ah, yes, you may say that with reason; but we have lived for one another, and apart from the world. Few men have even seen my Roma.’

‘Rather hard on the men,’ said Phil gallantly.

Meredith smiled, well pleased.

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘but I knew my own mind. My choice was made before.’

‘What do you mean, Signor?’

‘I meant to choose her husband. Englishman though I am, I am foreigner enough to believe in marriages made by the parents. But I love my child, and would not willingly compel her fancy.’

Phil sat silent, and looked much taken aback. Meredith gently wandered on, as was his way when once started on a favourite theme.

‘But I find, Signor, that a steady will and a gentle tact mould circumstances as well as individuals. I cannot act as other men do. I might even be held as helpless and dependent, and yet I find I have but to sit here and plan and will, and the rest follows of itself. I could say much upon that wonderful power—the human will.’

The monstrous egotism of the man passed unheeded; but his vague hints made Phil very uneasy.

‘I do not know if I have followed you, Signor; do you mean that your will has brought to you such a husband as you have desired for your daughter?’

‘Circumstances have brought the man; my will, or my child’s charms have done the rest. I knew all would follow when he had appeared.’

Phil almost feared to ask the next question.

‘Is the Signorina, then, already betrothed?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

There was a brief pause before the next question.

‘And may I ask to whom?’

‘Oh yes; to our good friend Philip Debenham, the master of Ladywell Manor.’

‘Ah!’

‘You are surprised, it seems. Is it anything so very strange that he should love my child?’

‘Why, no—oh no—not at all; but I did not know—I had not heard.’

‘No, probably not. I have not alluded to the matter before, and young maidens do not speak of what lies so near to their hearts.’

‘The Signorina is, without doubt, deeply attached to—to Signor Debenham.’

‘Most deeply. It is a warm attachment on both sides. I perceived it from the first, long before the young people were aware of it themselves;’ and Mr. Meredith smiled his quiet, satisfied smile.

‘They have known each other long, no doubt?’

‘Not very long; but time has little to do with such matters, as you may find out for yourself one day, Signor. It is we elders who think of time, and count the weeks the acquaintance has lasted, before giving our consent. But in this case I had no scruple. I had loved the father—I loved and trusted the son, and could give my daughter to him with my blessing.’

‘For the sake of the father?’ said Phil, in a strange, forced tone.

‘First for the father’s sake, then for his own. No one who owns the name of Debenham can but be dear to me.’

Phil mastered himself by an effort; but his silence had not passed unnoticed.

‘I weary you by these personal details, Signor,’ said Meredith courteously. ‘I forget, in my blindness, that my little world is not all-absorbing to others. I hear Roma’s voice in the garden. She will prove a pleasanter companion than I; and I will rest awhile, as I feel fatigued by this heat.’

With bitter feelings surging in his heart, Phil left the presence of the blind man.

‘Is he not rightly called Jacob?’ muttered he, in his wrath, recalling half-forgotten words which seemed now to burn themselves into his very brain. ‘First he takes away my birthright, and now he takes away my blessing also.’

Roma was in the garden, singing softly to herself. She sang because she was happy, though why she was so, she did not pause to ask herself.

‘Marco!’

The word seemed to escape her unawares, and her face brightened into a beautiful smile as she saw him.

‘Roma!’

He had seen the look upon her face, and now he strode forward and seized her hands.

‘Roma,’ he said abruptly, ‘I love you, and you know it. Do you love me?’

He was in earnest now, so much in earnest that all weakness and hesitancy had fled in a moment. He was stronger than she at the present moment, and his earnestness compelled her to answer, and to answer truly.

For a moment the nominal pledge that bound her was forgotten. Roma knew that she was really free, and that she had given her heart to this stranger.

‘Yes, Marco,’ she answered, lifting her dark eyes fearlessly to his, ‘I love you.’

‘My darling—my Roma!’

He drew her towards him, and she did not repulse him. Everything was for a brief space buried in oblivion, save the one all-important revelation that they loved one another.

Phil was the first to recover himself. After one pause of forgetfulness memory returned.

‘Roma,’ he said, ‘I cannot believe my own happiness. I have won you in a moment of profound despair, just when I had heard from your father’s lips that you were the promised bride of another. How has he made so great an error?’

The light died suddenly out of Roma’s face, and her arms fell to her sides.

‘I had forgotten,’ she said hurriedly.

‘Forgotten what?’

‘That I am not free—yet.’

‘Not free! Roma! Roma! And you have said that you love me!’

‘I do love you, Marco. I cannot take back words I have spoken; but I had no right to speak them.’

‘No right!’

‘No; you know why—my father has told you.’

‘You are betrothed to—Philip Debenham?’

She bent her head in a voiceless assent.

‘Roma!’ he cried, with pain and indignation in his tone, ‘have you pledged your hand without your heart? or do you love this man?’

‘You know I do not,’ she answered proudly; ‘I have told you whom I love.’

His face softened instantly.

‘Forgive me, Roma. I should not have spoken so; but indeed you gave me cause. Let us come to your father now, and tell him all. Tell him you pledged yourself before you knew your own heart. We will kneel to him to grant what we ask, and to bless our love.’

But Roma shrank back with a frightened look.

‘Oh no, no! Indeed you must not. It would kill him!’

‘Kill him! He cannot care so very much.’

‘He does! he does! Oh, Marco! you must have patience. If you cannot wait till I bid you speak, we must part now and for ever. I can die myself, but I cannot, I cannot give him such pain!’

Phil gazed at her in amazement.

‘Roma, I cannot understand. Why should we wait? He must be told sometime—unless, indeed, you mean to sell yourself, and marry——’

‘Oh no, no, Marco! how can you be so cruel? I will never marry him; but I cannot tell my father yet. You must trust me; you must be patient.’

‘If only you would explain! How can things get anything but worse by waiting? I know Philip Debenham well, Roma. He will hold you to your promise through everything. He never gives way when once his mind is made up. You stand in great danger.’

Something in the warning tone made Roma tremble. Had the man she had believed in played her false? Would he hold her to her plighted word?

‘Let me go in, Marco,’ she said in low, trembling tones. ‘I am very miserable. I don’t know what to say or what to think. I do love you; but you must bear with me. Some day I will tell you all; till then you must keep silence. Think as kindly of me as you can. I must speak to Philip before I can speak to you any more of—of—love.’

She turned and left him, and Phil, with a dark look on his face, turned and shook his fist in the direction of Ladywell Manor.

‘Torrington Torwood,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘I will make you pay for this!’