Torwood's trust

t last Maud’s cherished dream was realized, and she found herself at Ladywell Manor, reigning there supreme, with only gentle Aunt Olive for guide and companion.

The beautiful house, with its great rooms and wide corridors, seemed like a palace to her; and the luxury and costliness of her surroundings were delightful, after the somewhat sordid treatment she had received at Thornton House.

Such a brother and such a nephew had never, surely, existed before; of this fact Maud and her aunt were from the first quite convinced; and they grew more and more certain of it, when they found, each day, fresh proofs of his generosity and care.

Tor, it must be confessed, spent Phil’s money somewhat lavishly; but, all the same, it was not reckless or thoughtless expenditure. During the ten years that the two friends had travelled together, it had pleased Phil to keep a rough estimate of the amount he owed Tor, so that when his fortune was made (by the finding of gold or diamonds, by some enormous legacy, or some marvellous stroke of fortune), he should know how much he must pay back to his friend.

Tor had listened with good-humoured amusement to Phil’s dreams, though he never for a moment supposed that any one of them would be realized. To satisfy this fancy, however, he always promised that, if ever wealth did come, he would consent to be paid back in full; and Phil from time to time solemnly handed over an I O U for large sums, which there seemed no likelihood of his ever being able to repay.

Tor thus possessed Phil’s notes of hand for several thousand pounds, and, on the strength of this, he felt entitled to spend money pretty freely upon the household and upon Phil’s sister and aunt. As for his own modest wants, he supplied those from his own funds, as he had no wish to line his pockets at Phil’s expense; but he lavished upon Maud everything he thought she could fancy, and liked nothing so well as the sight of her face when it kindled with pleasure and surprised delight.

He was conscious of a dangerous fascination in Maud’s innocent confidences and caresses. He played his part of a kindly, undemonstrative, elder brother very creditably; but he was conscious at times that he did not feel very brother-like, and that, on the whole, he was glad he was not her brother; also, that it behoved him to act with care and deliberation.

He came to the conclusion that it would not do for him to settle down at Ladywell, as people expected him to do. Such constant intercourse with Maud would be dangerous; and besides, he had no right to the position he occupied; and he did not wish, when the time for elucidation should come, to find himself in a more awkward position than was absolutely necessary. Until he had known Maud, he had fancied that as soon as the real Phil came to claim his inheritance, he should just vanish from the scene, directly his friend’s rights were made secure; and he had said to himself that what people said or thought of him would be a matter of no moment. Now, however, this opinion was changed. Tor considered that it would matter a good deal what somebody thought of his conduct, and therefore he regulated it with great caution and discretion.

He established Maud and her aunt as joint mistresses of the household, with unlimited control over every department. For himself, he said, he was utterly ignorant of English life and ways, and it was useless to appeal to him. He could not settle down all in a moment. He must have liberty to come and go at will; and although, when at the Manor, he took the foot of the table, and was nominal master in all things, he was as often absent as present, slept as much at the Ladywell Arms as at his own house, did much travelling backwards and forwards, and was only master, in reality, of the business matters of the estate.

It was necessary for him to be about the place for a month or two, he told himself, to keep an eye upon Belassis, and to see Maud over the difficulty of her majority. When that matter was finally settled, he could feel at liberty to do as he thought best. It was much to be hoped that Phil would by that time have recovered, and could appear to claim his own. Until he did so, it was evident that frequent visits would be necessary, just to see that the uncle kept his place, and his fingers out of other people’s pies.

Maud would be twenty-four in six weeks’ time, and would be called upon to make her decision as to her future. True, the property could not be divided until a few months more had passed; but the question as to the marriage must then be practically settled. Tor had few serious apprehensions that she really would marry her cousin; yet he could not feel altogether easy in his mind.

When a good opportunity presented itself, he opened the subject to Mrs. Lorraine. He had an idea that the quiet little widow could give him information upon a good many subjects, if he could induce her to speak out.

It was a lovely evening, early in June. Tor had been too busy looking after the farm-work to come in to dinner. When he strolled into the drawing-room, about nine o’clock, he found Aunt Olive there alone, sitting still in the soft twilight, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the saffron glow in the western sky.

‘Dear boy, have you had something to eat?’ she exclaimed, as he appeared. ‘It cannot be good for you to be so irregular with your meals.’

Tor laughed in his pleasant fashion.

‘My dear aunt, I have done excellently for myself, and my digestion has learnt to accommodate itself to circumstances, as a good traveller’s should. What glorious weather we are having! Where is Maud?’

‘Gone for a stroll with Lewis. He dined here to-night. She did not know you would be in, or I am sure she would have stayed.’

‘Lewis comes here pretty often, does he not?’

‘Yes—rather. You do not object; do you, Philip?’

‘I? Oh no. Why should I? He’s not a bad fellow, so far as I know.’

Aunt Olive drew her chair a little closer, and looked as if she had something on her mind.

‘I thought I might venture to make him welcome to your house, dear Philip, because you see—I knew how much—I mean, I am sure that you are very fond of dear Maud.’

‘Do his visits please Maud very much?’ and Tor’s face grew grave. ‘Is that what you mean, Aunt Olive?’

‘Well, I hardly know whether they do or do not yet,’ answered the widow; ‘but of course we should all be glad to see her take pleasure in his society—at least I suppose we ought;’ and here Aunt Olive paused and shook her head. ‘Sometimes I am afraid that—perhaps I am not as forgiving as I should be.’

Tor smiled a little at this ingenuous avowal.

‘You mean, I imagine, that a marriage between Maud and Lewis would not be quite to your taste?’

Aunt Olive looked round nervously, as though she fancied some one might be prying about.

‘You need not be afraid, aunt,’ said Tor; ‘you are in my house, not in my uncle’s.’

She gave a nervous smile, and then a sigh of relief.

‘I am afraid I am a sad coward; but living all those years in his house would have taken anyone’s courage away, I think. We were always afraid to speak out, Maud and I.’

‘You can speak out now. I am most anxious that you should speak out.’ Tor rose, and began pacing the room slowly in the dim uncertain light. ‘Aunt Olive, I can see that you feel that this marriage ought never to take place. Is it not so?’

‘But Philip, dear boy, I did not say so. How can you know? And Lewis is a very harmless young man, I think. Do you think badly of him?’

‘Personally, I know no harm of him; but he is a Belassis.’

Mrs. Lorraine shook her head and sighed.

‘Think how much depends upon the marriage. Ten thousand pounds, more or less, for Maud.’

‘It was a most unjust will,’ began Tor hotly; ‘iniquitous, I should have called it, had it not been her father’s.’

‘And yours, Philip; your dear father’s will,’ put in Aunt Olive gently. ‘Poor, poor Philip!’

‘Why did he make such an extraordinary condition?’ questioned Tor. ‘What could have induced him to take such a step? What was Lewis Belassis to him? I cannot conceive how such a scheme could ever enter his head.’

‘Can you not?’ said Mrs. Lorraine. ‘I should have thought you could have seen.’

Tor drew near, and sat down once more beside her.

‘You mean it was under pressure he made it? You think Belassis compelled him?’

‘How can I tell, Phil? Alfred Belassis did possess an extraordinary influence over him; but then your uncle declares that the will was against his wishes.’

Tor snapped his fingers contemptuously.

‘That for his word! Aunt Olive, let us be open with one another. We both have Maud’s welfare at heart, and we both distrust Belassis down to the ground. Yes, you do, my dear aunt; and you cannot conceal the fact from me. Shake off the paralyzing influence that residence in his house has thrown over you. Tell me frankly what you know, and what you suspect. Let us band together against a common foe, and let justice at last find out its lawful prey. Alfred Belassis is a scoundrel—you know that as well as I do—better, perhaps—and I mean to bring him to book before I have done with him.’

Tor spoke with quiet significance. Mrs. Lorraine put her handkerchief to her eyes, and gave one or two short gasps, almost like sobs.

‘Oh, my dear boy,’ she said, with a little hysterical laugh, ‘it is such a comfort to hear somebody talk like that—to feel that there is somebody to stand up against him at last. He has made so many lives miserable. He hardened my father’s heart against my dear husband, and he ruined us, and ruined your poor father. Oh, he is a bad, bad man, Philip; and I have begged and prayed that something might come to put a stop to his evil ways.’

‘Well, I have come, you see,’ said Tor encouragingly. ‘And if I cannot stop them, I hope at least to expose them, which often comes pretty much to the same thing.’

Tor’s cool matter-of-fact tone quieted the widow’s agitation, as he meant it should.

‘Now, Aunt Olive,’ he said, after a pause, ‘do not be afraid, and do not be excited. Let us talk this matter quietly over, and let me hear what you know of this precious relative of ours.’

Thus called upon, Aunt Olive showed symptoms of the old nervousness, which Tor checked by asking a simple question.

‘Did you know my father well, Aunt Olive?’

‘Yes, yes—very well. Maud (that is your mother, Philip) and I were deeply attached; it was Celia who never seemed like one of us. We loved each other dearly, and always lived in close companionship. Your father was like a brother to me. My first years of widowhood were spent in his house—you were a child, Phil, but I dare say you remember so much.’

Tor bent his head.

‘I do not remember my childhood very clearly. I was at school the last two years of my father’s lifetime; but of course I know the circumstances.’

‘Your mother had died a few years back. I kept his house for him afterwards. I knew in that way, much of what went on, and of how much he was troubled.’

‘How was he troubled? By Belassis?’

‘It was money troubles—heavy losses. I don’t understand business, nor did he, but your uncle did. Your uncle managed his affairs for him, and never lost his own money; but your poor father was for ever losing his property—I never did understand how it was.’

‘Foul play, I suspect,’ said Tor quietly. ‘I am no business man myself, unfortunately; still, one knows that such things are done. But when my father died, he left me absolutely nothing. Was he aware that all his property had gone, that he left me quite dependent upon my uncle?’

‘No, I am sure he did not know that,’ answered Mrs. Lorraine quickly. ‘I know he believed there was almost as much for you as for Maud. He was a wealthy man, your father; and heavy as had been his losses, he still believed he left you amply provided for. I was thunderstruck when the news came that there was nothing left out of all the property. I have never been able to understand it.’

Tor’s face was stern.

‘This is worse than I expected; and after eighteen years it would be difficult, I suppose, to institute an inquiry. I must think about it. Who were the executors under my father’s will?’

‘Your uncle and aunt; and Alfred was guardian and sole trustee for you and Maud. Oh yes, one can well see under whose influence it was that that will had been made.’

‘How was it my father was so much under Belassis’ influence?’

Mrs. Lorraine shook her head mournfully.

‘That I never could quite comprehend; but your father was a weak and timid man, Philip, more of a dreamer than anything else; and after he lost his wife, he leaned more and more upon anyone who would give him advice and take trouble off his hands. He was friendly with your uncle for a long while. I do not think he suspected him readily; but his confidence was shaken at last, I know. He feared, and I think he hated him before he died.’

Tor pulled thoughtfully at his moustache.

‘Things should have been looked into at the time of my father’s death. You did not think of consulting a lawyer, and telling him your suspicions?’

A tremor of fear seized Aunt Olive’s frame at the bare thought of such a thing.

‘Dear boy, how could I? I knew nothing—your uncle is a lawyer, and a much-respected man. Oh, I could not have done such a thing! It would have been dreadful. Can you not see for yourself that it would have done harm, not good?’

‘Perhaps. I am not learned in the law, thank goodness! I understand common-sense and plain justice, but not law. I should like to have my uncle to deal with in South America. We could have managed the business quietly and easily there.’

Mrs. Lorraine shivered a little.

‘Dear boy, don’t say such dreadful things.’

Tor laughed, and his face relaxed. He mused awhile, and then asked:

‘Did my father ever speak to you about his will?’

‘Yes; but he never said much.’

‘Was the will made before or after he had begun to distrust and dislike Belassis?’

‘After; and I think when the will was made they were worse friends than ever.’

‘Then it stands to reason that the will was not made according to his real wishes.’

‘I have always thought that,’ and the widow sighed; ‘but what can be done now?’

‘Will you tell me, if you can, what he said to you on the subject?’

Aunt Olive reflected awhile.

‘I know he said that I should be surprised when the terms of the will were made known; but that I should understand better by-and-by, and he thought in the end that I should approve. I can’t quite remember the words, but I know they were to that effect.’

Tor pondered awhile over this communication.

‘Lewis was a mere child then; he could not have had any love for him. He could not have told that he would not turn out as big a scamp as his father.’

‘No, he never liked Lewis. He used to call him a “little snivelling, mean-spirited cad.” He was not a nice boy at all, if you remember. He is very much improved on what he was.’

‘Very likely; but he has not much to boast of. He is an awful muff.’

Aunt Olive shook her head in her gentle reflective fashion.

‘When we think from whom he would inherit his character, can we regret that he has none?’

‘I think you are more cutting than you know, Aunt Olive,’ said Tor, laughing. ‘But now, one question more, for I want all the light I can get. Did my father ever express himself as uneasy about that will? Did he never seem haunted by a sense of its injustice? Did it never seem to trouble him?’

‘No, never,’ answered Aunt Olive. ‘I used to wonder afterwards that it had not done so.’ She paused, hesitated, made one or two beginnings, and finally said in a very low voice, ‘Phil, if I tell you something, will you promise not to be rash?—it is only a suspicion—a groundless one, most likely. You must not think too seriously about it.’

‘I will not abuse your confidence,’ answered Tor reassuringly. ‘I know as well as you do that suspicions are not of much value; still I should like to hear yours.’

Mrs. Lorraine leaned forward, and in a voice that was little more than a whisper said:

‘I have fancied sometimes that he made a later will, unknown to your uncle, and that that was why the unjust condition he had made about Maud’s money did not trouble him.’

Tor started, and his eyes gleamed in the darkness.

‘Nothing more likely; but where, then, is that will?’

Aunt Olive shook her head sadly.

‘Ah, Phil, that is just the point; where is it? It could not have been deposited with any lawyer, or it would have been forthcoming at the time. He must have kept it, foolish, fellow that he was, amongst his private papers; and you know who had the examining of all effects, and into whose hands it would fall. Poor Philip never thought of such things; and even he, I think, would hardly believe that a will once found would be——’ and here she came to a dead stop.

‘You mean,’ said Tor quietly, ‘that you think Belassis found the will and destroyed it?’

‘What can I think?’ questioned Mrs. Lorraine nervously. ‘It certainly was not found, and you may be sure your uncle would have his suspicions and leave no papers unexamined. If it was there, he must have found it; but nothing was ever heard of it.’

‘The old scoundrel!’ muttered Tor between his teeth.

‘I believe he is an old scoundrel,’ said Mrs. Lorraine, with more spirit than usual; ‘but what can be done? We do not even know that a second will existed at all. If we were able to prove that one was drawn up, we could not prove that your father had not destroyed it himself. You may be quite sure that Alfred Belassis will have taken every precaution. He will not have done any foolish thing that could be proved against him.’

Tor rose and paced the room slowly.

‘If this will had existed, would not my father have told you? Would not he have given it into your custody before he died? It seems incredible that he should have left it to the mercy of Belassis.’

‘Philip,’ said Aunt Olive slowly, ‘I believe that is just what your father meant to do. I believe he meant to confide in me at the last. I was timid, and he knew such a secret would be a burden to me if I had to keep it long; but I am convinced he meant to tell me at his death. But his death came suddenly; it was a stroke, you know, and in a few hours all was over. He could not bear your uncle near him, and though he could not speak, he made it plain that he would not have him in the room. Then he tried—oh, so hard—to tell me something, and he could only stammer and stutter; and he tried to write, but he could not; and then he tried to tell me again, and grew so distressed and agitated that I had to pretend I understood, and that calmed him again. Philip, I am convinced he was trying to tell me of that will. At the time I had no idea of such a thing; but afterwards, when I was calm, when I was not in such distress of mind, and could think the matter over, I became certain it must have been that. But it was too late then. Your uncle has been over all the papers: nothing could have escaped him. Your poor father’s writing-table was hacked to pieces; they said it was old, and only fit for firewood. I believe it was to find every paper that was there. I know it had secret drawers; probably in one the will was found. Oh, Phil, it is a scandalous shame! but unless Maud marries Lewis, her fortune will go to enrich the Belassis family. What is to be done? How ought we to counsel the dear girl for the best?’

‘It seems to me,’ said Tor slowly, as he paced to and fro in the dusk, ‘after what I have heard to-night, that for no reason whatever ought Maud Debenham to marry Lewis Belassis.’

Aunt Olive looked down and sighed. To Tor’s ears it sounded like a sigh of approval and satisfaction.