Torwood's trust

here was no doubt that Maud Debenham made a charming mistress of Ladywell Manor. She had a natural grace and freshness, and a spontaneous vivacity that was very attractive; and when Tor, on Phil’s behalf, entertained the county, and made the Manor House the centre of much pleasant hospitality, Maud came in for a very large share of admiration; and she had no more devoted admirer than Torrington Torwood—her supposed brother.

For a man to fall in love with the woman who is, in the eyes of the world, his own sister, is a distinctly awkward occurrence, and the situation is as unpleasant as it is peculiar.

That he should become enamoured of Phil’s sister was a contingency which had never seriously presented itself to Tor’s mind. As he had lived eight-and-twenty years without having succumbed to any serious extent to the shafts of the blind god, he had, not unnaturally, believed himself proof against all such winged darts; and he was more surprised and disgusted than he could well express at finding into what a mess he had driven himself.

There was no doubt that Maud would soon have lovers enough and to spare, and of course she would make her choice amongst them; how could it be otherwise? And there was Lewis Belassis already in the field, with a powerful bribe at his back, and Maud seemed on the most friendly terms with him. She would be sure to engage herself to some one before long, and Tor would be forced to stand quietly by, dispassionately discussing her choice, and receiving the overtures of hopeful lovers who were anxious to conciliate the brother.

Such a position was all but intolerable; yet so securely had he bound his own hands, that he felt utterly incapable of movement. He dared not cast off the disguise he had adopted. He dared not throw up the game he had begun to play. All he could do must be to hinder, as far as possible, any matrimonial schemes, until the real Phil was ready to take his place, and allow him, as Tor, to have fair play with the rest. Phil’s protracted state of vacuity awoke in his friend’s mind very uncharitable feelings, and Tor felt himself a most aggrieved individual.

Maud’s caresses and confidences were bittersweet to him, and often nearly shook his determination to keep silence. Her love for him was so genuine and so strong, that he felt persuaded he could win her for his wife if he could but tell her who he was. But he would not burden her with his secret. That must at once raise complications and difficulties which would betray all to the world. He would never ask her to play a part, and destroy the innocent frankness and lightheartedness which gave to her her greatest charm. No; he must keep his own counsel, and guard her as carefully as he could; and meantime he suffered terrible pangs of jealous uneasiness with regard to Lewis Belassis.

Maud and Lewis certainly had ample opportunity for becoming lovers if they were so minded, and Lewis grew more and more bewitched by his pretty cousin, as he saw her reigning in unfettered freedom at Ladywell, far removed from the petty restraints and annoyances that were always disturbing her equanimity at Thornton House.

Maud was as happy as the day was long—so happy that she found it easy to be gracious to all the world, even to Uncle Belassis and Aunt Celia; and to her old friend and playfellow Lewis, she was all that cousin could wish. His silent homage and increased admiration flattered and pleased her (for without being vain or exacting, Maud was not above the delights of feeling her own power), and the knowledge that he was looked upon as a desirable husband for her was not entirely distasteful, although her mind was by no means made up on that subject.

Maud was in no hurry to marry, or even to pledge herself to do so. Her life with her brother was far too pleasant to make her wish for any change. At the same time she was fully aware that her decision as regards Lewis Belassis must eventually be made, and made at no very distant date, and she was fully alive to the advantages that would be gained by following her father’s wishes in regard to her future; in addition to this, she was learning in a pleasant and practical manner the advantages of wealth, and she was insensibly growing less and less inclined to yield up her own fortune into the hands of another.

It had been Tor’s wish that she should not be troubled on this point, but allowed to think the matter over by herself, so that neither he nor Aunt Olive had ever alluded to the subject in her presence.

This silence, however, did not quite suit Miss Maud. Her nature was outspoken and frank, and the matter which concerned her and her cousin Lewis did not lie so near to her heart but that she could speak of it readily.

Aunt Olive, after that twilight talk with Tor, had watched with some anxiety the frequent meetings between Maud and Lewis, and was growing uneasy at the apparent pleasure she seemed to take in his society. So she was not sorry when the girl at length opened the subject of her own accord.

Tor was away on business. Lewis had dined at Ladywell, and he and Maud had strolled out afterwards, as they often did. In half an hour the girl returned alone, and stretched herself languidly in a luxurious chair, clasping her hands behind her head. The soft lamplight fell upon her white drapery and dusky hair with picturesque effect, and her aunt could not but think how very fair she looked in her maiden grace and childlike unconsciousness of scrutiny.

‘I wish Phil would not go away so often. It is so dull without him.’

‘He seems to have a great deal of business to get through. Business must be attended to, you know, my dear.’

‘I wish he’d leave it to the bailiff, then,’ answered Maud. ‘I can’t bear him to be away. He’s such a dear boy, isn’t he, Aunt Olive?’

‘He is most kind and good to everyone; a true gentleman, and a true Debenham.’

Maud gave a little soft laugh.

‘I thought he was too bold for a Debenham, aunty.’

‘Well, my dear, your poor dear father was a timid, peaceable man; but I think you and your brother have more of your mother in you. Poor Maud was gentle, but she was not timid.’

Maud sat silent and thoughtful. Presently Mrs. Lorraine spoke again.

‘Where is Lewis?’

‘Gone home,’ answered Maud briefly.

‘Then he will not be in for tea?’

‘No; he has gone home. We had a little quarrel, and Lewis got into a huff. I laughed at him, and told him he was like the old peacock who has lost his tail, and looks so silly when he puts on airs. It seemed to annoy him, I’m sure I don’t know why; so he stalked off, looking very dignified and foolish. However, he will soon feel better, and come back as meek as a whipped puppy. I shall be very magnificent when he does.’

And Maud’s pretty mouth curved into a mischievous smile.

‘I am afraid you are a sad tease, my dear,’ said Aunt Olive, gently shaking her head.

‘I think Lewis was made to be teased,’ answered Maud. She smiled, made a little moue, and added slowly, ‘You see, if I have to marry him by-and-by, he will be able to have his revenge. But I never can picture Lewis my lord and master.’

‘I do not think he ever could be that.’

‘Well, my husband, then,’ said Maud. ‘You know, of course, that he is bent on marrying me?’

‘Yes, my dear, everyone knows that; but I do not think you are bent on marrying him.’

Maud gave a silent laugh.

‘Well, no, not exactly; but then you know, Aunt Olive, it’s quite possible that I may.’

‘Do you like him very much?’

‘Very fairly well; sometimes I like him quite a great deal, and sometimes he bores me terribly. When Phil isn’t here, I don’t mind walking and talking with Lewis; but I’d never go with him a minute if I could have Phil instead.’

Aunt Olive sighed gently.

‘And yet you talk of marrying him!’

‘One must marry some one, I suppose,’ returned Maud, with a quaint assumption of the air philosophical. ‘It would be much the nicest not to—to let things stay just as they are; but then they won’t stay. Changes always do come, generally unpleasant ones; people get old and ugly (except you, Aunt Olive), and often cross, and I should do the same, I suppose; and then I should so hate to be an old maid!’

‘Well, my dear, there are many things worse to my mind than being an old maid,’ said little Mrs. Lorraine; ‘but still, you might avoid that fate without marrying Lewis Belassis.’

‘You mean, I suppose,’ said Maud reflectively, ‘that I might marry somebody else?’

‘Yes, my deary why not? there are plenty of men in the world.’

‘Why, so there are, Aunt Olive; but I think there are very few nice ones.’

‘Is Lewis so nice, then, as to be your model?’

Maud shook her head; her face was grave now, and she spoke with great apparent seriousness.

‘The way in which I look at the matter is this—marriage is a necessary evil, like measles and whooping-cough. One must marry, and perhaps by-and-by, when one is used to it, one may find it less disagreeable than it looks; but all that must chiefly depend upon whom one marries. Now, my feeling is that a known evil is much better than an unknown one—by an evil, you see, I mean a husband. As a rule, it seems to me almost impossible for a girl to know much about the man she marries. A good many men have been here lately, and they have been particularly attentive to me. They have all got beautifully brushed hair, charming little moustaches, spotless shirt-fronts, and exceedingly pretty manners; and they all say exactly the same sort of thing to me, and I say exactly the same sort of thing to them, and we are all as nicely-behaved as people can possibly be. Of course it would be absurd to suppose that we know one another a bit; but it wouldn’t be absurd, I suppose, for one of these model young men to make me an offer of marriage, or for me to accept him. That would be considered quite an ordinary and natural wind-up to an acquaintance of a few weeks. Now listen, Aunt Olive! Once at a picnic I overheard one of these nice young men swear like a trooper at his servant, because he had buckled a strap wrong in his horse’s harness. I suppose he would soon swear at his wife if he had one. Another young gentleman could not come up again to dance after supper because he was “so awfully screwed.” If I married him, perhaps he would soon get “screwed” before my face instead of behind my back. No doubt all the other young men have their nice little habits of speech and manner, which are so very engaging when suddenly discovered; and therefore I think I may well call them unknown evils, when I think of them as husbands. Now with Lewis it is different, for I do know him; I know him almost as well as I know myself. He is not very good-tempered, he is not very good-looking. His hair is not geometrically parted down the back of his head, nor brushed till it shines like a mirror. His clothes do not fit like a glove. He does not always wear a choice flower in his buttonhole. He does not try to imply by his words and looks that life, out of the sunlight of my presence, is little better than a howling wilderness, and then say the same to half the girls he dances with in one evening. But all the same, Lewis would put himself about a good deal to do anything for me; and when Lewis says a thing he means it. If I married Lewis, he would not abuse me, nor swear at me in private; nor would he get tipsy and humiliate me in public. I know all his good points and his bad ones; I know his moods, and his manner, and his habits. To marry Lewis would not be taking a leap in the dark; and therefore I call him a known evil, and as such, prefer him to the unknown.’

Maud made this long speech with great deliberation; and the comical twinkle which from time to time appeared in her half-closed eyes did not detract from the serious good faith with which she delivered herself of her matrimonial views.

There was a silence after she had spoken, which she herself broke by asking:

‘Well, Aunt Olive, have I not expressed myself well? Do you not think I am very wise and prudent for my age?’

‘My dear child,’ said Aunt Olive, very earnestly and almost tremulously, ‘if those are your ideas of marriage, do not marry at all.’

‘Why so, Aunt Olive? Why shouldn’t I marry?’

‘Because, my dear, marriage is the highest, holiest tie that can bind human lives together—a tie of God’s making, not of man’s, and which must not be lightly or carelessly, or irreverently thought or spoken of. Oh, my dear, dear child,’ and here the little widow’s composure almost gave way, ‘you do not know what you are saying. I think if marriage is not almost perfect happiness—the union of soul with soul—it must be the most miserable state in the world. I could not bear that you should thoughtlessly enter upon it.’

Maud looked earnestly at her aunt, and then rose and crossed the room swiftly and silently. Taking a low footstool at Mrs. Lorraine’s feet, she rested her arms upon her knee, whilst the young face, in all its sweet, fresh trustfulness, was turned inquiringly up to the wrinkled one above, which bore upon it the impress of sorrow borne with bravery and resignation, in the strength of a love stronger than death.

‘Aunt Olive,’ she asked, in the softest, gentlest of tones, ‘were you and Uncle Lorraine so happy as that?’

The question was put with too much tender directness to give pain. It was the tears of sweet, sad memories that filled the widow’s eyes.

‘Yes, Maud, I think so. As I look back to those few years, there does not seem one cloud to overshadow their happiness—I mean clouds from within. We had troubles to bear from without—none are exempted from those, and ours were heavy ones; but in the sunshine of perfect love, Maud, nothing can be a very great trouble. Oh, my dear, precious child, do not marry without that perfect love, that utter union of heart and soul, without which no marriage can be blessed by God.’

Mrs. Lorraine’s face seemed almost to shine. Her gentle timidity had vanished. For a moment she was the stronger woman of the two.

‘I have often wondered, Aunt Olive, how it was you married against grandpapa’s wishes and everyone’s. I think I can understand now.’

‘Yes, my dear; love gave me strength of purpose. I had given myself to Arthur, and it was impossible to draw back. They say marriages are made in heaven; and I suppose ours was too, for nothing seemed too great a sacrifice to make for one another. It was just as if it had been made for us somewhere, and we had only to do our part.’

‘Aunt Olive,’ said Maud gently, ‘was Uncle Lorraine very, very good that you loved him so very much?’

‘No, my dear, I will not say that. I do not think he was better, or wiser, or cleverer than many men that we see round us. But then we loved each other. Until you love, you cannot understand what that is; but it just makes all the happiness in life.’

Maud’s face expressed much sympathy, yet not an entire acquiescence. She hesitated a little before she asked her next question.

‘But—but—I mean, Aunt Olive, it must be heavenly to love like that, if—if—you both love and both live; but suppose—well, you know, Uncle Lorraine died. Many people lose their husbands or wives. It must be so dreadful when that happens. I should so wish I had never loved him or married him, if it was me.’

‘No, you would not, my dear,’ answered Mrs. Lorraine, not heeding the confusion of construction or faulty grammar, but grasping the leading idea. ‘No, you would not. You would feel then, what we often heard said, about having loved and lost being better than never having loved at all. Nothing can take a great love away; not even death. It must always be a living reality; and, by-and-by, I fully believe, we shall take up the thread just where it seemed to snap, and after that there will be no more parting.’

There was a long silence after these words. Maud had never before heard her aunt speak in such a strain, and she felt half awed by it. These ideas, too, of marriage were new to her—new, at least, as the practical outcome of experience. She had read, of course, plenty of intensely sentimental writing on the subject, but naturally nobody out of their teens believes what poets and novelists say on such a subject. To hear some one speaking like that out of her own experience—one whose life she had looked upon as a sad and colourless existence, and whom she had pitied sincerely for her marriage—to hear Aunt Olive assert that she would not give up this love at any price, that what had seemed the bane, was really the blessing of her life, was startling, to say the least of it, and somewhat shook Maud’s carefully elaborated theories.

‘I should like to love like that,’ she said. ‘I think I could love like that, too. But then—I’m almost sure I shall never find the right man.’

Aunt Olive shook her head gently.

‘There is no knowing, dear child. Only be true to yourself. Never marry at all, rather than give your hand without your heart.’

‘I could fancy falling in love with a man like Phil,’ said Maud, following out her own train of thought. ‘He is so manly, and so strong, and so gentle, and he just goes his own way, and everything seems to give way to him; and yet he isn’t a bit selfish, and he is always thinking of other people, and doing kind things. And he isn’t afraid of Uncle Belassis nor of anybody else; and he doesn’t talk about himself, nor bother everybody with interminable traveller’s tales. And he is big and handsome, and dresses himself properly without being a bit of a dandy; and he has such nice manners, and is always just as polite to you or to me, though we are his relations, as to the fine ladies of the county. Oh yes, I could fancy being very much in love with a man like Phil; but he’s my brother, you see, and there is not likely to be another one anywhere within reach.’

‘Well, then, my dear, you had better remain an old maid until a second Phil appears.’

Maud shook her head dubiously.

‘I would wait if I could, and never bother myself about it, for I’m very happy as we are; but I can’t. I must decide about Lewis. I shall be twenty-four almost directly, and then I shall be expected to make up my mind.’

‘You don’t love him, Maud; so don’t marry him.’

‘But I do like him, Aunt Olive. Sometimes I like him very much. And then there is papa’s will and the money—my money. Aunt Olive, I should so hate to be poor.’

‘You will have five thousand in any case, and Phil will never let you be poor.’

But five thousand is very little, and I don’t like to be dependent on Phil always. Besides, I ought to have the money—it really is mine. Lewis knows it as well as I do; and papa must have wanted me to marry him very much. Lewis says that Uncle Belassis will give him as much as I have when we marry—that will make thirty thousand. We could have a very nice house and everything we want in reason then. We are not extravagant in our tastes, either of us, and I think we should manage capitally. Lewis would be very good to live with, I think, Aunt Olive; and I know I could get my own way with him.’

‘But—but——’

Maud playfully laid her hand over her aunt’s lips.

‘Yes, I know, Aunt Olive—I just know what you’re going to say; and you know I haven’t a bit made up my mind that I will marry Lewis: but I do think that if I did, I should get to love him by-and-by—people do in books often; and though I don’t go much by that, I do think that I could get fond of him in time—quite fond of him. I know it seems very horrid to marry for money; but you see it is a little different when it’s my money, not his—don’t you think so? And Lewis does really care for me, because he would get most of the money anyway, and yet he is always worrying me to say that I will take him, and get it all for myself. It’s a very unpleasant position to be put in, and I’ve not made up my mind what I’ll do, nor spoken to Phil about it either. Still, I can’t see why I shouldn’t marry Lewis if I feel inclined to. After all, there is something in his favour, when he is a known evil.’

Maud’s mischievous mood had returned to her, and Aunt Olive dropped the subject. She knew her niece’s temperament too well to try to oppose her. Opposition to Maud was another name for encouragement, and she did not wish to encourage her in her half-formed determination to marry Lewis Belassis.