Torwood's trust

ince his nephew’s arrival in England, Mr. Belassis had felt anything but at ease. To use a well-worn simile, he felt like one who walks over a powder-mine which may at any time explode, and blow him into the air.

He could hardly have explained the cause of his uneasiness, for he had always been a cautious, not to say a cunning man, and had taken all possible care to gloss over all his doubtful transactions so as to make them appear upright, and even disinterested. Still he could not but be aware that there were certain passages in his past life which would not bear the light of day, and he was especially anxious that these passages should not come under the notice of his nephew.

Why Mr. Belassis should stand in such awe of his nephew is not very easy to say. So far no unpleasantness had occurred between them, and the younger man had given no open sign of distrust or dislike.

Yet, all the same, Mr. Belassis feared him. Tor’s cool independence and self-reliance gave him great uneasiness, for he felt by intuition that it would be a very difficult matter to daunt or to deceive him, if ever such a course should become desirable.

Such a character in a Debenham seemed to Mr. Belassis little short of a personal insult. He had always before been able to do what he would with the Debenhams. Even Maud, who had a distinct spirit and character of her own, had never given him any great trouble or anxiety. There was a facile playfulness in her composition, and a distaste of anything unpleasant, which rendered it easy to coax or to command her. She would put up with a good deal rather than make a fuss and get into disgrace; and he had always felt certain that with care and diplomacy he should be able to get her to do his will in great things as in small, if only she remained an inmate of his house, and was backed merely by such feeble support as her aunt Olive could give her.

But now that the supposed brother had taken her away to his own house, and would evidently stand between her and any threatened coercion or cajolement—who might possibly use his influence, which was great, against the Belassis interest, then matters began to look serious; and the worthy uncle’s brow was often lined by anxious care, as he reviewed the situation and wondered what would be the end of it.

He was so used to find his will and his wife’s dominate over all others, that the sensation he was now experiencing made him feel helpless, and almost foolish. Mrs. Belassis, too, took a view of matters which was anything but reassuring; for she was convinced that Phil was their enemy, and that his present quietness and apparent cordiality only formed a mask for a hatred which would openly manifest itself when he had assured himself of the strength of his position.

‘Mark my word, Alfred,’ she would say sometimes, ‘he hates us; and some day he will make us feel it. What a fool you were to speculate with that trust-money! I always told you it was too risky. You know better than I, where a transaction of that kind is likely to lead you; and I know quite well that Philip Debenham will have no mercy. One can read that in his face.’

Mr. Belassis wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

‘Lewis must marry Maud. We must manage that. When her name is Belassis, and her interests ours, then he will have to stay his hand. He will not bring disgrace upon her family.’

‘When!’ repeated Mrs. Belassis sceptically. ‘If you marry Maud to Lewis now, you will be a cleverer man than I take you for.’

‘But—but,’ he expostulated, ‘why should we not? He is devoted to her, and I think she likes him. A few weeks ago you had no fears.’

‘A few weeks ago Maud was under my control. Now she is not. Our influence is at an end. She cares for nobody now but Philip, and he will be our enemy.’

Mr. Belassis cursed his nephew with a hearty goodwill. In his wife’s society he allowed himself the luxury of strong language.

‘What possessed the old madman to make that boy his heir? Why couldn’t he have left the property to you, or me, or Lewis? What a grand thing it would have been for us! It makes my blood boil to think of such a chance lost. And for him to die just then, before we had made sure of Maud!’ here followed more unparliamentary language. ‘Oh, it’s too much for anybody’s temper! What can make Philip so different from his father, and everybody of his name?’

‘There is something very odd about Philip, I always have thought,’ said Mrs. Belassis significantly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am not sure that I know what I do mean; but I am watching. I have a sort of suspicion, but I can hardly tell yet what it is. If I could, I should say nothing to you—you would be sure to let it out, and spoil everything. If you take my advice, you will have as little to do with him as possible.’

‘Well, I don’t want to have more to do with him than I need,’ answered Belassis, looking rather foolish and crestfallen as he heard his wife’s plainly expressed opinion of him. ‘But I do think I know how to take care of my own interests, Celia. You seem to have very little confidence in my caution.’

‘In your caution, plenty; but not much in your judgment,’ answered his wife frankly.

‘Well, I must speak to him about Maud, at any rate. He said he would think the matter over, and make up his mind whether to advance or oppose our views. I wonder if he has decided yet.’

‘If you take my advice, you will say nothing at all about it,’ said Mrs. Belassis.

The ex-lawyer, however, was not prepared to take his wife’s advice in all things. He had a great respect for her cleverness, but he considered his own superior; and he was determined, if possible, to be on friendly terms with his nephew. He hoped still to conciliate him, and win him over to his own interests, and was half inclined to think his wife’s prognostications needlessly gloomy.

The Ladywell party had dined one evening at Thornton House, and Lewis had speedily followed the ladies into the drawing-room. Tor would have accompanied him, and had risen to do so, when Mr. Belassis interposed.

‘Sit down again—sit down again, my dear boy. We must excuse Lewis, I suppose; he has a right and reason to prefer the ladies’ society: but we so seldom have a chance to talk quietly together, that I confess I am anxious to avail myself of it.’

Tor sat down readily enough, and filled his glass. It was not his way to assume heroics, or to stand aloof even from people he considered undesirable. His manner was always unruffled and serene.

This friendliness of demeanour disarmed Mr. Belassis, and gave him courage.

‘Well, Phil, my lad, how do you like the new life, now that you are getting settled down to it? Is it as much to your mind as the old roving style?’

‘I hardly know yet. Not quite, I think. I do not feel settled even now. It would take very little to start me off on my travels again.’

Mr. Belassis seemed to breathe more freely.

‘Ah well, I can understand that. It is but natural, I suppose. If I were young again, and had your means and your experience, I don’t know but what I should do the same myself. Have you made any plans yet? Have you settled anything definite?’

‘Oh no; I never do settle things beforehand. I just do what I like, and go where I will. I detest plans,’ was the careless response.

‘I suppose Mr. Torwood always did the planning in past days?’ suggested Belassis.

‘Oh—ah—yes; Mr. Torwood did all that. Of course it was his affair chiefly.’

‘I suppose you will join him when you do begin to travel again?’ said Belassis, gently feeling his way.

‘I dare say. I really haven’t made any plans. I don’t see my way to getting off yet awhile.’

‘No, not quite yet, I suppose. You would like to see dear Maud safely married first?’

Tor made a quick gesture with his hand, and his brow suddenly clouded.

‘See Maud married!’ he echoed rather sharply. ‘Who says she is going to marry?’

‘Well, nobody says so yet; but at the same time we cannot be quite blind to what is passing. She seems really fond of Lewis, and she will reap so substantial an advantage by marrying him, that it is impossible not to rejoice at the prospect. I am sure you must feel as I do upon the point, my dear Philip, and rejoice with me.’

‘I don’t believe she cares two straws for Lewis,’ answered Tor coolly.

‘My dear boy, excuse me. I am sure she entertains very warm feelings for him.’

‘I think she may like him next best to that mastiff pup I gave her the other day; but I think the dog stands first.’

Mr. Belassis laughed in a rather sickly fashion.

‘You are so amusing, Phil; such good company.’

‘Glad to hear it, I’m sure. I have to make up for so much lost time with my relations—eighteen years of separation is a good spell.’

Mr. Belassis coughed and fidgeted, and allowed the challenge to pass unanswered.

‘To return to what we were saying about dear Maud. She really is fond of Lewis, though I admit she may not be what is called “in love” with him. Still, she has a strong affection for him, and I trust you will use your influence to lead her to make such a choice as shall be so much to her advantage, as a marriage with Lewis will prove.’

‘I don’t feel disposed to interfere in the matter one way or another,’ answered Tor coldly.

‘But think of your sister’s future.’

‘I do think of it; but I’m man of the world enough to know that money isn’t everything. She shall marry according to her own wishes—a man she really cares for; if he is rich, her lack of fortune will matter little; and if he is poor, I shall take care she does not suffer. I have enough for both, and I’ll not have her coerced by a question of L.S.D.’

Mr. Belassis’ face fell, and he looked sadly crestfallen. Tor seemed lost in thought, and did not heed for awhile the eager words and arguments his companion continued to urge upon him. At last he woke up, and met his interlocutor with a glance in his eye which the latter did not like.

‘Now look here, sir,’ said Tor: ‘you’ve asked me a question, now let me ask you one. Why are you so very anxious for this marriage?’

‘Why am—I anxious—why—I,’ stammered Mr. Belassis, taken aback by the tone rather than by the words. ‘You know my motive—it is my interest in Maud’s welfare. As her guardian and her uncle, of course I am anxious for her to do well for herself. Besides, I never liked the terms of that will. I thought the condition a most unjust one, and have been very anxious to bring all right. Your father made it entirely against my will—indeed I never knew—or it never should have stood.’

Under Tor’s cool, steady gaze, Belassis faltered and stumbled, and strove manifestly for an assurance and ease which he was far from feeling. He wished he had taken his wife’s advice, and let his nephew alone.

‘Suppose you drop all that,’ said Tor quietly. ‘I dare say it pays with women and children; but it doesn’t do where you have a man to deal with. My father knew, old Maynard knew, and I know as well as you, how and why that will came to be framed as it was. Men in their senses don’t rob their daughters to enrich their nephews, or set their hearts upon a match between mere children when nothing in the world depends upon it. My father was not mad, only very weak; and I have been told, on good authority, that his legal adviser exercised a very strong influence upon him. It is not hard, therefore, to understand how such an iniquitous will came to be framed.’

Mr. Belassis sat mute and cowed under the spell of Tor’s cool words and keen eyes; but he dared not be silent too long. It would look like a confession of guilt. He pulled himself together, emptied his glass with rather a shaking hand, and answered with creditable firmness.

‘You are quite wrong in your inference, Philip; but I cannot blame you, because you have reason on your side, and you cannot, of course, remember how strange and eccentric a man your father was. Still, I can point out one weak point in your case. That will, which you think was contrary to your father’s real wishes, was drawn up fully two years before his death. Do you suppose, if it had not satisfied him on maturer consideration, that he would have allowed it to stand? He had plenty of time to alter the terms, or to make a fresh will, had he so chosen.’

‘Exactly so,’ answered Tor, ‘and I am strongly of opinion that he did make a later one.’

He was watching Belassis narrowly, and he saw him start and change colour; moreover, it was some seconds before he was able to speak.

‘Wh—what a very extraordinary idea! A—another will! Why, where ever is it then? Why was it not produced?’

‘I fancy, Mr. Belassis, that you could answer such a question better than I; for it was you, not I, that had the handling of my father’s papers on his death.’

Belassis grew livid about the lips.

‘Do you mean to accuse me of suppressing a will?’ he asked, in a quaking voice.

‘I accuse you of nothing, because I know nothing. I am merely informing you of a suspicion of mine, which is, that a later will was made, which has never seen the light. If that will ever fell into your hands, I am convinced it never will see the light now.’

Mr. Belassis sat silent, glaring at his audacious nephew; but he did not fly into a passion or attempt to carry war into the enemy’s quarter.

‘He knows something about it,’ said Tor to himself, ‘or he would not tamely submit to be accused of crime. I wonder what he has done with it—destroyed it most likely—certain to do that. I wonder who were the witnesses; but that would prove nothing. Phil’s father might have destroyed it himself—there would be no case. What a shame it all is! However, I think I can make that old rascal pretty thoroughly uncomfortable.’

‘You do not deny my suspicion, I notice, sir,’ he said aloud.

Belassis made a ghastly attempt at a smile, and then assumed an air of dignity strangely at variance with the expression of his face.

‘I say nothing, Philip, because I have no wish to quarrel, and because I feel sure when you come to think the matter over, you will be sorry for your words, and be ready to do me justice. Let us forget they were ever spoken. I can forgive them, because I know that they were prompted by a natural, brotherly jealousy for a sister’s rights; but they were very ill-advised, Philip, and will, I trust, never be repeated.’

‘Well,’ said Tor rather significantly, ‘I do not imagine much good will come of a repetition, and at present it is certainly useless to discuss such a subject. Shall we return to the question from which we started? I asked you why you are so very anxious for Maud’s marriage with your son, seeing that in any case he obtains a large share of her fortune, and that the marriage will only bring him in five thousand more. Maud will cost him more than five thousand. He will be a richer man if he remains single, and might then marry an heiress into the bargain. You know all this as well as I do. Why, therefore, are you so anxious for the match?’

Mr. Belassis’ face had been purple before; now it regained its livid tint.

‘Young man,’ he said sententiously, ‘I fear you have been taking too much wine; your tone is becoming most offensive. Why do I wish my son to marry your sister? For the best possible reason: because I love the girl as if she were my own, and wish her to be no loser because of her father’s romantic attachment to myself and my family.’

‘I think I suggested before, sir, that it would be better to drop all that humbug,’ said Tor blandly. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ve repeated such sentiments so often to your female relations, that you have grown almost to believe in them yourself. But at the same time you must be quite aware that such protestations are a little out of character, and strike an impartial observer as rather too much of a good thing. You talk of loving Maud like a father. Rather odd how delighted she was at escaping from the paternal roof. She can never congratulate herself enough yet that she is really free for ever from the shadow of Thornton House.’

‘Girls are so contrary; never know when they are well off,’ growled Belassis.

‘I find Maud anything but contrary; however, we will let that pass. I am not going to condemn you simply because Mrs. Lorraine and my sister were so thankful to escape from your care—we all know that women will have their whims. What I want to know is this: why are you so bent upon this marriage I You would rather Maud married and was miserable, than that she should refuse your son—you know perfectly well that it is so. And as so much comes to him in any case, why should you care? What is your motive?’

Mr. Belassis’ eyes had grown sullen and sombre. He only vouchsafed a few surly words.

‘I have told you the reason, my only reason. I have no motive. What is it to me?’

‘That is what I mean to find out,’ returned Tor, with cool significance. ‘The reason you allege is miserably insufficient. I must try and find out the true one.’

At last Mr. Belassis’ rage and fury burst out. Fear was the motive power, as Tor was quick enough to detect.

‘You dare insult me like this, Philip Debenham! You dare cast these foul aspersions on my integrity! I, who have been an honoured and trusted friend to your father, and a father to his ungrateful children! How dare you sit there and heap insult upon insult! How dare you look me in the face and utter such words! You viper! you adder! you would sting the hand that has loaded you with benefits! Do you not know what you owe to me? Who was it paid for your education and maintenance for eight long years after your father’s death? You owe everything to me—everything. Do you not know that it was to my generosity you owe it that you were not brought up by the parish? Do you not know that your father died a ruined, penniless man?’

‘Yes, I know that perfectly,’ answered Tor, who sat utterly unmoved by this outbreak. ‘What I do not know, and what I want to understand is, how it came about that he did die ruined and penniless. Perhaps you can enlighten me further on that point?’

All the anger faded out of Belassis’ face. He looked quite pale and scared, like a man who has received blow upon blow till sense has almost departed.

‘He speculated,’ came the answer, spoken in a gasp.

‘Possibly; but he was a man of quiet, studious mind, utterly averse to business matters. He must have done it by advice. Who managed his affairs for him?’

‘Could I help his folly?’ questioned Belassis hoarsely; ‘I was but his tool, his agent. I bought and sold for him, but it was all his own doing.’

Belassis looked so completely cowed that Tor was half inclined to pity him. Indignation on Phil’s account, however, urged him to speak out.

‘Indeed! Well, sir, I am not a business man myself, but it does seem strange to me how completely my father’s fortune vanished, whilst yours steadily augmented. As you knew so well how to manage your own affairs, one would naturally suppose you might have saved him from ruin. It looks a little strange, on the face of things, especially considering how little my father knew of the world, and how completely he trusted his affairs to you. I was ten years old, remember, when he died, quite old enough to remember a good deal. I do not know yet how the thing is done, one man enriching himself at his neighbour’s expense; but of course such transactions are common enough, and I can soon discover a little of the method. Well, I will say good-evening now. I dare say you will have a good deal to think over, so I will not longer disturb your meditations. I hope they will be pleasant and profitable to you.’

Tor rose and quitted the room, without waiting for a reply.

Alfred Belassis had a great deal to say to his wife that night.

‘I told you he was our enemy,’ she said. ‘I told you to let him alone. Well, if he is going to be dangerous to us, I will see if I cannot be dangerous to him too.’

And Mrs. Belassis’ face looked venomous enough, as she lost herself in deep thought.