Torwood's trust

hat talk with Roma in the studio left an impression upon Tor’s mind which was decidedly favourable to the young sculptor. Hitherto he had thought her cold and proud, and decidedly uninteresting, in spite of her beauty.

Now, however, when she had thrown off for a moment her reserve, and had spoken her mind freely to him, had trusted him as a friend, and thrown herself, as it were, upon his mercy, now he felt to understand her better, and admired her more.

He was filled with a sense of compassion for the fate, which did not trouble her one whit. It seemed to him a melancholy thing for a young girl to be thus excluded from the world and all its gaieties, shut up all the best years of her life in an obscure retreat, seeing nobody but an eccentric and egotistic blind father, and quite at the mercy of his whims and crotchets.

That she herself was unconscious of the hardship, and devoted to her father heart and soul, made the situation the more pathetic in his eyes; and when he heard of her anxieties on the score of the blind man’s health, and understood what such a fear ever before her eyes must be to her, then he pitied her still more sincerely, and determined at all costs to stand her father’s friend and hers, and relieve her, if it were possible to do so, of some of the load of care, which he now knew must weigh upon her heavily.

He came often to the little house to talk to Meredith, and sometimes he drove him out, and, whenever he could, persuaded Roma to accompany them. He encouraged Maud to go often to see her, and, without betraying confidence, implied that he thought the poor girl must have a dull time of it, and suggested that she should be invited to Ladywell more frequently.

Maud began to think that her words to her cousins were bringing their own fulfilment, and that Phil was growing very fond of Roma.

Sometimes, in a mischievous mood, she would try to tease her friend by hinting her suspicions; but Roma always silenced her by a look of pain and shame, which she found it hard to interpret.

Michael Meredith was calmly content, feeling somewhat as an emperor might, who had all things in his power, even the hearts and lives of his subjects, and had but to will, and the thing was done.

No doubts as to the reason of Tor’s visits ever crossed his mind. He troubled himself with no fears, and felt no smallest dread of failure. Like most men who live entirely out of the world, he believed he knew it profoundly; and mistook his theories, founded on his own fanciful dreams, for the result of deep and experienced observation.

He had lived so long in the world of his own making, that he had almost forgotten the existence of any other. Tor was a regular visitor to his house, and was constantly thrown into the society of his beautiful daughter; and it never occurred to him that he might be an equally constant visitor at other houses, and see there other women even more beautiful and attractive than his Roma. Neither did it trouble his head to remember how many handsome women the traveller must have come across in his wanderings, without falling into the snare of matrimony.

All such calculations were quite out of Mr. Meredith’s habit of mind. He made his plans, and looked for their fulfilment as a matter of course.

Still, as days lengthened into weeks, and nothing came of the many opportunities the blind man gave for the young people to open their hearts to one another, he began to grow a little impatient. He did not see any need for so much courting. He liked a man to come to the point at once; and Tor’s self-reliant boldness of speech and manner had made him suppose that he would not hesitate long, when once his mind was made up.

Michael Meredith, however, was not a bashful man, nor a man given to scruples of delicacy, in spite of his refined appearance and fastidious tastes. He had hitherto held back from opening the subject simply because Roma had seemed to wish it, not from any feeling that it would be out of taste for him to offer his daughter in marriage to one of the wealthiest men in the county.

But as time went on, and the young man did not declare himself, in spite of his frequent opportunities, Mr. Meredith grew annoyed by his backwardness, and determined at length to make his way plain for him.

Tor had joined him in the garden one evening, to find him unusually silent and abstracted. He hardly returned any answers to his talk, and did not evince any interest in the news with which the young man sought to beguile him.

‘I am afraid you are not well, sir,’ he said at length; ‘I fear my talk tires you. I had better perhaps leave you now. I suppose the heat of the weather is trying to you, as it is to many people.’

Meredith seemed to wake with a start, as from a reverie. He held up his hand as if to bid Tor keep his seat, and at the same time to command silence.

Tor could not but smile at the unconsciously melodramatic air adopted by the old man. It was these little affectations which amused and puzzled him in his intercourse with Phil’s father’s friend.

‘Do not go, Philip Debenham, do not go. I am but poor company to-day, I own; yet do not go. I have been thinking much of you to-day—much of you and of my dear girl, my peerless Roma. My thoughts have been busy with the future, boy.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Tor, with an amused smile. ‘I hope they have been pleasantly occupied.’

Meredith shook his head thoughtfully.

‘A beautiful daughter, Philip, is a great care.’

‘And a very pleasant one, I imagine, sir.’

‘Well, yes—yes, pleasant in the present, but a sad cause for anxiety when one looks into the future.’

Tor smiled again, for he was amused by Meredith’s solemnity of manner.

‘Perhaps, then, sir, it would be best to avoid doing so. The future generally manages to take care of itself, even without the benefit of our care.’

‘Do not jest, Philip Debenham—do not jest on so deep a subject.’

‘I am only speaking from experience,’ answered Tor lightly. ‘You must admit, looking back eighteen years, that the future dealt kindly by me.’

‘The future of a woman is a very serious matter,’ continued Meredith, unwilling to be diverted from his point, ‘especially when she has beauty and wealth.’

‘Those attributes are generally considered an advantage to anyone,’ suggested Tor. ‘You talk as if it added a load to your mind.’

‘So it does, boy; so it does. You are not a father, or you would understand. My daughter is beautiful, you know. She is also something of an heiress, for her mother was rich, and we live now in Arcadian simplicity. I fear greatly for her future, when I am no more. Who will then watch over and guard her as I have done?’

‘I should think,’ answered Tor, with gravity, ‘that Miss Meredith would not be long in finding a natural protector in the form of a husband, if once it were permitted to her to see more of the world.’

Michael Meredith smiled in his slow dreamy fashion.

‘You think her, then, so beautiful?’

‘Undoubtedly so.’

‘I can tell you, in all sincerity, that she is as good as she is beautiful.’

‘I can believe it,’ answered Tor heartily. ‘I am convinced of it.’

‘She has been the most devoted of daughters,’ continued the blind man, with deliberate emphasis, ‘and I am certain that she will be the most devoted of wives.’

‘I should quite think so too,’ answered Tor, rather wondering whither all this was tending, but humouring the old man’s fancy, as his habit was. He did not for a moment doubt Roma’s perfections, but the subject was not of absorbing interest to him.

The next question fairly startled him out of all his lazy indifference.

‘If you think all this, Philip Debenham—if you see her to be what she is, beautiful, devoted, unselfish—if you know her birth to be equal to yours, and her wealth not altogether disproportionate, why do you not ask her in marriage yourself, before any other man steps in to carry off the treasure?’

Tor sat silent and half stupefied for a moment. He had had a good many experiences in his lifetime before, but nothing quite like this. His ready sang-froid almost deserted him for a moment, and he looked completely disconcerted.

‘I have not thought of getting married,’ he said, the colour mounting slowly in his face, though there was nobody to see it.

‘Then it is high time you began to do so,’ returned Michael Meredith, with something of judicial severity in his tone.

Tor felt much disposed to bid him mind his own business, but a glance into the pale, eager face deterred him. He saw that the blind man’s whole soul was in the subject he had propounded, and that a very little would agitate him profoundly, perhaps dangerously. His promise to Roma rose up before him. He would not go from his word to her, yet the position was distinctly embarrassing.

‘Really, sir, I have had so much to think of since I came to England, that I have given hardly any thought to the subject you name.’

‘Ah, indeed; yes, I suppose a sudden accession of property does bring many cares with it. Still, you must be aware that it is almost impossible for a man in your position to remain long unmarried. It does not do; his duty to society demands that he shall take a wife. Your own sense of the fitness of things must, I think, tell you that.’

‘I dare say you may be right, but I am no judge in such matters. Maud and my aunt keep house and entertain guests, and I fancied that was all that was needful; but no doubt you know best.’

‘Yes, Philip; I suppose I do know more of the world than you. I have been thinking a great deal of you and of your future. I like you, Philip, and I trust you. I would give much to see you well settled in life, with a woman who would make you really happy. I believe that my Roma could do that; and I could trust her to you without a doubt and without a fear.’

‘You pay me a high compliment, Mr. Meredith. I am obliged by your good opinion.’

‘Not at all—not at all. My friend Philip Debenham’s son must always stand next to my own child in my affections. Do you know, boy, that I owe all my prosperity in life to him?’

‘No, I did not know it.’

‘I will tell you the story—then you will perhaps the better understand the wish which has grown up in my heart.

‘I am well born, Philip, and I was well educated; but misfortune fell upon our family, and I was left alone in the world, without money and without a profession; for I had been brought up a gentleman at large. Art was my only resource; Italy my only field. I went to Italy and painted, and starved there for many long, weary years. I could not sell my pictures; but I found I had skill in modelling, and I got some poor work to do in a sculptor’s studio. My talent in that line became noticed, and I rose, by slow degrees, to be of use to my master in his greater works; but before I had attained the fame he prophesied for me, he died, and I was turned adrift once more.

‘This time I was somewhat better off. I hired a studio, and set up for myself; but no commissions came, and I was reduced to the lowest depths of poverty again. It was then that your father found me. Chance brought him to my studio, and there his artist’s eye taught him at once the value of my work. He was rich, and he was the leader of a certain art circle in Rome. He took me up, and made me known. Commissions flowed in, and I became prosperous. He introduced me to the beautiful and wealthy young countess, who consented to share my lot, and become the wife of the once penniless sculptor; and as her husband, my name was made, my fortune secure.

‘But I never forgot that to Philip Debenham I owed all my wealth and happiness; I am not ungrateful, and I never was tempted to forget that fact. I saw little of him in later years; but until the close of his life we never ceased to correspond.

‘I knew little of his changed circumstances till the accident of my blindness (Roma will perhaps tell you of that some day; I never speak of it) drove me to seek an asylum in my native country. My wife was dead, and Italy had lost its greatest hold upon me then. I thought I should like to settle near to where my old friend had lived, and to give my Roma the pleasure of friendship with his children.

‘Very much shocked and surprised was I to find that his wealth had all vanished in his lifetime, and that his son was a wanderer on the face of the earth, without money and without the means to make it. My natural lethargy and indolence prevented my taking active steps then in your favour; besides, Maud always kept me informed of your doings; and I knew you were happy in your travels, in the society of your friend. But none the less did I make the resolution that half my wealth should pass to you at my death; and that if you returned home heart-whole and fancy-free, you should marry my Roma, and become my son in deed and truth, as you are in the love my soul bestows on you.’

The blind man paused, as if fatigued by so long a speech, and by the emotions it had called up in his mind. Tor, who had listened intently, now spoke.

‘I think I understand better now. It was to Philip Debenham—my father—that you consider you owe your success in life; and you are anxious that the fruits of it should pass to his son?’

‘Yes; I wished it when you were a poor man—I cannot change because you are rich. I wished that you should be Roma’s husband when I had never even seen you, and when my fancy could not but conjure up the portrait of a rough-and-ready traveller, half Englishman, half Yankee. Even then I wanted you for a son, for your father’s sake. Can you wonder that I want it more, now that you have appeared upon the scene a polished English gentleman, full of kindliness, honour, and chivalry? Philip, do not disappoint me; do not break my heart. Do not tell me that my dream of years is but an old man’s foolish fancy, and must be cast on one side, like a discarded garment. Tell me that you will love and cherish my child, my Roma; and that you will be a son to me in my old age.’

Tor made no immediate response, but sat still, feeling the position inconceivably awkward.

It was not to him at all that this offer of Roma’s hand was made, but to Philip Debenham; and the girl’s dark Italian beauty was just the kind he admired most, and her quiet, self-contained nature the type which best suited his facile and mercurial temperament. It behoved him to act with caution, so as not to block his friend’s way too much, should he be prepared to accept Meredith’s offer; and it was of great importance not to excite the nervous old man more than was absolutely necessary. At the same time Tor’s loyalty to Maud made him very reluctant to compromise himself.

‘You have taken me by surprise, sir. I am much touched by your expressions towards myself and my father, but you must give me time. I have never thought of your daughter in this light before.’

A look of jealous distrust crossed the blind man’s face.

‘You have not gone and entangled yourself abroad? You have not got a wife in some foreign place?’

Tor’s laugh was hearty enough to drive out all suspicion of distrust.

‘Indeed, no, sir. I have seen too much of such things ever to be tempted. If ever I marry a wife, she will be one whom I am not ashamed to own before all the world.’

‘Right, boy, right; you are your father’s own son. But tell me—pardon my intrusiveness—have you come home quite heart-whole? Is there no beauty on some southern shore to whom your fancy roves lovingly back—whom you would fain bring to England as your wife?’

Tor answered honestly enough in the negative, and Meredith’s face cleared.

‘You have not been long enough here to have lost your heart. Roma cannot have a rival yet.’

Tor smiled to himself, but his voice was serious enough.

‘Your daughter and my sister Maud are the only two women I have really admired since I came over.’

‘That is good. Then you are quite fancy-free—your heart is in your own keeping.’

This was a comment, not a question, which was well, for it would have been awkward for Philip Debenham to have had to announce himself in love with his sister; and though Tor had no great compunction in acting a part, he had a distinct aversion to speaking a lie. He felt his position growing more and more complicated and uncomfortable; but at the same time his sense of humour could not but enable him to enjoy it, when there was no pressing danger to apprehend.

‘Then you will think over what I have said, Philip?’ said Michael Meredith, after a pause.

‘I will indeed, sir.’

‘And you will give me your answer soon?’

‘I must ask you, sir, not to hurry me as to that. I have a good deal on my mind just now, and so important a decision as this must not be hurried. I am afraid I am not made of the inflammable stuff of which lovers are generally supposed to be composed; and I do not know your daughter well—greatly as I admire her—nor does she know anything of me. Give us time to learn each other’s characters, and above all, say nothing to her to disturb her unconsciousness and freedom. You see, I treat you as frankly as you treat me; and when my answer is ready, you shall have it.’

‘He is safe enough,’ said Meredith to himself, as Tor strode away. ‘He is cautious and thoughtful; perhaps at his age that is natural, but he is safe enough. Roma has no rival, that is the great point; the rest will all follow.’

‘I think I managed that rather well,’ mused Tor as he walked home, half amused, half annoyed by the interview. ‘I didn’t agitate the old buffer. I didn’t commit myself, and I’ve gained time, which is everything. Never thought I could combine the serpent and the dove quite so neatly. Phil, you young rascal, if you don’t come to your senses pretty quick now, I shall feel inclined to blow your brains out, and have done with you and your confounded affairs once and for all! Why was I ever fool enough to make a friend?’