Torwood's trust

en years later, upon a hot day in May, Torrington Torwood sat beside Philip Debenham’s sick-bed in a large, bare room of an odd little hotel in the village of Hornberg, in the Black Forest.

Phil had had a severe sunstroke two days before, and had, the doctor thought, hurt his head in the fall that ensued. At any rate, he had remained insensible ever since, and gave no symptom of returning consciousness.

Since that memorable day ten years ago, when the two lads had sworn an eternal friendship and gone away together over the sea, they had never been separated for any but the briefest periods, and their romantic youthful friendship had ripened into something worthy the sacred name.

Tor was the leading spirit, and Phil’s ‘guide, philosopher, and friend.’ Tor planned and thought; Tor plunged them into strange adventures and difficulties, and piloted them manfully out again. Tor was Phil’s hero and referee, and unconsciously he grew to lean on him, to imitate him, and to become, in fact, his very shadow.

As lads, the two friends had been thought to resemble one another in disposition; but as their characters developed they grew widely dissimilar.

Phil was brilliant in conversation, fascinating in manner; and gifted with an almost boyish ingenuousness, which went far to win hearts. His nature was, without being exactly indecisive, so far facile and easy-going that ‘no’ was a hard word to him, and many people felt that but for the moral support given by Tor’s influence, he would be easily led and easily overcome by anyone with a strong will and a purpose to serve. His outward man was prepossessing. He was tall and rather slight, with dark brown hair which lay in silky waves across his brow, and well-shaped brown eyes which were particularly frank and expressive. He had regular, clearly-cut features, a well-trimmed dark moustache, and a very engaging smile. Altogether, Phil Debenham was considered in society a very charming man; and very much did some people wonder how it was he seemed to prefer the society of his friend Torrington Torwood to any other.

Tor was cast in a manlier mould than Phil. He stood six-feet-two in his stockings, was broad in proportion, and was gifted with physical strength to correspond. His thick curly hair and long moustache were of a tawny gold; his face was deeply bronzed by exposure to the weather, and, although the features were good, the face attracted more by its power and singularity of expression than by its symmetry of form. Tor’s great grey eyes were the marked feature of his face. They were bright and piercing as an eagle’s, and yet could soften in a manner one would hardly have looked for in a man of his calibre. They could flash, too, upon occasion; and when they did so upon an offender, he always showed a marked reluctance to encounter their glance again.

Tor was possessed of a strong nature and a strong will, yet, like most strong men, his manner was gentle and quiet. He was not so ready of speech as was Phil, though when roused to wrath he could be eloquent enough, and showed a fine command of language. Under his outward shell of easy-going carelessness lay a reckless ‘dare-devil’ nature, which at times broke out so strongly as almost to surprise himself, and often quite astonished others.

At the present moment he looked quiet and gentle enough, sitting by Phil’s bedside, and from time to time changing the wet cloths upon his head. He was uneasy about his friend, for unconsciousness is an unpleasant symptom; and although the German doctor declared there was no danger, that there was nothing to be alarmed about, Tor was not altogether reassured. For the physician had warned him that many weeks might possibly elapse before the balance of the patient’s faculties was restored: he had had such cases under his care, he and his brother physicians; and Tor did not at all relish such a thought. It was uncanny to see Phil lying there, unable to speak, or even to recognise him. Tor frowned, and pulled at his moustache, and swore softly to himself in German.

A knock at the door interrupted his musing-fit, and a packet of letters was handed in. They were all for Phil, and one was very large, and looked legal.

For three years after his flight Phil had held no communication with his relatives, but during the past seven, he had corresponded regularly, though not frequently, with his sister Maud; and he had written to her on their arrival at Hornberg, some eight days since.

From the number and bulk of the letters, it seemed as though some important communications had been waiting to be despatched as soon as an address was made known.

Tor looked at the envelopes, and then at Phil’s prostrate figure and vacant face.

‘Strikes me I must look into this business. He can’t, poor old chap! I imagine I know as much of his affairs as he does himself—or more.’

So saying, Tor took up the bulky legal-looking packet and opened it without more ado.

It contained several papers. The first of these was from the lawyer employed by Phil’s great-uncle, Mr. Maynard, and announced the death of that gentleman at the advanced age of eighty-four years. He had bequeathed his entire property to his great-nephew, Philip Debenham, and had appointed his lawyer and a man of whom Tor had never heard—a Mr. Meredith—as executors.

More than two months had elapsed since Mr. Maynard’s death, but until the previous day they had had no means of communicating with Phil. This interval had given time for the proving of the will, and enabled his executors to make the following announcement. Phil had come into a valuable landed property, with a fine house and park, and valuable plate, pictures, and family furniture and heirlooms, and about £80,000 in money. The lawyer concluded by urging his coming at once to England, to assume the control over his fortune and estate.

Enclosed was an order upon a well-known German house for £100, and a sealed document, on the outside of which was written, in a cramped, clear hand:

‘To be given to my great-nephew Philip Debenham, when the contents of my last will and testament are made known to him.—T. M. M.’

Tor was pulling mercilessly at his moustache, whilst a perplexed frown knitted his brow. After one more glance at Phil’s prostrate figure, he proceeded to open this sealed missive.

It was dated three years back, and ran thus:

‘A charming old man,’ was Tor’s comment as he laid down the letter. Then he glanced at Phil once more, and fell into deep thought.

‘What a confounded piece of ill-luck that sunstroke was! What in the world is to happen I don’t see yet. He may be weeks or months recovering, and who will meantime manage his affairs? Will it be the executors?—or will it be that worthy Belassis? I don’t know the law, so I can’t say. Here are two more letters still unopened. Will they throw any light on the situation? That is from Maud, by the writing; this, if I rightly conjecture, from Uncle Belassis. Let us see what he has to say for himself.’

Tor opened the letter and read:

‘The old humbug!’ muttered Tor; ‘the last time he saw Phil he was an urchin of ten. Much he knows what he is qualified to do. He is every bit as bad as Maud’s letters have always led us to suppose. What more has he to say?’

‘The devil you will!’ muttered Tor. ‘I fancy Phil will have something to say as to that. He forgets he is eight-and-twenty, and not ten. He thinks he can arrange matters just as he chooses.’

Tor uttered a long slow whistle indicative of a disturbed state of mind. Then he took up the remaining letter.

‘Now let us see what Maud has to say.’

‘Well,’ said Tor, laying down this last letter and pushing his hands through his hair, ‘I’ll be hanged if I know what to do!’

He sat still awhile, and then he rose and paced the room in silent thought; and then he sat down again and shook his fist at his unconscious companion.

‘Phil, you villain, why on earth were you such an ass as to get sunstroke at such a critical time as this? A nice puzzle you have put me into! What on earth is to be done? If I write and state Phil’s condition, why then that old scoundrel will go on feathering his nest finely out of this property, and the old aunt and pretty sister will be horribly disappointed and will have to stay on to be bullied by the estimable uncle. And then when Phil does come to himself, he will be sure to be weak in the head for a bit; and he never has too much backbone, and that Belassis will just turn him round his fingers, and goodness knows what the end will be!

‘Then there’s Maud: she is coming of age soon—that may mean in a week or two, for aught I know. From what old Maynard says, I imagine the condition she speaks of is a marriage with Lewis Belassis. Somebody ought to be there to stop that, if possible. Without support she may let herself be bullied into it. Confound it all! What is a fellow to do?

‘Could I get a power of attorney drawn up, authorizing me to act for Phil till his recovery? That might be a good plan, only he can’t sign it. Could I sign it for him? He has modelled his handwriting upon mine so long that I can hardly distinguish them myself. He has written to no one but Maud for ten years at least, and to her he merely signs “Phil.” His actual signature is unknown to anyone; mine would do just as well—my representation of it. But then—stop—no, that would be too dangerous a game to play. It would have to come out all about his stroke and illness, and some one might start the reasonable objection that a man in Phil’s state couldn’t sign a power of attorney.’

Tor thought long and earnestly. Plan after plan entered his head, only to be found, upon a little study, hopelessly impracticable. Half an hour passed in vain speculation, and then an inspiration seemed to seize him; he paused, and slowly a strange expression stole over his face, and his eyes began to shine with a variety of stirring thoughts. When he spoke again, it was with peculiar deliberation and composure.

‘Yes, certainly that seems the best and simplest plan, just to personate Phil—change names and positions with him, until he is in a fit state to act for himself. No one over there has seen him since he was ten, so that my extra inches and more Saxon complexion cannot tell against me. Phil always says that his hair was light as a child. His eyes are brown, and mine, I suppose, are grey; I don’t think there is any danger there. His mother is dead; and nobody else would be likely to remember details. I know just as much as Phil does about his people and his affairs. I think I could play the part without any fear of betraying myself.’

Tor paced up and down reflectively.

‘I suppose it would be looked upon as a criminal fraud if detected, and would be punishable by law; but then only Phil could prosecute, and as soon as ever he comes to himself he will hear all, and then he can act for himself, whilst I shall abdicate in his favour. I don’t think, without Phil’s evidence, anyone could prove me an impostor. I think I can personate Philip Debenham without the least fear of detection.

‘Of course I do not know the places he lived in till he was ten—that is something of a drawback; but I think I am clever enough to keep my ignorance to myself till I have mastered the situation: and I shall not have to undergo a cross-examination, like the Claimant. Phil saw next to nothing of the Belassis set during his childhood. Places and people change vastly in eighteen years, and all that time spent knocking about the world can account for a good deal of forgetfulness. I do not feel nervous there.

‘Yes, it certainly is the only feasible plan for thwarting Uncle Belassis, rescuing Aunt Olive and Maud, and perhaps saving my sister from what is likely to prove a disastrous marriage (I quite rise to the situation, and already feel surrounded by relations). Phil would be delighted could he but enter into the scheme. He would rejoice to put upon my shoulders the responsibility of the first battles with Uncle Belassis. I wish he could stand by to witness my personification of himself. He would thoroughly enjoy it; but he must wait till I can tell the tale in days to come.

‘As to money, I shall of course use my own for all personal matters; his for the estate and his sister’s comforts. Stay, I cannot sign his cheques and mine too. Now, let me see: I am Philip Debenham; that fellow is Torrington Torwood. I must take him away from here, and leave him in the charge of some capable medical man under his new name. And before I assume my new name I must draw out a good round sum of money; and to avoid trouble, in case Phil is long like this, advise my bankers to honour, until further notice, cheques signed “Philip Debenham for T. Torwood.” They will think me cracked, but they must do it.’

Tor suited the action to the words. He wrote out a cheque for £500 (he always kept a heavy balance at the bank, being a prudent man), and a paper empowering Philip Debenham to sign his cheques. His own signature (‘T. Torwood’) he made feeble and shaky.

‘Now,’ said he, drawing a long breath, ‘I have signed my own name for the last time. Henceforth I am Philip Debenham.’

In his new capacity he proceeded to write three letters.

The first was to the bankers to state that his friend Mr. Torwood was seriously ill, and the doctors feared the brain had suffered; so that in fear of what might ensue he had empowered the writer to act for him in all business and pecuniary matters, and desired that his signature should be honoured at the bank, as the enclosed paper testified.

Tor did not know whether such a paper required the signature to be witnessed, but, to avoid any awkward results on this point, he got two innocent Kammermädchens to put their names to it without having the least notion what they were doing, or without knowing that they were even supposed to have seen it signed.

The remaining letters were to Uncle Belassis and to Maud, briefly informing them of his intention of coming at once to England. He hoped to be with them in a week’s time.

All these letters were duly signed Philip Debenham.

The plunge was taken.