Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

TORWOOD’S TRUST.

A Novel.

BY

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.

‘Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower,
safety ... I protest, our plot is as good a plot as
ever was laid.’
Henry IV., Pt. I., Act II., Sc. III.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1884.
[All Rights Reserved.]

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

TORWOOD’S TRUST.

CHAPTER I.
A SECOND ALFRED BELASSIS.

iss Marjory’s carefully planned dinner was a marked success, and was followed by a very pleasant evening, spent partly in the sweet, old-fashioned and faultlessly kept garden, and partly in the cool, softly lighted drawing-room.

Miss Marjory’s guest and deputy landlord made himself most agreeable. He talked politics and science with Miss Marjory, told anecdotes and traveller’s tales to Ethel, and discussed town talk with Horace, who had not long left London for Whitbury.

When Tor reached his room that night, it was with the consciousness that he had made at least one valuable friend, but at the same time with the fear that his position was gradually growing less and less secure. Troublesome reflections would crowd into his mind, and it was anything but a pleasant possibility that loomed before him, the thought that he might be branded as a felon and taste the sweets of convict-life! That would be rather a heavy penalty to pay for the fraud he had practised for friendship’s sake; and yet it was just possible that an adverse fate might drive matters even to such a crisis as that. What then would become of his intended proposal to Maud? She would be as hopelessly beyond his reach as if she were the wife of Lewis Belassis. The reflection was not inspiriting, but Tor shook himself, ‘pulled himself together,’ and smiled at his own depression.

‘Never say die! What can have come to me? There’s no reason why I should be betrayed, or betray myself. Old Belassis will have enough on his hands, I should say, after my hints, without trying to upset my claim. I wonder what Miss Marjory knows about him. I must have some more conversation with her to-morrow. She is a clever woman, I am sure; and will, I think, stand my friend.’

So Tor argued himself out of his fears, and soon regained his customary elasticity of spirit. He slept soundly, and woke in a happier frame of mind.

He and Miss Marjory made the breakfast-table very lively; and when she requested him to make a tour of inspection round house and gardens, Ethel and Horace smiled at one another, and said that Cousin Marjory had evidently made a conquest, and would have no trouble in getting her own way with the landlord, even were her demands more exorbitant than they were known to be.

Very brisk and business-like did Miss Marjory show herself as she conducted ‘Mr. Debenham’ round ‘his friend’s’ property. No smallest allusion did she make to what had passed between them on the previous afternoon, but confined herself exclusively to the matter in hand. She showed what had been done in house and garden since her father had taken out the lease, explained what she wanted done now, and discussed with him what she considered to be her share of the undertaking, and what she believed the landlord should be ready to do. Her demands were both just and reasonable, and Tor assented readily to all she proposed, and would have even done more, only that Miss Marjory checked him.

‘Oh no, thank you. I don’t wish to be extortionate; and besides, that would be wasteful. I don’t say but what the stables might have been better arranged originally; but they have done very well for us these twenty-eight years, and will do so till the end of the chapter. There’s no end to the expense when once you begin to dabble in bricks and mortar; and if you take my advice you’ll let the matter alone. I’ve told you what I want—the well, and the iron fencing, and general outside repairs. You will have to spend a good deal over those. Don’t run into needless expense.’

‘Well, Miss Marjory, I will be guided by your judgment; but you have done so much yourself, that it would be shabby of me not to be willing to meet you more than half-way. Look at all the glass you have put up.’

‘Yes; that’s my hobby. I can’t do without flowers; and when you once begin, you must go on. There’s no end to what one wants. I should like to have seven acres of glass, like Veitch.’

‘And overlook all yourself, Miss Marjory?’ asked Tor, with a smile.

‘Yes, of course. I always do want my finger in everybody’s pie. I suppose you think I couldn’t do it—an old woman like me.’

‘I have a very strong impression that you could do anything you’ve a mind to, Miss Marjory,’ answered Tor; and Miss Marjory laughed and shook her head at him in implied rebuke.

‘Trying to practise on the credulity of an old woman, Mr. Debenham. As if I did not know all your tricks by heart—idle young good-for-nothings! Come now, we have not quite done our business yet. I have told my factotum tradesman to meet you here to-day, to give you a sort of general estimate as to time and cost. You will find him a very honest and capable man, this Alfred Belassis, and you cannot do better than employ him.’

Tor’s eyes opened wide.

‘What name did you say?’

‘Alfred Belassis; he is quite our model tradesman in Whitbury, for anything in the building line, within or without—a capital workman, though still young.’

Tor was looking hard at Miss Marjory.

‘Alfred Belassis!’ he said slowly. ‘Alfred Belassis! How very curious!’

‘Yes, it is rather curious, isn’t it?’ said Miss Marjory coolly; ‘the same name as that uncle of your friend’s—of yours, I mean—of whom you think so highly. He will be here shortly, and my advice to you is—look well at him.’

The significance of the last four words convinced Tor that Miss Marjory knew, or suspected, more than a mere coincidence in this identity of names; but no more was said then, for the said Alfred Belassis was already approaching them, having been directed by the servants to the spot where Miss Marjory and the landlord were consulting together.

The talk that followed was chiefly carried on between the tradesman and Miss Marjory, Tor contenting himself by assenting to what was proposed, and throwing in an observation from time to time for form’s sake. He followed Miss Marjory’s advice to the letter, however, and looked well at Belassis, bestowing such careful scrutiny upon him as would have astonished him, had he been made aware of it.

Yes, Tor was quite convinced that there was some vague likeness between this young builder and Philip’s Uncle Belassis. There was something similar in build and in voice; and several little tricks of manner were strongly alike. The younger man was a far pleasanter specimen of humanity, quiet, civil, and unassuming, yet thoroughly up to his work, and able to grasp Miss Marjory’s meaning, and even to make notes, in spite of her rapid delivery, which puzzled Tor more than once.

So he watched attentively, and the conviction became stronger, and a sense of vague bewilderment grew up, as he traced more and more of the Belassis form and colouring in this Whitbury tradesman who bore their name. What it could all mean, he was at a loss to imagine.

When Belassis was gone, Miss Marjory turned round with something of triumph in her tone.

‘Well, and what do you say to that? What have you made out there?’

‘He must come of the same stock, I think,’ said Tor slowly. ‘He certainly is rather like my uncle, unless my fancy has deceived me.’

‘I do not imagine that it has,’ said Miss Marjory significantly.

‘You believe he belongs to that family?’ asked Tor. ‘I have never heard of him!’

‘Probably not.’

‘You think, as a poor relation, he has been kept in the background purposely?’

‘Alfred Belassis is by no means a poor man. He is very well-to-do in the world.’

‘But still in trade.’

‘Yes, in trade; but do you think a wealthy man, even in trade, would be quite beneath Alfred Belassis’ notice?’

‘I see you know more than I do, Miss Marjory,’ said Tor, the feeling of perplexity growing slowly upon him. ‘Won’t you confide in me now, and tell me what it is?’

‘Come into the shrubbery, then, where we can talk uninterrupted. I do not know much, but I suspect a good deal. Perhaps we can piece it together.’

Tor followed her, wondering, but not seeing the end. Was this what she meant by ‘putting a spoke in Belassis’ wheel’?

‘Now,’ said Miss Marjory, seating herself upon a rustic chair, and bidding Tor follow her example. ‘I suppose, as you are a man, you don’t see an inch before your nose as yet? Men never do.’

Tor was forced to admit that he didn’t.

‘Now, who do you suppose was the father of that young man?’

‘Was it a brother of Belassis?—a brother who made a low marriage and was cast off, and never heard of more? That’s what I fancy must have taken place.’

‘Well, you might have made a worse shot,’ returned Miss Marjory indulgently. However, you haven’t quite got to the rights of it yet, as you will see when I tell you that the father’s name was the same as the son’s—Alfred Belassis.’

‘Alfred Belassis!’

‘Yes, Alfred Belassis, brothers are not usually called by the same name.’

‘A cousin?’ suggested Tor feebly; but Miss Marjory cut him ruthlessly short.

‘Cousin, indeed! Don’t make yourself out denser than you are! I believe you have grasped the situation now.’

‘Do you mean that you think he is my uncle’s son?’ quoth Tor. ‘Impossible!’

‘I believe he is Philip Debenham’s uncle’s son, most assuredly; and so will you too, if you will only listen to me.’

‘But has he, then, a right to his name?’ Tor could not help asking. ‘Do you mean that Belassis has been twice married?’

‘Oh yes, he was married fast enough. Mr. Longmore married them—my pretty waiting-maid, Nelly Roberts, and that young loafer Alfred Belassis, whom we none of us knew, and none of us liked. But they would go their own way, and nobody could hinder the marriage. Nelly was one-and-twenty, and he a little older. He made out that he was well-to-do, and would make a lady of her; and her silly head was turned, and they got married, and lived for a few months at the Angler’s Arms, where he had been stopping for the fishing. And then one fine morning he got some letters from home, he told her, and must go away for a few days on business. He left no address, saying he would write when he reached his destination, and she was too confiding to ask questions. He went away in gay good spirits, and never returned again; nor did any word or message from him ever reach her from that day forward.’

‘The scoundrel!’ muttered Tor.

‘So we all said,’ assented Miss Marjory—‘all but Nelly, who was convinced that some evil chance had befallen him. There had been a bad coaching accident somewhere in the country on the day he had left her, and she was fully persuaded that he had been killed in it. Nobody else believed this theory, for we had none of us liked the young man, who was vulgar and pretentious, without having anything to recommend him. I told Nelly that no doubt his movements could be traced, and her suspicion either verified or overthrown; and that if he was still living he could be made to support her. But her pride revolted against such a course. She showed what I considered a very proper spirit, and said that if he had left her of his own free will, he might leave her. She would never force herself where she was not wanted, and make him support her, now that he was tired of her, and despised her love. If he was dead, as she believed, search would be useless; and if not, she would still not have him found. He could come back to her of his own accord if he would; if not, he might stay away, and she would never trouble him more. We Whitbury people believed she had judged wisely for herself—such a marriage could only end in unhappiness—and we all pitied and helped her, for she was an orphan, poor child, and had no relatives in the neighbourhood.’

Tor was listening intently, an uncomfortable feeling growing up in his mind.

‘Did she live long?’ he asked. ‘I suppose she is not alive now?’

‘No. She lived several years though, and brought up her little boy, Alfred, well and respectably; but when he was about four or five years old, as nearly as I can remember, her health failed very much, and the charge of the child became more of a burden than she could undertake. I found a home for the boy in an institution, where he would be well cared for, and taught a useful trade; and his mother, quite satisfied, went to live with some relatives in the South of England, who had offered her a home. I heard from her from time to time, and then I went abroad for a couple of years, during which period her letters quite ceased. When I came back, and could make inquiries, I found out that she had died, though how and when, I do not exactly know.’

When she had died was, in Tor’s mind, an important point. Miss Marjory and he were both thinking the same thing.

‘Do you know when your uncle’s second marriage took place?’ asked Miss Marjory abruptly.

‘I have been considering—I think it must have been in or very much about the year 1850.’

‘Nelly Belassis was living in November, 1849,’ remarked Miss Marjory—‘living, and in fair health, for I heard from her then. I do not know how long she lived afterwards.’

‘But surely Belassis knew,’ said Tor. ‘He is a villain, and a clumsy villain, too; but I think he knows better than to perpetrate bigamy. He must have kept his eye upon her, and verified her death.’

‘It is possible, of course; but I do not know how he managed it, if he did. Nelly never heard one syllable from him during the years that followed the desertion, and you may be sure he would not let his face be seen in Whitbury. He had left too many bad debts behind him, perpetrated too many questionable actions, in addition to his conduct towards poor Nelly, ever to care to appear here again in a hurry. When Nelly left, I believe nobody but myself knew whither she had gone; so that, even if he did start an inquiry after her, there is every probability he would have been baffled. It is my very firm impression that he just looked upon his doings here as a crop of wild oats that he had sown in his youth; and trusted to the thousand and one chances of life, that if ever there came to be a harvest, it would not be his hand that would reap it.’

Tor thought this supposition quite in keeping with the clumsy rascality of Belassis, as he had seen it. He had no opinion at all of Phil’s uncle’s capacity. His wife’s shrewdness and his own dogged determination and brazen dishonesty had carried him safely on so far, when not opposed by any far-seeing or strong-minded foe; but he could quite believe him capable of running a tremendous risk rather than lose a present opportunity of good, or face a distinctly awkward position.

‘You may be right,’ he said slowly. ‘He is a pitiful coward, and as covetous as Judas. I suppose to have acknowledged such a marriage would have ruined his prospects for life.’

‘Just so. I imagine his father would have had scant mercy, if it had come to his ears.’

‘If Belassis takes after his father, I should say he would.’

There was a pause for reflection.

‘I suppose you do not know much of this uncle’s past history?’

‘No, little enough. The real Phil might know more, perhaps, though I don’t think it would come to much. I could find out, though, I dare say.’

‘From whom?’

‘From Mrs. Lorraine, my aunt pro tem. Mrs. Belassis’ sister, and Mrs. Debenham’s.’

‘From what you tell me of your mother’s family—I mean, of course, Mr. Debenham’s mother’s family—they seem very well born people—quite superior to the Belassis’.’

‘Yes, quite, I should say.’

‘Then what made one of the sisters marry Alfred Belassis?’

‘That I don’t know, but I might find out.’

‘Do so if you can. Of course, a match like that would be an immense advantage to a man in his position; one can understand that if such a thing as that were in view, he would be reluctant enough to confess his former marriage with a lady’s-maid. I wonder if Nelly was dead at the time, and if he knew it. Mr. Debenham, unless you can make sure of that fact, don’t let your sister marry Lewis Belassis on any account.’

‘I will not,’ said Tor resolutely.

‘You must find out the exact date of the wedding, and I will endeavour to find out that of Nelly’s death. Unluckily, as all these things happened more than a quarter of a century ago, I am doubtful if I have even a record left of the place the poor girl went to. It was Devonshire or Dorsetshire, I think, but I can be sure of nothing. Still, I will do my best; where there’s a will there’s a way. And I think you have now another hold upon your worthy uncle.’

‘I think so,’ answered Tor, with some satisfaction in his tone. ‘If I wish to be specially agreeable to him, or if he has been particularly pleasant to me, I can tell him that I have been over to Whitbury, and ask him if he has any knowledge of the place.’

Miss Marjory seemed to enjoy the idea of this question very much.

‘Yes, Whitbury must recall many very pleasant associations; for, as I tell you, he sowed plenty of wild oats here before he spoilt poor Nelly’s life. Mr. Graves could, I fancy, lay his hands upon some papers which would be rather disconcerting to a man of his social standing. You could ask him if he remembers the lawyer Mr. Graves, or Miss Marjory Descartes. I should like to see his face if you did!’

‘Did he know you, then?’

‘Oh, he knew me well enough to come and beg my intercession with Mr. Graves, for his poor dear Nelly’s sake. I was a silly young thing in those days, with more money than wisdom; and I was fond of Nelly, and did not want her to know what a precious sort of fellow this husband of hers was. So I gave him money, and got him off somehow; but I don’t imagine his gratitude would teach him to welcome me very warmly now.’

Tor smiled to himself.

‘I could go on to sing your praises, and to assert my hope that some day I might see you at Ladywell. May I really hope that you will visit us there one of these days?’

‘I’ll come if you want me—if things are going badly with you, and a curb is wanted for Belassis. I’ll come if my support will be of service to you; but I don’t often pay visits for pleasure. I always find that I wish myself home again in two days’ time.’

‘I trust you may not do that if you come to Ladywell,’ said Tor gallantly. ‘Such a promise almost makes a complication and danger desirable.’

‘Stuff and nonsense! don’t talk rubbish to an old woman like me. I’ll come if I’m needed; and if not, I’ll stay at home. But don’t you be rash and drive Belassis to bay, or he might turn upon you. I’d advise you to say nothing about the kinsman you’ve found here.’

‘I shall not at present, at any rate. I have no wish to drive things to a crisis; but I think I shall be able to guess by his manner whether or not he knew of his first wife’s death, before his second marriage. I hope it is all right. I don’t want, for the sake of wife and children, to drag up anything that would fall so hardly upon them; but I don’t care how much of a dog’s life I lead Belassis.’

‘He deserves it all,’ cried Miss Marjory, with energy; ‘only be careful.’

‘I will. I live in a glass house myself; but I shall certainly hold you over his head if he becomes objectionable.’

‘Yes, you may do that. I rather like an encounter of wits myself. In the days of my youth I was a good hand at retort. I don’t think my tongue has quite lost its cunning even now.’

‘I don’t think so either,’ smiled Tor. ‘Yes, we must certainly contrive a meeting, face to face.’

Miss Marjory would make no definite promise, but Tor went away convinced that he had gained a valuable ally, and one who would never desert him, and who would, perhaps, be more dangerous to Belassis than he himself could be.

There was something in Miss Marjory’s assured position and in the respect which she always inspired, as well as in her age and experience, which was very encouraging to the young man, who certainly needed all the advantages he could secure; and he was now exceedingly glad that the lease of his house had fallen in, and that Miss Marjory had summoned him to Whitbury.

CHAPTER II.
MRS. BELASSIS VISITS LADYWELL.

t was on a Tuesday morning that Maud said good-bye to her brother, and saw him set out for Yorkshire; and on the Wednesday morning, whilst riding out through the great avenue, she was surprised to see her Aunt Celia, walking in her resolute way up to the house.

Mrs. Belassis seldom visited Ladywell, and never before had she been there at so unseasonable an hour. Maud looked wonderingly at her, and stopped her horse, as she met the business-like figure.

‘Do you want anybody, Aunt Celia?’ she asked. ‘You will only find Aunt Olive at home. Phil has gone into Yorkshire, but he will be back this evening. Can I do anything for you?’

‘Your brother is away, is he?’ asked Mrs. Belassis, as though surprised. In reality she was perfectly well aware of the fact. Had her nephew been at home, she would not have taken the trouble to pay this visit.

‘Yes; but he comes back to-night. Can I give him any message?’

Mrs. Belassis seemed to consider.

‘Well, as I am so near I will go on and see your Aunt Olive,’ she said indifferently. ‘I had a question I wished to ask Philip; but that can wait. I will not interrupt you, my dear. I hope you will have a pleasant ride.’

Maud rode on, a disdainful look crossing her pretty face.

‘I wonder if Aunt Celia is up to anything,’ she mused. ‘She generally is when she smiles and says “my dear,” and puts on her gracious air. How I do loathe Aunt Celia! I do believe she is worse than Uncle Belassis. I am afraid she is Phil’s enemy—not that that matters much, for she couldn’t do him any harm. Sometimes I fancy Phil has something on his mind; but I don’t see that he need. I wonder why he said yesterday that he was sure Aunt Olive and I would always stand his friends, through thick and thin. I should think I just would!’ and Maud’s eyes flashed. ‘I’d stand by him whatever happened—whatever he’d said or done, or whatever people said of him. There’s nobody like my Phil. I love his little finger better than all the rest of the world put together. If ever he is in any danger, won’t I show him how I love him!’

Maud’s whole face glowed, and she urged her horse to a gallop in her generous enthusiasm, and rode far and fast that day.

Mrs. Belassis walked boldly up to the house. She did not ring the bell, although she was on anything but intimate terms with the household at Ladywell; she preferred to walk straight into the great hall, where she paused and looked about her.

Nobody was in sight. Neither manservant nor maidservant, bond nor free, had observed her entrance, and with a certain snake-like look of satisfaction, she quietly crossed the hall, and entered a small room which looked over the garden, and which generally went by the name of ‘Phil’s den.’

Once inside this room, she closed the door softly and stealthily, and looked for a moment as though she would have locked it too; but on second thoughts she seemed to decide against doing so, and muttering, ‘It might look suspicious if anyone should come,’ turned away.

The room was not large, and was furnished quite in bachelor fashion, with a shabby but luxuriously easy leather chair, a multitude of pipes and cigar-boxes; one small table beside the easy-chair, which was strewn with newspapers and smoking apparatus, and a large writing-table full of drawers which stood in the window. The walls were adorned by guns and fishing-tackle, and by some engravings which showed greater taste for art, and less for sport, than do most bachelors’ pictures. It was a snug, cosy room; and the presence of a second and much daintier armchair, in the opposite corner, seemed to indicate that Maud liked at times to be her brother’s ‘den companion.’

Mrs. Belassis’ keen eye took all this in at a glance. She saw in a moment where lay her work, and she seated herself in a quiet business-like way at the writing-table.

‘It will be rather odd,’ she muttered to herself, ‘if amongst all his papers I do not find something to give me a clue, if there is anything wrong, and I’m not generally deceived when I take an idea into my head.’

Mrs. Belassis set to work in a methodical way. She began with the small drawers at the top of the table, and turned the contents rapidly over, spreading out the papers and glancing quickly over them. She did not seem to find anything of any interest amongst these, and in ten minutes that part of her search was completed.

It was with greater deliberation that she commenced to open the larger drawers on either side of her; and her face was more set, her eyes more curious than ever, as this task proceeded.

First came papers and memoranda connected with the Ladywell property, bills, receipts, correspondence as to cattle, hay, poultry, and the thousand and one transactions necessitated by a farm and estate. Tor was not a specially orderly man, but he had a method of classification with his papers, which enabled him to lay his hand readily upon anything he wanted.

A few minutes’ study convinced Mrs. Belassis that there was nothing to be gained by a minute inspection of these papers, so they were replaced in their drawer, and the next one opened.

This contained private bills and correspondence, and Mrs. Belassis looked as if she anticipated considerable information from the heap of papers she drew out.

‘Extravagant!’ she muttered more than once; a dark look crossing her face as she came across receipted bills for dresses, jewellery, and finery of all kinds for Maud, and handsome silks and laces, in which she knew her sister Olive had appeared.

Still, amongst all these bills and papers she did not seem to find what she wanted, although more than enough to annoy and anger her. The letters were all addressed to ‘Philip Debenham, Esq.,’ and were for the most part petitions from charitable institutions, notices from picture-dealers, or offers of everything for nothing from companies and tradespeople.

These papers were replaced in their drawer, and the search continued.

The third drawer upon that side was locked, so with rather a significant smile Mrs. Belassis tried the first on the next side. This opened readily enough, but merely contained a supply of writing-paper, envelopes, stamps, and pens, which, by its orderly appearance, seemed to have been given over to Maud’s willing care. The drawer below contained the farm-books, the garden-book and the stable-book, which had been kept with scrupulous exactness by old Mr. Maynard, and which his successor had taken some apparent pains to keep in their old accuracy under a new régime.

The third drawer, again, was locked.

‘These must be the two that I want,’ said Mrs. Belassis under her breath; and again she glanced towards the door, as though she would have liked to lock it, but considered it more prudent to abstain.

A looker-on might have been tempted to wonder how Mrs. Belassis proposed to get at the contents of those locked drawers. Was she going to force the locks? Not at all. Whatever her husband might be, Mrs. Belassis was never clumsy. What she undertook to do, was done neatly, and even artistically.

Ladies of some social standing do not usually visit their friends’ houses with skeleton-keys hidden away in their pockets; but it was nothing more nor less than this useful little implement that Mrs. Belassis drew out now; and with the snake-like look more visible than ever in her eyes, she set about her task.

Kneeling down upon the floor, she soon had the first drawer open, and had taken from thence the documents it held.

There was Phil’s cheque-book first of all, and then a few papers folded and held together by an elastic band. There was a bag, which evidently held some money, and behind all these some papers and relics, which were evidently all that had come to him from the effects of the father and mother. Belassis had taken care that such mementoes should be but few.

The cheque-book first claimed Mrs. Belassis’ earnest attention. She studied the counterfoils closely, and then began comparing the sums with the amounts upon the bills she had previously found. Naturally they corresponded accurately enough; but what Mrs. Belassis noticed was this, that for at least six bills (all presents for Maud) which were specified to have been settled ‘by cheque,’ no counterfoil was to be found: and this fact seemed significant of something, though of what she could not yet say.

Next the family relics were contemptuously turned over, and put back in their place, and Mrs. Belassis now commenced the study of the papers enclosed by the elastic band.

There were but two of them after all, though one was of a bulk and importance that gave it the substance of half a dozen ordinary letters. The crabbed characters were familiar to her eye, and it did not need the colossal signature ‘T. M. Maynard’ to tell her that it had been penned by her late uncle, the former master of Ladywell.

It was, in fact, nothing less than the dead man’s letter to his nephew, Philip Debenham, which Tor had read in the little hotel at Hornberg.

With a subdued exclamation of curiosity and satisfaction, Mrs. Belassis sat down to read the document; and as she did so, her face assumed an expression not at all agreeable to look upon. She read the paper not once, but twice; and the venomous expression deepened upon her face, until it grew positively hideous in its intensity.

Then she turned the paper over and over, and opened out its stiff folds, although the writing had only occupied the first page, and in so doing her attention was caught by a few pencilled words written on the inside, as if by an afterthought. And she was convinced by the manner in which the paper opened, that hers had been the first hand which had unfolded it. An eager yet dark look crossed her face, as she took in the sense of that after-message.

‘Your father once gave me to understand that he had drawn up a more equitable will, and had hidden it away somewhere in my library. I told him he had better take it out and give it to a lawyer to keep. And I think he must have taken it out—and destroyed it; for I never could find it, though I took the trouble to make a thorough search. He was just a muddler with his affairs, and a dreamer too. You may be sure he made away with the will in a moment of weakness; but of course if you choose to search for it, you can—you won’t find it.’

As she took in the import of these words, Mrs. Belassis fairly trembled. The anger which had disfigured her face before, gave way now to a look more nearly approaching terror; and then, after a few minutes of deep thought, she folded the paper once more and put it in her pocket.

‘I will show it to Alfred. He must see it. Then the pencilled words shall be erased, and I will take an early opportunity to return the paper. There are a hundred chances to one that it will not be missed. Now for the other.’

The other was Maud’s eager letter to her brother, written to him at Hornberg, to announce her delight and eager anticipation. The terms in which it was couched were not calculated to soothe Mrs. Belassis, and a look of bitter hatred crossed her face.

‘The little reptile, the little toad—making mischief from the very first! Oh, but I will be even with her! She shall learn to rue the day when first she tried to poison her brother’s minds against us—putting all sorts of suspicions into his head. Faugh! the ingratitude of the little viper!’

Mrs. Belassis folded the letter, and flung it into the drawer after the other things, and then she viciously locked it. Her mind was so much disturbed by her late discoveries, that she was almost tempted to pursue her researches no further, confident that she had found the most important papers in existence. But the dogged stubbornness of her character prevailed over her preoccupation and dismay, and she remembered that although she had found something of the greatest importance, she had not found anything of the character she had hoped—nothing to compromise her nephew, or to verify the very dim suspicion that had entered into her head. What that suspicion was she would have found it hard to say; all that she told even herself as yet was that there was ‘something odd’ about Phil, and that she believed there was ‘some mystery’ going on. So far, however, she had found nothing to encourage such an idea, and with a certain sense of having been baffled, she opened the sixth and last drawer.

There were not many papers here; but there was a second cheque-book, and upon the inside of the cover was written ‘Tor’s cheque-book.’ There was also a bank-book labelled ‘Torrington Torwood, Esq.;’ and rapid reference to the former showed Mrs. Belassis that the missing counterfoils of cheques she knew to have been written by Phil, were to be found, not in his, but in Mr. Torwood’s cheque-book.

This was something of a facer, and she felt a triumphant joy in finding anything so like a mystery. She did not pause now to try and unravel it, but passed on to the other contents of the drawer.

There were two letters from a certain ‘Marjory Descartes,’ asking Phil to go over to ‘Whitbury’ to settle some business for Mr. Torwood, and there were one or two business communications from agents or bankers, referring to Phil some question about Mr. Torwood’s affairs. These were read with a certain sense of disappointment, as they seemed to show that Phil was openly acting as his friend’s agent; but hope rose again when a deeper dive into the drawer brought out a little packet of papers, some quite old and yellow, which proved to be I O U’s for various sums, all signed ‘Philip Debenham.’

‘Moneys Mr. Torwood lent him, evidently,’ mused Mrs. Belassis. ‘Oh, then Phil’s friend was not quite so disinterested, after all, as we were led to think. I thought there was something odd about it. But how comes Phil to have these papers now? There is no evidence that he has redeemed them. It is a large sum—nearly £3,000, I should say. His cheque-book shows no mention of Mr. Torwood, and I should have heard from Alfred, I think, if he had handed over any very large sum whilst the securities were being settled. I don’t understand why he keeps them if they are redeemed, and why he has not a receipt for the amount if it is paid. If not, how comes he by the papers at all?’

Certainly, what with one thing and what with another, Mrs. Belassis had ample food for meditation; but she had stayed so long that she feared to linger. She locked up the drawer, and was preparing to leave, when Maud came suddenly in, in her riding-habit.

‘Aunt Celia, you here!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you been here all this while? Aunt Olive says she has never even seen you. What can you have been doing all this time? Two whole hours!’

Maud looked both excited and suspicious. This was her house, and she was mistress; and she considered that her Aunt Celia had taken a great liberty in making her way in unobserved, and shutting herself up in Phil’s den. Her face showed as much very plainly.

Mrs. Belassis looked at her with her cold smile.

‘Do not act and speak like a spoilt child, my dear. It is not becoming to a young mistress. I fear you are forgetting the lessons I instilled into your mind at Thornton House.’

‘Oh, there is no fear of my forgetting your lessons or Thornton House either,’ cried Maud, with what sounded very like defiance in her tone. ‘But I hope I have shaken off the effects of that yoke. What I want to know is, why you have been shut up in Phil’s room for two hours—in his private room.’

Mrs. Belassis looked at the indignant Maud with a smile of cool disdain.

‘As this is your brother’s house, over which you preside, I will condescend to reply, otherwise I should decline to answer such an insolent interrogation. After I left you I made a tour of the gardens and hot-houses, which I am never invited to inspect, of course, owing to the kind politeness of the mistress of Ladywell. After I had enjoyed the sweetness of the flowers and trees for above an hour, I came here to write a note to Philip; but what I wrote did not satisfy me, and I tore up the letter and determined to wait till I could see him personally. Just as I was about to leave the room my niece entered, and here we are now, face to face. Are you satisfied?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Maud; ‘but I hear what you say. Are you going? Good-bye. If you care to see Aunt Olive she is in the drawing-room. We shall have lunch in an hour.’

‘I will go home, thank you,’ said Mrs. Belassis coldly. ‘Good-bye, my dear.’

Maud watched her cross the hall, a distrustful and angry light in her eyes.

‘She always gets the best of it with me. I can never be politely cutting to Aunt Celia, as Phil is. I am always rude, and she makes me feel like a schoolgirl. How I detest her! I wonder why she came. I know what she said was all lies. What can she have been up to? I wonder what that letter to Phil was that she wrote and destroyed. Did she write a letter at all?’ Maud went forward and carefully looked about for torn fragments of paper, but could find none.

‘If she wrote it she took it away in her pocket,’ said Maud; and then she opened the ink-bottle and saw that it had been washed out that morning and not refilled. Mrs. Belassis had certainly written no letter there that day. What she had done, the girl was at a loss to imagine. All that she could tell was that her aunt’s visit was certain to mean mischief of some kind.

Mrs. Belassis had ample food for reflection on her homeward way, and very earnestly did she strive to form some theory as to the respective position of Phil and his friend, so as to prove, if possible, that the former was acting in a reprehensible manner.

At last an idea was hit upon which seemed to satisfy her; at any rate, it gave a semblance of reality to her suspicions.

‘I believe he has got his friend shut up in a lunatic asylum somewhere—unless he has put him out of the way altogether; and he is playing a double game—sometimes Torwood and sometimes himself. I suppose he was Torwood abroad, whilst he was the rich man; and here he is Debenham; thus reaping the benefits of both characters. Perhaps Mr. Torwood’s mind has been failing of late, so that he has learned to depend upon Philip; yes, that is very likely. And now that he has money of his own, he has just disposed of his friend anyhow—no doubt in a madhouse—and is figuring about here as a great man, and spending his friend’s money as well as his own. Oh, you’re a nice young man, Philip Debenham! No wonder you keep your friend at a distance, and don’t trouble yourself about him. No wonder nobody can get to know anything definite about the “Tor” who was once all your talk. A very nice thing it will be for you when I bring it home to you! Oh yes, you will enjoy that very much; and I wonder what the law will say to these little transactions with Torwood’s money;’ and in this strain Mrs. Belassis kept on, her spirits rising and her confidence in her theory increasing with every step she took. But when she felt in her pocket, and her hand came in contact with the stiff paper it held, her face changed suddenly, and the old look of rage and fear returned.

‘If old Maynard is right, if there is another will, and if that will is ever found—then we shall be ruined! Why did I ever marry such a fool as Alfred Belassis? I could do anything if it were not for his clumsiness!’

CHAPTER III.
THE MISSING PAPER.

or did not return to Ladywell until late at night, having missed a train at one of the junctions, where his cross route obliged him to change.

Maud, therefore, said nothing to him about Mrs. Belassis’ strange behaviour until the following afternoon, when they rode out together, and then she told him as much as she knew of this oddly-timed visit.

‘Wanted to see me, did she?’ said Tor. ‘I wonder what for. I’ll call at Thornton House this evening and ask. I can walk over after dinner.’

‘Oh no, don’t!’ cried Maud coaxingly. ‘The evenings are so dull without you. Never mind Aunt Celia. She is quite horrid. Let her come again if she wants you. I believe it was just a lie.’

‘Come, little sister, don’t be spiteful. I know Mrs. Belassis does not greatly love either of us, still we must be civil as long as we can, or we put ourselves at a disadvantage.’

‘I know I do,’ assented Maud. ‘I can’t manage as you do; I wish I could. She would give anything to be able to put you into a rage as she puts me; but she never can.’

Tor smiled calmly.

‘Just so; and I have no intention of affording her that gratification.’

‘It must be nice to be a man—a man like you, I mean,’ said Maud, regarding him with a loving admiration distinctly flattering to its object. Then, after a pause, she added, ‘I wonder what Aunt Celia really came for.’

‘You think she had some ulterior motive?’

‘I don’t need to think—I know she had,’ cried Maud. ‘I saw it by the look in her eye—just like a snake. I haven’t lived eighteen years in Thornton House for nothing, Phil.’

‘Phil’ rode on in silence, wondering if there could be any truth in Maud’s surmise; for he was convinced that Mrs. Belassis was his enemy, and a more dangerous one than her husband.

Pondering, however, did not bring him any nearer the truth; so he gave up puzzling his head about the matter, and determined to take this opportunity to speak to Maud about Lewis Belassis.

‘Maud,’ he began, ‘when is your birthday?’

‘Three weeks next Wednesday,’ answered the girl promptly.

‘And you will then be twenty-four?’

‘Yes.’

Maud looked at him, and he looked at her, and then she broke into a little soft laugh.

‘You dear old Phil, you are so handsome! I wish I could marry you!’

A curious thrill ran through Tor, and his eyes were eloquent, but he only answered coolly enough:

‘But as you cannot—what then, Maud?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered; and her face took the spoilt-child expression which thoughts of Lewis Belassis almost always brought.

‘You have not made up your mind?’

‘No; I can’t.’

‘But it will be expected of you soon, will it not?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I know on my birthday I am to hear the will read, and a letter papa left with it for me. I believe I shall be expected to give my answer then, though the money can’t be divided till a little while later. Phil, do you think it would be unfair to Lewis to keep him waiting any longer?’

‘I don’t think you’ll gain anything by waiting, Maud. I should say the wisest plan would be to get the matter off your mind, one way or the other, as soon as you can. I imagine you’ll feel exactly as you do now, a year hence, in regard to Lewis. If you haven’t fallen in love with him all these years, you are hardly likely to do so now.’

‘I should never be in love with Lewis—never!’ cried Maud, almost disdainfully. ‘Fancy feeling sentimental over a man like that! But then, I do like him, and I might never meet anyone I liked so well; and there is my money, you know.’

‘Don’t think about the money, Maud,’ said Tor quickly. He would have liked to promise there and then, that she should never feel the need of that—to tell her that he would make the loss good; but he could hardly hand over £10,000 of Phil’s money so coolly, even though he felt sure of his ultimate approval: and gladly as he would have sacrificed his own fortune to her, he knew that there was only one way by which his wealth could be made hers, and that way was, as yet, closed to him.

‘I can’t help thinking about it,’ answered Maud. ‘If I had come of age at twenty-one, as other girls do, I should not have thought as I do now. Five thousand would have seemed riches, and love in a cottage the ideal of bliss. I should have sent Lewis about his business in double-quick time then, and bought the little cottage behind Roma’s studio, and lived there in glorious independence. At twenty-one we know nothing of life, and are filled to the brim with romance. But three more years teach us a good deal;’ and Maud shook her head gravely. ‘Things take very different proportions, and we see that life isn’t just what we pictured. Do you think papa knew that when he fixed my majority?’

‘No; but I have no doubt Belassis did.’

‘Uncle Belassis!’ cried Maud. ‘What has he to do with it?’

‘Everything, I imagine. Do you suppose our father would have made such an iniquitous will except under compulsion?’

Maud’s face changed visibly.

‘But Uncle Belassis says——’

‘That for what he says.’

Gradually Maud seemed to take in the true meaning of Tor’s words.

‘Oh!’ she said, and stopped short. ‘Oh! so that’s how it was! I wonder I did not think of it before. Phil, you don’t want me to marry Lewis Belassis?’

‘Perhaps not; but I wish you to decide for yourself—to be guided by your own wishes.’

Tor was anxious, if possible, not to interfere in Maud’s decision. He had a strong hope that she would of her own accord reject Lewis.

‘Papa wished it,’ she said, hesitating.

‘Indeed!’

‘You think not? Could Uncle Belassis have had so much power as all that?’

‘Could your father have cared so much for a little snuffling brat of five years old, as Lewis was at the time of the making of that will?’

Maud considered this aspect of the case with some gravity.

‘Yes, he certainly would be a “little snuffling brat” at that age—I can just see him, though I can’t remember him, as you can. I’ll tell him some day of your description; it is so vivid.’

‘Do; and if you want to know whether the match was approved by other members of the family, you can ask Aunt Olive what she thinks.’

‘I know she doesn’t like it.’

‘And I have a letter at home from our great-uncle, Mr. Maynard, expressing distinct disapproval, and speaking in no measured terms of his opinion of Belassis’ share in the matter.’

Maud began to look amused and interested.

‘Old Uncle Maynard wrote about it, did he? Oh, you must let me see the letter! I am sure it will be delightfully funny; he was such a dear, cross old man, and I was always so cheeky to him. The Belassis’ were furious because he took more notice of me than of anybody else, though that didn’t come to much; but I should like to see the letter.’

‘I’ll show it you when we go in,’ said Tor, and then let the talk glide into other channels. He considered that he had given Maud food for meditation sufficient for one day, and decided not to press for an answer, until she had well thought over the information he had bestowed.

Maud did not forget her curiosity about her great-uncle’s letter, and as soon as they returned from their ride she followed Tor into his study, and begged him to produce it.

‘I know it will be so queer!’ she said, a smile of anticipation curving her pretty mouth.

Tor unlocked the drawer, and put in his hand. He took out Maud’s letter with the elastic band round it; but no other paper was with it. He pulled open the drawer to its utmost limit, and looked again, but the paper was evidently not there.

‘It’s gone!’ he ejaculated, in some surprise.

‘Try the next,’ suggested Maud.

‘No good,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘’Twas only the day I left, that I locked up the letters about Tor’s business in the opposite drawer, where I keep everything relating to him; and I opened this one too, and saw old Maynard’s letter lying with yours, strapped together. I could take my oath of it.’

‘Witchcraft!’ said Maud; and then her face grew grave suddenly, and she added significantly: ‘Witchcraft, or Aunt Celia.’

‘Couldn’t have been Aunt Celia. The drawer was locked,’ said Tor.

‘Then it must have been a ghost,’ said Maud seriously. ‘For nobody else could have opened a locked drawer.’

The two looked at each other in silence.

‘You think her capable of such an act?’

‘She is capable of anything.’

Tor considered, and failed to see any motive for the robbery.

‘It was a misanthropical letter, anything but complimentary to the Belassis family; but I can’t see why she should have purloined it. It is not a paper they would care to study long or frequently, I imagine.’

Maud’s face had clouded over.

‘Aunt Celia always knows what she is about. You may be sure that that paper is of more value than you know.’

‘If so,’ said Tor composedly, ‘I will take care to get it back pretty quickly. I am going over there to-night. In all probability I shall bring it back with me.’

Maud looked admiringly at him, but shook her head.

‘You won’t if Aunt Celia wants it; besides, you cannot ask for it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Tor, and Maud wondered which half of the sentence he was answering.

After dinner, in the soft summer twilight, he walked over to Thornton House. Maud accompanied him through the park, but he would not let her come farther, nor be present at his interview with the aunt, about which she felt very curious.

After she had turned back, he pursued his way slowly, thinking over what he should say to her, and also to Belassis, if he should, as was not improbable, have to encounter them both. On the whole, he felt he would rather face the two together than meet them singly.

In this fortune favoured him. Lewis had taken his sisters to a dinner-party in the neighbourhood, and Mr. and Mrs. Belassis were in earnest talk together in the drawing-room, when the door was suddenly opened, and the servant announced in loud tones:

‘Mr. Debenham!’

From the distinct start and shuffle that followed, Tor was convinced that he had interrupted a conversation in which his name occupied a prominent place. In nowise disconcerted, however, he walked up and shook hands in his easiest fashion, and then sat down in such a position as commanded a good view of both the countenances before him.

‘I hear you walked over to see me yesterday morning,’ began Tor, addressing Mrs. Belassis. ‘I am sorry you had your trouble for nothing. I have come over to learn the object of your visit, and save you the trouble of a second walk.’

‘Oh, thank you—I am sorry you took the trouble. I merely came to ask if you could supply us with butter for a time. I suppose it must be the hot weather, for we cannot make half enough for ourselves just now.’

‘So that was the important message that could not be trusted to paper,’ said Tor, with a smile. ‘Yes, certainly you shall have all you need. I will speak to the man to-morrow. I am sorry such a small affair should have occasioned you so long a walk.’

‘It did not, thanks; I was close to Ladywell as it happened, and I wanted to see your aunt.’

Tor knew she had made no attempt to see Mrs. Lorraine, and his slight questioning smile said as much; but he made no open comment. Mrs. Belassis sat stonily composed. If she had any inward trepidation she gave no outward sign of it.

Tor turned to the uncle.

‘We are getting almost dried up here in the south, sir. We look quite parched. In Yorkshire now, everything is beautifully fresh—though not so forward as with us.’

‘You have been in Yorkshire, then?’ questioned Mrs. Belassis, as if she welcomed the change of subject.

‘Yes, upon some business of Mr. Torwood’s. It’s a fine county, I should say, by what I saw of it. Do you know it at all, sir?’

‘I—oh—Yorkshire, did you say?’ said Belassis, seemingly rather flustered by the sudden query. ‘Why, Yorkshire is a big place, you know. Yes, to be sure, I was there once, when I was a lad; but that’s a long time ago now;’ and he gave rather a sickly laugh.

Tor fancied that his wife noticed his constrained manner, and glanced curiously at him.

‘It was a pretty little town I had to visit, quite an ideal place for quiet picturesqueness. Whitbury was its name. I suppose you do not know anything of it?’

Mr. Belassis’ face seemed to turn all colours at once.

‘Whitbury—Whitbury!’ he stammered, with an immense effort to make his voice sound natural. ‘No, I don’t remember that name. I don’t think I could ever have been there.’

‘I am sure you would never have forgotten the place if you had seen it,’ continued Tor. ‘It is so particularly pretty. There is a fine old church there, and a river running through the valley, which is quite a resort for fishermen, I believe. I have some thoughts of going there again some day to fish. The Angler’s Arms is an inviting little inn. There is something very attractive to me in a simple little English town.’

‘Ah, yes—very—very much so,’ answered Belassis vaguely, feeling as though an iron hand was clutching at his throat, yet experiencing an insane desire to find out whether or not this detestable nephew was talking with a purpose.

The frank affable manner gave him a dim hope that all was well; but he dared not meet the eyes which perhaps would have told him more.

‘You—you—went on business for your friend, did you? How comes he to have business in Whitbury? I thought he had lived always abroad.’

‘He has property in Whitbury; a very charming old house inhabited by a very charming maiden lady. The house stands in a square, and faces the Minster, but looks behind on to a lovely stretch of country. Its mistress is a particularly clever and pleasant woman—a Miss Descartes—Miss Marjory Descartes as she seems to be always called.’

Belassis’ face had paled to a dull grey hue. His wife’s eyes were fixed upon it curiously and unquietly. Tor continued talking in the same frank, gossiping way.

‘It was some business about a new lease that took me down; but Miss Marjory and I became great friends. She was good enough to like me, and I was charmed with her. Perhaps some day I may have the pleasure of introducing her here. I have great hopes of inducing her to visit us at Ladywell some time or other.’

The dull grey hue changed to a delicate pea-green. Tor felt a sort of compassion for the miserable man before him. He had learnt all he wished to know. This man was none other than Nelly Roberts’s husband, and he had not made sure of her death before marrying again. Had he done that, he would hardly have been so hopelessly cowed. The discovery of a former marriage, and a low one, would be an awkward affair enough for him to face now; but would hardly account for such a depth of terror as was visible in his face.

As Tor, however, had found out what he wished, he rose to depart. His quick eyes had not been occupied altogether with the faces before him. He had caught sight of a corner of thick parchment-like paper projecting from a drawer in a small table, which was rather oddly placed in front of Mr. and Mrs. Belassis. He had heard a crackle of stiff paper as he entered the room.

By a quick, quiet movement, Tor reached forward and secured the paper; the drawer, of course, opened as he pulled, and disclosed to his view a number of soiled bread-crumbs and some pieces of india-rubber.

‘Rubbing out, by Jove!’ he thought to himself, and wondered what could have been accomplished by that process. Aloud he said:

‘Ah, my old uncle’s letter! How curious it should be here! I had just missed it from its accustomed place. What an old misanthrope he was! Not, I suppose, that he had any idea into whose hands it would fall. How could it have been spirited here?’

‘I brought it, Philip,’ answered Mrs. Belassis imperturbably. ‘I was just about to return it to you. I found it by chance in your room yesterday, as I was looking for some writing-paper. Curiosity prompted me to read it, and I could not refrain from bringing it back for your uncle to see. He is slow to believe the ingratitude of the world. I think that such expressions as are put down here, by a man who always received from him a respect and consideration he was far from deserving, should do much to convince him. I must apologize for the liberty I took with your property; but you were absent, and I thought you would not object.’

‘Oh, I have not the least objection in the world,’ answered Tor readily and pleasantly. ‘I had merely kept the contents of the paper to myself because they were not over and above flattering to those mentioned in it. What puzzles me is how you came to chance upon the letter, as it was always kept in a locked drawer.’

‘It was not there yesterday,’ answered Mrs. Belassis, the glittering look coming back into her eyes. ‘It was in the top right-hand drawer, where your writing-paper is stored.’

‘It must have been spirited there, then,’ laughed Tor, ‘for I left it in the left-hand bottom one, locked up, only the day before. Well, I will say good-night now. I think we understand each other; and I will give instructions about the butter to-morrow.’

It was in rather a peculiarly silent and constrained fashion that Mr. and Mrs. Belassis shook hands with their genial nephew and saw him depart.

Then Belassis wiped his forehead, and sat down heavily.

‘We only just got that done in time,’ he said, drawing a long breath, ‘Suppose he had found it before we had done our work?’

‘He would not have found it at all but for you,’ answered Mrs. Belassis, with cool contempt. ‘It would have been upstairs, where it ought to have been, but for your folly.’

‘Mine!’

‘Yes; you would bring it down; and now this has happened!’

‘What?’

‘He knows that I have been overhauling his private papers.’