TORWOOD’S TRUST.CHAPTER I.A PROLOGUE.
TORWOOD’S TRUST.
P
hilip Debenham, at the advanced age of eighteen years, was, to use his own words, ‘a desperate man.’ The cause of his desperation was a piece of information he had just received in a letter, which lay open before him, and which was signed ‘Your affectionate uncle, Alfred Belassis.’ The piece of intelligence was this, that his affectionate uncle had secured for his young nephew a clerkship in a City merchant’s counting-house, and that he was to repair thither on the following day to commence his uncongenial labours. In consequence of this arrangement, the affectionate uncle went on to explain,it would be impossible for the lad to pay the visit to the West-country home to which he had so long looked forward. ‘Indeed, we have all been anticipating with pleasure this visit,’ said the letter; ‘for eight years of continental school-life must have taught you much, and would doubtless render you a delightful companion for your cousins, to say nothing of dear Maud, who is spending her holidays here, and is greatly disappointed, as we all are, at this unforeseen turn affairs have taken. But business, my dear boy, must come before pleasure; and your sound common-sense will tell you that this opportunity is not one to be lost.’
‘The old hypocrite! The old scoundrel!’ muttered Phil savagely. ‘As though he didn’t know he had always promised not to set me down to a desk at all; but to let me have an art education, or at least to teach me farming, and let me lead an outdoor life. I can’t stand a counting-house. I’d sooner run away to sea at once, only I’m rather too old to play that game. That Belassis is the biggest scoundrel that ever walked the earth! Does he think I don’t know how he ruined my father, and drove him into his grave? Andnow he wants to drive me to desperation and despair too!’
Phil pushed back his chair, and paced the narrow, dingy room angrily, looking and feeling not at all unlike a caged wild beast.
Then he took up and opened another letter, which lay upon the darned white table-cloth. His breakfast was growing cold; but Phil was too much excited to think of food. This second letter was in a sprawling, schoolgirl hand, and ran as follows:
‘Dearest old Phil,‘It is a shame! How I do hate Uncle Belassis; and Aunt Celia is just as bad!—so horrid and cold, she makes me think of a snake! I hate being here! I’d rather spend my holidays at school, as I generally do; only poor Aunt Olive likes me to be here. They are so horrid to her. We did so look forward to your coming—it is a shame! Do you know why Uncle Belassis is determined to keep you away? It’s because he’s afraid old great-uncle Maynard may leave you his money, and he wants Lewis to get it, and so he won’t let you come here at all; and he doesn’t let me comeoften. I can’t bear Lewis. He is a horrid lout of a boy, who pretends to be grown up, and says stupid things to me. I box his ears when he does; and then Aunt Celia says, in her cold, horrid way, that I don’t know what I am doing. I’m sure I don’t care if I don’t. She told me the other day that Uncle Belassis will be my guardian till I’m twenty-four; that papa said in his will that I wasn’t to be of age, or to have any money, till then. I know Uncle Belassis made him do that—Aunt Olive is sure of it; and she says she isn’t sure that I shall get my money properly then; but I don’t understand, and I don’t care, except to get free from Uncle Belassis. I should like to be able to take Aunt Olive away, and live with her somewhere, and never see any of these people any more. It is a shame you’re not coming back, Phil. I haven’t seen you for eight years; and I can’t even remember you properly, for I was only six. If we didn’t write to one another, it would be as bad as having no brother at all. How horrid Uncle Belassis is to us both!‘Your loving sister,‘Maud.’
‘Dearest old Phil,
‘It is a shame! How I do hate Uncle Belassis; and Aunt Celia is just as bad!—so horrid and cold, she makes me think of a snake! I hate being here! I’d rather spend my holidays at school, as I generally do; only poor Aunt Olive likes me to be here. They are so horrid to her. We did so look forward to your coming—it is a shame! Do you know why Uncle Belassis is determined to keep you away? It’s because he’s afraid old great-uncle Maynard may leave you his money, and he wants Lewis to get it, and so he won’t let you come here at all; and he doesn’t let me comeoften. I can’t bear Lewis. He is a horrid lout of a boy, who pretends to be grown up, and says stupid things to me. I box his ears when he does; and then Aunt Celia says, in her cold, horrid way, that I don’t know what I am doing. I’m sure I don’t care if I don’t. She told me the other day that Uncle Belassis will be my guardian till I’m twenty-four; that papa said in his will that I wasn’t to be of age, or to have any money, till then. I know Uncle Belassis made him do that—Aunt Olive is sure of it; and she says she isn’t sure that I shall get my money properly then; but I don’t understand, and I don’t care, except to get free from Uncle Belassis. I should like to be able to take Aunt Olive away, and live with her somewhere, and never see any of these people any more. It is a shame you’re not coming back, Phil. I haven’t seen you for eight years; and I can’t even remember you properly, for I was only six. If we didn’t write to one another, it would be as bad as having no brother at all. How horrid Uncle Belassis is to us both!
‘Your loving sister,‘Maud.’
This rambling epistle only added fuel to the fire of Phil’s wrath.
‘So that’s it, is it? That’s why I’ve been kept abroad, and never been allowed to see a single one of my own relations all these years;—lest the old miser Maynard should make me his heir, and spoil my cousin Lewis’s chance! Oh, Uncle Belassis—Uncle Belassis! I’m only eighteen—I haven’t a penny of my own—I’m a minor, and your ward, and miserably powerless; but if my turn should ever come, won’t I make you smart!’
Whilst Phil continues his impotent ravings and his wild-beast walk in his dreary London lodgings (of Uncle Belassis’ choosing), the reader must submit to the infliction of a brief summary of Phil’s family history.
His grandfather, Mr. Charles Maynard, was the younger of two brothers, both men of considerable wealth, who owned adjoining properties in one of the western counties. Mr. Maynard, the elder brother, a confirmed bachelor, and a man of eccentric, misanthropic nature, was yet living and in good health, in spite of his seventy-four years, although his brother had died many years before.
Mr. Charles Maynard married young, and had three daughters, but no son. The eldest, Maud, married Mr. Debenham, a man of some means and of good family. He had cultivated literary tastes, but no business faculties, and was only too glad to entrust his affairs to the capable hands of his wife’s sister’s husband, Alfred Belassis. Celia, Charles Maynard’s second and favourite daughter, had married the son of the family lawyer, and did very well for herself, for at his father’s death Alfred Belassis became a wealthy man, and retired from active business, though he was always ready to ‘do a good turn’ for any of his relations, by advice or by transacting business for them.
Olive, the third daughter, ‘did for herself’ by marrying, against her father’s consent, a young clergyman, and she was accordingly cut off with a shilling, whilst Mr. Charles Maynard’s property was divided between his two elder daughters, Maud having the most money, whilst to Celia was left the landed property, including a fine house and grounds, a home farm and several outlying farmsteads. This arrangement of the testator’s property wasalways believed to be due to the manœuvring of Alfred Belassis.
When Mrs. Debenham died, her fortune was left unreservedly to her husband; and his will left all his own property (then supposed to be considerable) to his son Philip, whilst his wife’s money was left to his daughter Maud, who was to remain a minor, and Alfred Belassis’ ward, until she was twenty-four years of age, after which time she would inherit this fortune—but only upon the condition that she married her cousin Lewis Belassis, Alfred Belassis’ eldest son. If she declined to marry the said Lewis, one third of the money would be hers, and two thirds would pass to Lewis. If he declined to marry her, she would have two thirds, and he one.
What had induced Mr. Debenham to insert in his will this extraordinary clause was a matter of profound perplexity to all who heard it. The only solution of the mystery lay in the fact that Alfred Belassis exercised a very peculiar influence over his brother-in-law, and had in all probability induced him by threat or entreaty to couple his bequest with this condition.
Mr. Debenham died insolvent, as appeared when his affairs came to be looked into. How or why his money had vanished none could tell. Phil was thus left totally unprovided for; but Mr. Belassis, with great show of liberality, took upon himself the care of his nephew and ward, and sent him abroad to be educated, and abroad he had remained ever since.
This was not the only generous act of Mr. Belassis; for the disinherited Olive (soon left a widow, childless, and almost penniless), who had lived since her husband’s death with Mr. Debenham, managing his house after his wife’s death, and taking care of his children, was by his death left once more to poverty and homelessness; but Mr. Belassis had opened his own doors to her, and she lived under his roof in a state of passive, uncomplaining servitude.
Meantime old Mr. Maynard still lived on, and his wealth, gradually accumulating, must have grown to something very considerable. The old man held aloof from all his kindred and shut himself up resolutely alone, only seeing his relatives from time to time, andnever giving anyone the smallest reason to suppose that he looked upon him or her with the least favour. But as Alfred Belassis said to himself, he must leave his money to somebody, and certainly he would not bequeath it to any charity.
He gave a home to Olive, lest her uncle’s compassion should be aroused on her behalf. He banished Phil utterly, that his existence might if possible be forgotten; for the old man had been more friendly with Mr. Debenham than with Mr. Belassis, and Maud had been his eldest niece.
The little Maud was kept as far as possible in the background, and the one great hope of Alfred Belassis’ heart was that his wife Celia or his son Lewis should come in for the large fortune the old man must shortly leave behind him. He surely could not have the conscience to live many years longer. It seemed almost an insult to Providence to outlast the three-score years and ten allotted as the span of man’s life.
Most of this family intrigue Phil suspected; but it was little that he actually knew, for Maud was only just emerging from childhood,and Aunt Olive’s letters were but few and far between. As for Uncle Belassis, Phil disbelieved on principle every word he wrote. He had not seen him since he was ten years old, when he had told him to his face that he was an ‘old villain,’ and had received a sound box on the ear. However, Phil was obstinate enough to stick to his opinion, and had never seen any cause to change it.
He was eighteen now, a tall, good-looking youth enough, made more manly and self-possessed by the sort of life he had led, than those who had known him as a boy would have imagined; yet withal of a gentle, winning disposition which might, under other training, have grown weak and vacillating.
It had been his own wish to come to England at last, and learn to be independent of his uncle. He had decided talent both in art and music, which had been strengthened and cultivated by his foreign masters, and would doubtless, after some further study, enable him to make his way in the world. He had a keen love of outdoor life, too, and had been always used to much physical exercise. He was dismayed and disgustedwith the smoke and dirt of London, and longed to leave it as early as possible. His uncle was to consider what was to be done, and let him know, that he might make some arrangements before he set out for his promised visit to his relatives.
The letter containing his fate had now come, and doomed him to a City clerkship. Phil was thus driven to desperation.
There was a third letter still lying unopened, and at last that too claimed attention. It was written in a clear, bold hand, and dated from an hotel in Kensington.
‘Dear Phil,‘I suppose by this time we have each learned our respective fate. My summons to England has been to hear profitable tidings. I trust you may have heard as good. Come to me here as early as you can, to talk things over.‘Yours truly,‘Torrington Torwood.’
‘Dear Phil,
‘I suppose by this time we have each learned our respective fate. My summons to England has been to hear profitable tidings. I trust you may have heard as good. Come to me here as early as you can, to talk things over.
‘Yours truly,‘Torrington Torwood.’
Torrington Torwood, otherwise Tor, was the one friend Phil had made during his boyhood’s years. Both English lads at foreignschools, they had drawn very closely one to the other, and had contrived to be almost constantly together for several years past. Tor was singularly alone in the world, his only relation being a grandfather, who kept him liberally supplied with pocket-money, but never expressed the least wish to see him. Phil, too, was very much alone, despite his family connections, and the two lads had formed a very sincere friendship.
Phil, who clung to Tor, as the weaker nature must always cling to the stronger, and desired nothing better than to pour out his woes and his wrath into sympathetic ears, hurried away and quickly found himself in a comfortable private room, where Tor was sitting amid papers and parchments.
Phil lost no time in recounting his misfortunes, and Tor listened, and read the letters, and heard all that had occurred. He was only eighteen himself, but looked many years older, and his character was more decided and more fully developed than his age would indicate. He was a handsome youth, with a daring look in his eye, and a mouth that expressed a vast deal of determination.
‘Phil,’ he said quietly, at the close of his friend’s story, ‘we have always had a great wish to knock about the world together. My grandfather is dead. I am his heir. I shall have more than a thousand a year. I am to receive the income at once, without waiting for my majority. Will you cast in your lot with mine, Phil, and come with me? I am going to start almost at once, when I have signed the needful papers. Leave your uncle Belassis and all his crew—cut the connection and come with me. “Where one can dine, two can dine,†you know. A thousand a year will keep the pair of us. An office-stool, or a life of travel and adventure—which do you choose, Phil?’
Phil’s face had flushed crimson.
‘Tor!’ he cried, ‘do you mean it really?’
‘You know I mean it. I meant it as soon as ever I had the news, before I knew what a welcome you would get. I have had the plan in my head these three or four years past. Don’t disappoint me, Phil; don’t desert me. You know we just suit one another. You know your uncle Belassis is a scamp, and will ruin you if he can. Don’t give him the chance. Give him the slip instead. Tell himnothing, but come away with me. After you are of age you can write to your sister—or before, if you think he will not follow and claim you. I think we could be a match for him if he did,’ Tor added reflectively; ‘I don’t think he’d come a second time. Well, Phil, will you come?’
‘But, Tor—don’t be offended with me—how can I ever hope to repay you for all I shall cost you?’
Tor laughed lightly.
‘Don’t trouble yourself over that, my dear boy. Wait till I ask for payment. Besides,’ as he caught a dissatisfied look upon Phil’s face, ‘I have a strong presentiment that the old uncle will leave you his fortune in the end. You are his natural heir; you can pay me then.’
‘You promise, if that happens, you’ll take the money?’
‘Oh yes; I promise.’
‘Then I’ll come. I’ll run away. I’ll vanish from the face of Uncle Belassis’ earth, and go with you, Tor. Oh, Tor, it will be splendid!’
They were too young and enthusiastic to be troubled with thoughts of the future, to considerthe possibilities of life and the unpractical nature of such a partnership as the one just proposed. The possibility of Tor’s marriage, the danger of a quarrel, the chance of accident, sickness, or death never troubled their heads. They had money; they had health; they had, or would obtain, freedom; and they would see the world together. This was the sum-total of their reflections, and all they cared for was to get off as fast as possible.
Phil never returned to his dingy lodgings. He layperdufor a few days, for fear of search, and then he and Tor sailed together for America.