Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.
Decorative images before and after every chapter have not been
referenced.
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. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1884.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
TO MY SISTERS,
GERTRUDE AND CONSTANCE,
THIS, MY FIRST NOVEL,
Is Dedicated,
IN FULFILMENT OF A PROMISE MADE TO THEM,
IN THE DAYS OF OUR EARLY CHILDHOOD.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A PROLOGUE 1
II. NEWS FROM ENGLAND 16
III. DR. SCHNEEBERGER 38
IV. THE EXILE’S RETURN 55
V. PHILIP’S SISTER 75
VI. A MORNING WALK 96
VII. MICHAEL MEREDITH 116
VIII. A TALK IN THE TWILIGHT 133
IX. TORWOOD’S TENANT 153
X. MAUD’S MATRIMONIAL VIEWS 171
XI. AN ENCOUNTER WITH BELASSIS 191
XII. AN AWKWARD RECOGNITION 211
XIII. ROMA’S REQUEST 229
XIV. MEREDITH’S PROPOSITION 248
XV. DANGERS AHEAD 266
XVI. AN ODD INTERVIEW 286
TORWOOD’S TRUST.
CHAPTER I.
A PROLOGUE.
Philip 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? And now 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 come often. 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 was always 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, and never 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 disgusted
with 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.’
Torrington Torwood, otherwise Tor, was the one friend Phil had made
during his boyhood’s years. Both English lads at foreign schools,
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 him nothing, 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 consider the 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 lay _perdu_ for a few
days, for fear of search, and then he and Tor sailed together for
America.