AN ENCOUNTER WITH BELASSIS.
Since his nephew’s arrival in England, Mr. Belassis had felt anything
but at ease. To use a well-worn simile, he felt like one who walks over
a powder-mine which may at any time explode, and blow him into the air.
He could hardly have explained the cause of his uneasiness, for he had
always been a cautious, not to say a cunning man, and had taken all
possible care to gloss over all his doubtful transactions so as to make
them appear upright, and even disinterested. Still he could not but be
aware that there were certain passages in his past life which would
not bear the light of day, and he was especially anxious that these
passages should not come under the notice of his nephew.
Why Mr. Belassis should stand in such awe of his nephew is not very
easy to say. So far no unpleasantness had occurred between them, and
the younger man had given no open sign of distrust or dislike.
Yet, all the same, Mr. Belassis feared him. Tor’s cool independence and
self-reliance gave him great uneasiness, for he felt by intuition that
it would be a very difficult matter to daunt or to deceive him, if ever
such a course should become desirable.
Such a character in a Debenham seemed to Mr. Belassis little short of
a personal insult. He had always before been able to do what he would
with the Debenhams. Even Maud, who had a distinct spirit and character
of her own, had never given him any great trouble or anxiety. There was
a facile playfulness in her composition, and a distaste of anything
unpleasant, which rendered it easy to coax or to command her. She would
put up with a good deal rather than make a fuss and get into disgrace;
and he had always felt certain that with care and diplomacy he should
be able to get her to do his will in great things as in small, if only
she remained an inmate of his house, and was backed merely by such
feeble support as her aunt Olive could give her.
But now that the supposed brother had taken her away to his own house,
and would evidently stand between her and any threatened coercion or
cajolement—who might possibly use his influence, which was great,
against the Belassis interest, then matters began to look serious; and
the worthy uncle’s brow was often lined by anxious care, as he reviewed
the situation and wondered what would be the end of it.
He was so used to find his will and his wife’s dominate over all
others, that the sensation he was now experiencing made him feel
helpless, and almost foolish. Mrs. Belassis, too, took a view of
matters which was anything but reassuring; for she was convinced that
Phil was their enemy, and that his present quietness and apparent
cordiality only formed a mask for a hatred which would openly manifest
itself when he had assured himself of the strength of his position.
‘Mark my word, Alfred,’ she would say sometimes, ‘he hates us; and some
day he will make us feel it. What a fool you were to speculate with
that trust-money! I always told you it was too risky. You know better
than I, where a transaction of that kind is likely to lead you; and I
know quite well that Philip Debenham will have no mercy. One can read
that in his face.’
Mr. Belassis wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘Lewis must marry Maud. We _must_ manage that. When her name is
Belassis, and her interests ours, then he will have to stay his hand.
He will not bring disgrace upon _her_ family.’
‘When!’ repeated Mrs. Belassis sceptically. ‘If you marry Maud to Lewis
_now_, you will be a cleverer man than I take you for.’
‘But—but,’ he expostulated, ‘why should we not? He is devoted to her,
and I think she likes him. A few weeks ago you had no fears.’
‘A few weeks ago Maud was under my control. Now she is not. Our
influence is at an end. She cares for nobody now but Philip, and he
will be our enemy.’
Mr. Belassis cursed his nephew with a hearty goodwill. In his wife’s
society he allowed himself the luxury of strong language.
‘What possessed the old madman to make that boy his heir? Why couldn’t
he have left the property to you, or me, or Lewis? What a grand thing
it would have been for us! It makes my blood boil to think of such a
chance lost. And for him to die just then, before we had made sure
of Maud!’ here followed more unparliamentary language. ‘Oh, it’s too
much for anybody’s temper! What can make Philip so different from his
father, and everybody of his name?’
‘There is something very odd about Philip, I always have thought,’ said
Mrs. Belassis significantly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure that I know what I do mean; but I am watching. I have a
sort of suspicion, but I can hardly tell yet what it is. If I could, I
should say nothing to you—you would be sure to let it out, and spoil
everything. If you take my advice, you will have as little to do with
him as possible.’
‘Well, I don’t want to have more to do with him than I need,’ answered
Belassis, looking rather foolish and crestfallen as he heard his
wife’s plainly expressed opinion of him. ‘But I do think I know how
to take care of my own interests, Celia. You seem to have very little
confidence in my caution.’
‘In your caution, plenty; but not much in your judgment,’ answered his
wife frankly.
‘Well, I must speak to him about Maud, at any rate. He said he would
think the matter over, and make up his mind whether to advance or
oppose our views. I wonder if he has decided yet.’
‘If you take my advice, you will say nothing at all about it,’ said
Mrs. Belassis.
The ex-lawyer, however, was not prepared to take his wife’s advice
in all things. He had a great respect for her cleverness, but he
considered his own superior; and he was determined, if possible, to be
on friendly terms with his nephew. He hoped still to conciliate him,
and win him over to his own interests, and was half inclined to think
his wife’s prognostications needlessly gloomy.
The Ladywell party had dined one evening at Thornton House, and Lewis
had speedily followed the ladies into the drawing-room. Tor would have
accompanied him, and had risen to do so, when Mr. Belassis interposed.
‘Sit down again—sit down again, my dear boy. We must excuse Lewis, I
suppose; he has a right and reason to prefer the ladies’ society: but
we so seldom have a chance to talk quietly together, that I confess I
am anxious to avail myself of it.’
Tor sat down readily enough, and filled his glass. It was not his way
to assume heroics, or to stand aloof even from people he considered
undesirable. His manner was always unruffled and serene.
This friendliness of demeanour disarmed Mr. Belassis, and gave him
courage.
‘Well, Phil, my lad, how do you like the new life, now that you are
getting settled down to it? Is it as much to your mind as the old
roving style?’
‘I hardly know yet. Not quite, I think. I do not feel settled even now.
It would take very little to start me off on my travels again.’
Mr. Belassis seemed to breathe more freely.
‘Ah well, I can understand that. It is but natural, I suppose. If I
were young again, and had your means and your experience, I don’t know
but what I should do the same myself. Have you made any plans yet? Have
you settled anything definite?’
‘Oh no; I never do settle things beforehand. I just do what I like, and
go where I will. I detest plans,’ was the careless response.
‘I suppose Mr. Torwood always did the planning in past days?’ suggested
Belassis.
‘Oh—ah—yes; Mr. Torwood did all that. Of course it was his affair
chiefly.’
‘I suppose you will join him when you do begin to travel again?’ said
Belassis, gently feeling his way.
‘I dare say. I really haven’t made any plans. I don’t see my way to
getting off yet awhile.’
‘No, not quite yet, I suppose. You would like to see dear Maud safely
married first?’
Tor made a quick gesture with his hand, and his brow suddenly clouded.
‘See Maud married!’ he echoed rather sharply. ‘Who says she is going to
marry?’
‘Well, nobody says so yet; but at the same time we cannot be quite
blind to what is passing. She seems really fond of Lewis, and she will
reap so substantial an advantage by marrying him, that it is impossible
not to rejoice at the prospect. I am sure you must feel as I do upon
the point, my dear Philip, and rejoice with me.’
‘I don’t believe she cares two straws for Lewis,’ answered Tor coolly.
‘My dear boy, excuse me. I am sure she entertains very warm feelings
for him.’
‘I think she may like him next best to that mastiff pup I gave her the
other day; but I think the dog stands first.’
Mr. Belassis laughed in a rather sickly fashion.
‘You are so amusing, Phil; such good company.’
‘Glad to hear it, I’m sure. I have to make up for so much lost time
with my relations—eighteen years of separation is a good spell.’
Mr. Belassis coughed and fidgeted, and allowed the challenge to pass
unanswered.
‘To return to what we were saying about dear Maud. She really is fond
of Lewis, though I admit she may not be what is called “in love” with
him. Still, she has a strong affection for him, and I trust you will
use your influence to lead her to make such a choice as shall be so
much to her advantage, as a marriage with Lewis will prove.’
‘I don’t feel disposed to interfere in the matter one way or another,’
answered Tor coldly.
‘But think of your sister’s future.’
‘I do think of it; but I’m man of the world enough to know that money
isn’t everything. She shall marry according to her own wishes—a man
she really cares for; if he is rich, her lack of fortune will matter
little; and if he is poor, I shall take care she does not suffer. I
have enough for both, and I’ll not have her coerced by a question of
L.S.D.’
Mr. Belassis’ face fell, and he looked sadly crestfallen. Tor seemed
lost in thought, and did not heed for awhile the eager words and
arguments his companion continued to urge upon him. At last he woke up,
and met his interlocutor with a glance in his eye which the latter did
not like.
‘Now look here, sir,’ said Tor: ‘you’ve asked me a question, now let me
ask you one. Why are you so very anxious for this marriage?’
‘Why am—I anxious—why—I,’ stammered Mr. Belassis, taken aback by the
tone rather than by the words. ‘You know my motive—it is my interest in
Maud’s welfare. As her guardian and her uncle, of course I am anxious
for her to do well for herself. Besides, I never liked the terms of
that will. I thought the condition a most unjust one, and have been
very anxious to bring all right. Your father made it entirely against
my will—indeed I never knew—or it never should have stood.’
Under Tor’s cool, steady gaze, Belassis faltered and stumbled, and
strove manifestly for an assurance and ease which he was far from
feeling. He wished he had taken his wife’s advice, and let his nephew
alone.
‘Suppose you drop all that,’ said Tor quietly. ‘I dare say it pays with
women and children; but it doesn’t do where you have a man to deal
with. My father knew, old Maynard knew, and I know as well as you, how
and why that will came to be framed as it was. Men in their senses
don’t rob their daughters to enrich their nephews, or set their hearts
upon a match between mere children when nothing in the world depends
upon it. My father was not mad, only very weak; and I have been told,
on good authority, that his legal adviser exercised a very strong
influence upon him. It is not hard, therefore, to understand how such
an iniquitous will came to be framed.’
Mr. Belassis sat mute and cowed under the spell of Tor’s cool words and
keen eyes; but he dared not be silent too long. It would look like a
confession of guilt. He pulled himself together, emptied his glass with
rather a shaking hand, and answered with creditable firmness.
‘You are quite wrong in your inference, Philip; but I cannot blame
you, because you have reason on your side, and you cannot, of course,
remember how strange and eccentric a man your father was. Still, I
can point out one weak point in your case. That will, which you think
was contrary to your father’s real wishes, was drawn up fully two
years before his death. Do you suppose, if it had not satisfied him on
maturer consideration, that he would have allowed it to stand? He had
plenty of time to alter the terms, or to make a fresh will, had he so
chosen.’
‘Exactly so,’ answered Tor, ‘and I am strongly of opinion that he did
make a later one.’
He was watching Belassis narrowly, and he saw him start and change
colour; moreover, it was some seconds before he was able to speak.
‘Wh—what a very extraordinary idea! A—another will! Why, where ever is
it then? Why was it not produced?’
‘I fancy, Mr. Belassis, that you could answer such a question better
than I; for it was you, not I, that had the handling of my father’s
papers on his death.’
Belassis grew livid about the lips.
‘Do you mean to accuse me of suppressing a will?’ he asked, in a
quaking voice.
‘I accuse you of nothing, because I know nothing. I am merely informing
you of a suspicion of mine, which is, that a later will was made, which
has never seen the light. If that will ever fell into your hands, I am
convinced it never will see the light now.’
Mr. Belassis sat silent, glaring at his audacious nephew; but he
did not fly into a passion or attempt to carry war into the enemy’s
quarter.
‘He knows something about it,’ said Tor to himself, ‘or he would not
tamely submit to be accused of crime. I wonder what he has done with
it—destroyed it most likely—certain to do that. I wonder who were the
witnesses; but that would prove nothing. Phil’s father might have
destroyed it himself—there would be no case. What a shame it all
is! However, I think I can make that old rascal pretty thoroughly
uncomfortable.’
‘You do not deny my suspicion, I notice, sir,’ he said aloud.
Belassis made a ghastly attempt at a smile, and then assumed an air of
dignity strangely at variance with the expression of his face.
‘I say nothing, Philip, because I have no wish to quarrel, and because
I feel sure when you come to think the matter over, you will be sorry
for your words, and be ready to do me justice. Let us forget they were
ever spoken. I can forgive them, because I know that they were prompted
by a natural, brotherly jealousy for a sister’s rights; but they were
very ill-advised, Philip, and will, I trust, never be repeated.’
‘Well,’ said Tor rather significantly, ‘I do not imagine much good
will come of a repetition, and at present it is certainly useless to
discuss such a subject. Shall we return to the question from which we
started? I asked you why you are so very anxious for Maud’s marriage
with your son, seeing that in any case he obtains a large share of her
fortune, and that the marriage will only bring him in five thousand
more. Maud will cost him more than five thousand. He will be a richer
man if he remains single, and might then marry an heiress into the
bargain. You know all this as well as I do. Why, therefore, are you so
anxious for the match?’
Mr. Belassis’ face had been purple before; now it regained its livid
tint.
‘Young man,’ he said sententiously, ‘I fear you have been taking too
much wine; your tone is becoming most offensive. Why do I wish my son
to marry your sister? For the best possible reason: because I love the
girl as if she were my own, and wish her to be no loser because of her
father’s romantic attachment to myself and my family.’
‘I think I suggested before, sir, that it would be better to drop all
that humbug,’ said Tor blandly. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ve repeated such
sentiments so often to your female relations, that you have grown
almost to believe in them yourself. But at the same time you must be
quite aware that such protestations are a little out of character, and
strike an impartial observer as rather too much of a good thing. You
talk of loving Maud like a father. Rather odd how delighted she was at
escaping from the paternal roof. She can never congratulate herself
enough yet that she is really free for ever from the shadow of Thornton
House.’
‘Girls are so contrary; never know when they are well off,’ growled
Belassis.
‘I find Maud anything but contrary; however, we will let that pass. I
am not going to condemn you simply because Mrs. Lorraine and my sister
were so thankful to escape from your care—we all know that women will
have their whims. What I want to know is this: why are you so bent upon
this marriage I You would rather Maud married and was miserable, than
that she should refuse your son—you know perfectly well that it is so.
And as so much comes to him in any case, why should you care? What is
your motive?’
Mr. Belassis’ eyes had grown sullen and sombre. He only vouchsafed a
few surly words.
‘I have told you the reason, my only reason. I have no motive. What is
it to me?’
‘That is what I mean to find out,’ returned Tor, with cool
significance. ‘The reason you allege is miserably insufficient. I must
try and find out the true one.’
At last Mr. Belassis’ rage and fury burst out. Fear was the motive
power, as Tor was quick enough to detect.
‘You dare insult me like this, Philip Debenham! You dare cast these
foul aspersions on my integrity! I, who have been an honoured and
trusted friend to your father, and a father to his ungrateful children!
How dare you sit there and heap insult upon insult! How dare you look
me in the face and utter such words! You viper! you adder! you would
sting the hand that has loaded you with benefits! Do you not know what
you owe to me? Who was it paid for your education and maintenance for
eight long years after your father’s death? You owe everything to
me—everything. Do you not know that it was to my generosity you owe it
that you were not brought up by the parish? Do you not know that your
father died a ruined, penniless man?’
‘Yes, I know that perfectly,’ answered Tor, who sat utterly unmoved by
this outbreak. ‘What I do not know, and what I want to understand is,
how it came about that he did die ruined and penniless. Perhaps you can
enlighten me further on that point?’
All the anger faded out of Belassis’ face. He looked quite pale and
scared, like a man who has received blow upon blow till sense has
almost departed.
‘He speculated,’ came the answer, spoken in a gasp.
‘Possibly; but he was a man of quiet, studious mind, utterly averse
to business matters. He must have done it by advice. Who managed his
affairs for him?’
‘Could I help his folly?’ questioned Belassis hoarsely; ‘I was but his
tool, his agent. I bought and sold for him, but it was all his own
doing.’
Belassis looked so completely cowed that Tor was half inclined to pity
him. Indignation on Phil’s account, however, urged him to speak out.
‘Indeed! Well, sir, I am not a business man myself, but it does seem
strange to me how completely my father’s fortune vanished, whilst yours
steadily augmented. As you knew so well how to manage your own affairs,
one would naturally suppose you might have saved him from ruin. It
looks a little strange, on the face of things, especially considering
how little my father knew of the world, and how completely he trusted
his affairs to you. I was ten years old, remember, when he died, quite
old enough to remember a good deal. I do not know yet how the thing
is done, one man enriching himself at his neighbour’s expense; but of
course such transactions are common enough, and I can soon discover a
little of the method. Well, I will say good-evening now. I dare say you
will have a good deal to think over, so I will not longer disturb your
meditations. I hope they will be pleasant and profitable to you.’
Tor rose and quitted the room, without waiting for a reply.
Alfred Belassis had a great deal to say to his wife that night.
‘I told you he was our enemy,’ she said. ‘I told you to let him alone.
Well, if he is going to be dangerous to us, I will see if I cannot be
dangerous to him too.’
And Mrs. Belassis’ face looked venomous enough, as she lost herself in
deep thought.