AN ODD INTERVIEW.
Miss Marjory had got her way, and Mr. Debenham was coming down that
very day, to see about the business in hand.
‘He has not lost time, at any rate,’ quoth the brisk little
gentlewoman, looking up from her letter. ‘He is coming this very
afternoon. Well, I’m glad to find young men are not altogether too lazy
to exert themselves in anybody’s business but their own. Horace, I’ll
thank you to meet the 4.15 train this afternoon. It will look more
polite if you go in person. He will remain the night—I am glad to see
he is not too stiff or too proud for that—so I will take care he has a
good dinner. Nothing like a good dinner to put a man in a good temper.
If it were young Torwood, now, I’d have a few of his father’s old
friends in to meet him; as it is, I suppose he would not thank me for
the attention, and would only be politely bored. Well, well! one can’t
have perfection; and Mr. Debenham has acted in a very gentlemanlike
manner throughout. Let me see, now. Soup and salmon, of course, and a
light _entrée_ or two—two will be enough, I think; saddle of mutton,
and two of my best chickens; pity game is not in season, but that can’t
be helped. There’s that Stilton in prime condition, and sweets and
fruits; but he won’t care for them, I imagine. I think he won’t find
much fault with my father’s wines, however. Yes, we can give him as
good a dinner as need be, and show him what Whitbury hospitality is
like. I must go and talk to cook.’
Miss Marjory hastened away, her household keys jangling as she moved,
to interview her model cook, and consult over Tor’s dinner.
Ethel laughed, and so did her brother.
‘She talks dreadfully against young men,’ said he, ‘but she does not
seem altogether indifferent when one is coming.’
‘I think it’s very good-natured of Mr. Debenham to come all this way,’
remarked Ethel. ‘I hope Cousin Marjory will not tease him very much, or
bother his life out with her theories.’
‘Cousin Marjory is a clever woman, Ethel,’ returned Horace. ‘She does
not bore people half so much as you fancy.’
‘She never bores me,’ Ethel said hastily, ‘because I am so fond of her;
but she is funny, you know, Horace, and says one thing one day and
quite another the next, and always seems to want to argue everything
with you. One never knows what she will say next, and she doesn’t care
whom she snubs.’
‘That is the chief beauty of it,’ laughed Horace. ‘She is so
delightfully impartial that we all get it alike. Never you mind, Ethel:
her bark is worse than her bite; and, depend upon it, Whitbury would
never be the place it is, if it were not for her sharp tongue. They all
say that it is she who keeps all the tradespeople up to the mark, to
say nothing of stopping society here from stagnating through idleness.’
Certainly Miss Marjory was not going to let anything stagnate that
day. Within and without, all her household were busily employed making
the old place look its brightest.
‘He shall have a good report to take back to young Torwood. He shan’t
think I boast in vain, when I talk of the improvements I have made in
the house. I can see he means to be reasonable, but I don’t choose
to be yielded to just because I’m a woman. I wish him to see what I
really have done, and appeal to his sense of justice. And I want him
to sink me that new well, and to put continuous iron fencing in place
of that old wooden paling that’s all broken down. Nothing like being a
good tenant for making a good landlord; and if he has any sense of the
fitness of things, I shall get my own way.’
Miss Marjory certainly seemed to go about with the air of one used to
her own way; and after Horace had gone to the station, she repaired to
her own room, to make herself neat and attractive in the stranger’s
eyes.
‘Nothing like producing a good impression at first,’ she remarked to
herself, as she arranged her cap and the dainty lace ruffles round her
neck and wrists.
Miss Marjory always looked well dressed, even when going about her
garden-work in what she termed her ‘chrysalis-shell;’ in her black
satin and old lace she was undeniably handsome, and a model specimen of
a well-bred, well-to-do English gentlewoman.
She heard the dogcart drive up to the door, and the sharp ring at the
bell; and knew that the stranger would be waiting for her alone in the
drawing-room. Ethel had gone to a tennis-party, and Horace was due at
the Minster for evensong. On the whole, she was pleased that this was
the case.
She tripped lightly down the wide staircase, and entered the room so
noiselessly that the young man, standing beside the window, which
commanded the fine view of open country, did not at once perceive her,
and she paused for a moment before advancing to greet her guest.
She had come in with a courteous smile of anticipated greeting upon her
face, such as a hostess is wont to bestow upon a stranger she is glad
to welcome; but when her eyes fell upon the tall, well-made figure, the
tawny head and decisive features, a great surprise flashed over her
face, and the smile changed to one of beaming pleasure.
‘Mr. Torwood!’ she exclaimed, with an accent of extreme gratification
and pleasure. ‘Torrington Torwood himself, whom I saw last a baby in
long-clothes! This is a delightful surprise! Are you better, then? I am
so glad! How delighted everyone here will be to make your acquaintance!’
She shook hands warmly with the young man; but he, although a pleasant
smile, and rather a humorous one, shone out of his eyes, did not
exactly respond to the warmness of Miss Marjory’s greeting.
‘Pardon me, Miss Descartes; if you have not seen my friend Torwood
since his long-clothes days, it is hardly to be expected that you could
recognise him. Did I not make it plain that I am merely his substitute,
Philip Debenham?’
Miss Marjory took one backward step, and looked up into the frank,
bronzed face above her.
‘Do you mean to tell me that you are Mr. Debenham?’ she asked.
‘Certainly I do.’
‘And do you expect to be believed?’
‘Well, yes, I certainly did.’
Miss Marjory laughed in genuine amusement.
‘Don’t talk nonsense to me, Torrington Torwood. I know better than to
believe it.’
The stranger looked at her with his pleasant smile.
‘But, Miss Descartes, you really must believe me.’
‘Believe that your name is Debenham! Stuff and nonsense! As if anyone
would ever believe that, who had known your father. You are the very
image of what Guy Torwood was at your age. Debenham indeed! I never
heard anything so ridiculous in all my life—never!’
‘But, my dear madam——’
‘But, my dear sir, it is not the least use your trying to make a fool
of me. Guy Torwood was a great friend of mine—indeed, he once did me
the honour to make me an offer of marriage; and if he had done so a
second time, I’m not sure but what I should have said “yes.” But he
saw Lucile Torrington, and it was all over with him then. However, it
isn’t very likely that I have forgotten Guy Torwood, or that I should
not recognise his son, who has grown up his very image.’
‘But, Miss Descartes——’
‘But, Mr. Torwood, don’t you try that on any more with me. But for a
mere accident, I might have been your mother. What is the use of your
trying to deceive me? You had better give it up with a good grace.’
The young man seemed to think so too, for his face changed, and the
smiling assurance was replaced by an expression of serious gravity,
which surprised Miss Marjory, who had merely fancied that a boyish
trick was being played off upon her.
‘Miss Marjory,’ said Tor, unconsciously falling into the name that he
had learnt from his father’s lips, ‘I see that I cannot keep up my
disguise before you. But may I ask as a great favour, involving more
than I can explain, that I may still be Philip Debenham to you and all
here, and that you will not betray my identity to any living soul? I
throw myself upon your mercy, Miss Marjory; I do not think you will
readily betray your old friend’s son.’
His earnestness startled Miss Marjory.
‘Sit down,’ she said, suiting the action to the words herself—‘sit
down; I must understand more of this. I hope you do not mean that you
have brought your honoured father’s name into such disgrace, that you
are obliged to change it for a stranger’s.’
‘No, no,’ answered Tor quickly; ‘not that. I have never——’ then,
bethinking himself that his present course of conduct might not be
approved in the eyes of the world, he paused, and added, ‘I do not
think I have ever done what _he_ would have been ashamed to witness.’
Miss Marjory’s face cleared. There was a frankness in Tor’s manner
which disarmed suspicion. This manner had often stood him in good stead
of late, and did so at the present crisis.
She looked sharply at him, and then began to ask pertinent questions.
‘You admit that you are Torrington Torwood?’
‘I have no choice in the matter,’ answered Tor, with a smile; ‘I am
forced to do so.’
‘And you wish to pass under the name of Philip Debenham?’
‘I do.’
‘Is there a Philip Debenham in reality?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you and he changed names and positions?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many people are in this plot?’
‘Nobody knows of its existence save myself, and now yourself. You and
I, Miss Marjory, are the sole conspirators.’
‘And Philip Debenham.’
‘No. He knows no more about it than that table. He is lying ill,
unconscious of what is passing, at a doctor’s house in Germany.’
‘Torrington Torwood, you called me just now a conspirator, and perhaps
I may consent to be one, for I cannot but like you for your father’s
sake. But I must know the rights of this. I never choose to act in the
dark. I shall not abuse your confidence, whether I become an ally or
not. You had better make a clean breast of it, and tell me all; and
then, if I approve your course of action, I do not say but that I may
be willing to help you, if I can.’
‘Thank you, Miss Marjory. I am sure I can trust you, from what my
father has told me of you, and of Whitbury. I believe my only course is
to take you into my confidence.’
‘To be sure it is. I am a woman, so I am curious, and of course I like
a little bit of intrigue. Come, now, tell me all about it. Mr. Debenham
is ill, and unconscious, and you have adopted his name and position,
and yet nobody knows. How is that?’
‘Because nobody has seen him since he was ten years old. His father
died then, and an old brute of an uncle sent him abroad and kept him
there; and before he had ever been home at all, his uncle found him
such an uncongenial berth in an office, that he elected to cut and run,
and came to me, and we have been travelling the world over, he and I,
these ten years; but as none of his people have seen him since he was a
small boy, I pass for him easily enough.’
‘But why should you pass for him? Why doesn’t he—why don’t you bring
him over and wait till he recovers?’
‘Because the date of his recovery is very doubtful, and the journey to
England was impossible for him then.’
‘But why did you personate him? Why could you not speak the truth about
it?’
‘I believe now, that that would have been the best way; but the idea
struck me all in a moment, and it seemed too good a joke to lose. The
comic side was certainly uppermost in my mind at first; and only when
it was too late to draw back, did I realize the more serious aspect of
the affair.’
‘But I want to understand better. Are you trying to be of use to him—or
what? Why did it become necessary for him to go to his relations at
all?’
‘I am telling my story very badly,’ said Tor. ‘I forget how little you
know. Phil has lately come into a large property. The great-uncle,
out of whose way he was so carefully kept, ended by leaving all to
him; and, of course, he was written for urgently. He was hopelessly
unconscious when the summons came, and the prevailing impression left
on my mind by the study of various letters was, that unless somebody
with a head on his shoulders went over at once to see to things for
him, the brute of an uncle I have mentioned before, would feather his
nest well out of the property, which he would manage as next of kin,
and would probably force Phil’s sister into a marriage with his son,
in order to secure her fortune to his family. Phil couldn’t give me
powers to act for him, and the scheme of personating him flashed into
my head, and I acted upon it before I had really time to think the
question seriously over. Besides, I thought then, that he would be sure
to come to himself in a few weeks’ time, to relieve me of the burden of
his affairs; and now it seems as though an indefinite time might pass
before he recovers, and I’m getting precious tired of playing the part.’
‘You are not acting from interested motives? You are dealing fairly
by your friend?’ questioned Miss Marjory, with some little sternness.
‘Don’t be offended at the question; for, you know, you have placed
yourself in a very awkward position.’
Tor admitted this readily and fervently; but a little more explanation
convinced her that his motive had been disinterested enough, and
that he was guarding Phil’s interests jealously. Miss Marjory was
interested, and listened attentively whilst he enlarged upon his story,
and gave fuller details of the situation.
Maud’s position was explained, and Miss Marjory was quick enough to
detect more in Tor’s voice than in his words.
‘I suppose you are in love with Phil’s pretty sister yourself?’ she
said sharply. ‘And are pretending to be her brother all the while, so
that you cannot try your luck with her?’
Tor coloured through his bronze, but did not deny the soft impeachment.
‘You have put yourself in a very awkward position,’ repeated Miss
Marjory. ‘You will have to be very careful how you act.’
‘I am very careful,’ said Tor. ‘I never lose sight of the fact that
sooner or later the truth will be known. And when she looks back upon
our intercourse, under the new light, I do not think she will have any
cause to say that I have taken an unfair advantage of my position. I am
as cautious and reserved as I can be, without exciting suspicion.’
‘You are quite right, young man,’ said Miss Marjory, with emphasis.
‘Always act like a man of honour, as your father did. You will never
have cause to regret it if you do.’
‘I hope I shall never be tempted to do otherwise,’ said Tor, smiling;
‘though I suppose, in the eyes of the law, I should be a felon now, if
I were detected.’
‘A felon!’ echoed Miss Marjory.
‘Why, yes. I sign Phil’s cheques and securities. Is not that forgery?’
Miss Marjory’s face grew grave.
‘Is it really so serious as that?’
‘It would be if I were detected before Phil can come forward to support
me. Whilst he lies unconscious, I should be at the mercy of his
kindred. Belassis, the unscrupulous uncle I have told you of, would be
delighted to prosecute me.’
‘What name did you say?’ asked Miss Marjory quickly.
‘Belassis—Alfred Belassis! That is Phil’s uncle’s name; and he hates
and fears me more than a little. He would have no mercy.’
Miss Marjory made no further comment upon the name just then, though a
curious expression passed over her face. She was more interested in the
other question under discussion.
‘If they were to find you out, he would prosecute?’
‘Certainly; and he could make good his case fast enough. I could not
stand a “Claimant” cross-examination on places and events connected
with Phil’s boyhood; and one look at his unconscious face would stamp
him as Maud’s brother. My only chance lies in keeping off suspicion,
until Phil comes to his senses. Then I am safe.’
‘Belassis could not prosecute you then?’
‘Not whilst Phil supported me; and said all was done according to his
wish. _He_ could prosecute me, but nobody else can.’
‘You are sure of this?’
‘Yes. I have studied the law of it.’
‘And can you answer for your friend’s acquiescence?’
Tor smiled.
‘With my life.’
Miss Marjory pondered.
‘You may find yourself in a very awkward fix one of these days, Mr.
Torwood.’
‘I am quite aware of it. Well as I have hitherto managed, and hopeful
as I am of Phil’s speedy recovery, I am still quite aware how insecure
is the ground beneath my feet. You can judge, then, that your
determined recognition of me as Torwood was a little disconcerting.’
Miss Marjory laughed at the recollection.
‘You acted very well, you might have convinced most people; but I
always did have my eyes in my head. But you may trust me; I will not
betray you. You shall be Mr. Debenham here, and the true name shall
never pass my lips, even when we are alone. You are your father’s own
son, and I will stand your friend. If ever you find yourself getting
into trouble, write and tell me, and if I can I will help you. You have
trusted me, and I will not desert you.’
‘I am very grateful to you, Miss Marjory. I was afraid how my story
might be taken. I am in a very anomalous position.’
‘Pooh, nonsense! what does the position matter, so long as the
conscience is clear? You have done a foolish, romantic, boyish thing,
in a freak of fancy, without counting the cost; but I don’t see that
you have acted dishonourably in reality, only in outward show, and in a
way that can easily be explained. So far as I can see, there is nothing
to be regretted except the original decision, which, as you say, was
made more in the spirit of jest than in earnest. It was a pity you ever
began it—and yet I don’t know. Poor Maud might have fallen into the
clutches of Belassis——’ and at the mention of that name Miss Marjory
fell again into a reverie, from which she roused herself to conclude,
‘Perhaps all will turn out for the best.’
‘I hope so,’ said Tor, who was rather more grave than usual, after
putting into words, for the first time, the actual peril of his
position. His secret, too, was not now entirely his own; and although
he implicitly believed in Miss Marjory’s goodwill and reticence, he
could not but feel that a new complication had arisen, as well as a new
danger, in his marked likeness to his father, of which he had before
been quite unconscious.
‘Don’t be down-hearted, Philip Debenham,’ said Miss Marjory briskly.
‘By far the worst of the danger is over. It isn’t likely anything will
turn up now to disturb you; but if it does, just you let me know. I
think I might be able to help you if it came to a talk of prosecution.’
‘I don’t see how,’ answered Tor, with a smile that thanked her for her
goodwill.
Miss Marjory nodded her head and looked wise.
‘Evidence of this interview would be of distinct value to you,’ she
remarked, ‘and your accounts would go far to show that you have acted
perfectly honestly, as trustee rather than as owner. If you told your
story, and I corroborated it, and it was known that you had told it
me, when detection was not even threatened, that would go far towards
proving the innocence of your intentions. What view the law would take
I cannot say; but I should be inclined to think it might be persuaded
to suspend sentence, till your friend could come forward and speak for
himself.’
‘I do not know how that might be,’ said Tor, ‘but I see that your
evidence might have weight. However, I trust the danger may never
threaten.’
‘So do I; but promise to write to me if it does.’
‘I will do so gladly.’
‘And let me know, too, if that marriage with Lewis Belassis—stay,
perhaps I should not wait, only I do not yet know anything. It may be a
mere coincidence.’
‘I do not quite follow,’ said Tor tentatively.
‘No, of course not. How should you? I was chattering to myself. I’m not
sure, though, but what I might be able to help you to put another spoke
in Belassis’ wheel.’
‘You!’ ejaculated Tor.
‘Yes, I. But stop—I hear Horace coming in. We will talk more of this
some other time. I must go out, but I think you had better not be
seen in the streets of Whitbury, or somebody else might recognise Guy
Torwood’s son. Come, Horace, take Mr. Debenham into the garden to smoke
whilst I go out. Show him the hot-houses, or play a game of billiards.
We dine at half-past seven, Mr. Debenham. I shall be in long before
then.’
‘She seems very much at home with this young Debenham,’ thought Horace,
as he carried Tor off to smoke.
END OF VOL. I.
BILLING AND SON’S, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_G., C. & Co._