WILD OATS.
‘Here, Maud—here is old Uncle Maynard’s letter, if you want to read it!’
So said Tor, as he entered the drawing-room, after his visit to
Thornton House; and Maud started up with an exclamation of pleasure at
seeing him again so soon. When she took in the drift of his remark, her
eyes opened wide with surprise.
‘The letter, Phil? Had Aunt Celia got it, then?’
‘Yes; she had _borrowed_ it to show to her precious husband. She found
it amongst my writing-paper, she says.’
‘That’s a lie,’ said Maud, with the frankness of her nature; ‘for I
tidied out that drawer the day you went to Whitbury.’
‘And I left the paper locked up that same day,’ added Tor, smiling.
‘Aunt Celia must have a vivid imagination.’
‘Did you tell her she was lying?’ asked Maud eagerly. ‘I mean, did you
say that it was in the locked drawer?’
‘There was no need to say very much. Mrs. Belassis is not dense. She
quite understood me. It is better to avoid saying disagreeable things,
when meaning them does as well.’
‘I always want to say them,’ answered Maud candidly. ‘But isn’t she
dreadful? She must have a duplicate key of your table. Do you think she
has taken anything else?’
‘I shall look and see to-morrow. I don’t think there is anything in
that table that she would care to possess. What beats me, is the motive
for taking that letter. It is disagreeable enough, but of no value.
Read it, Maud, and see if you can find out anything which could explain
her deed.’
Maud obeyed. After reading a little way she became so much amused that
she turned again to the beginning, and read it out aloud, so that Aunt
Olive might have the benefit of the joke. She enjoyed vastly the old
man’s misanthropic utterances, and her comments as she read amused the
listeners as much as did the letter itself.
‘Dear, cross old Uncle Maynard!’ she exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it splendid how
Uncle Belassis outwitted himself by keeping you away, Phil? How savage
they must have been when they saw what he says! Oh, I really am glad
Aunt Celia found it—it does so serve them right! He must have hated
the Belassis family. I always thought he did. Do you think he’s really
right about the will? Did Uncle Belassis make papa put that condition
in, Phil? If he did, that settles the matter. I won’t have anything
to do with a plot of Uncle Belassis’ making. I’ll send Lewis to the
right-about pretty quick, if I’m just to be made a dupe of that horrid
Belassis.’
Maud’s cheek had flushed. Her eyes sparkled with anger.
‘“Women will marry anything,” will they? Well, I’ll not marry Lewis
to please his father—nothing shall persuade me. Yes, Phil; uncle was
right. If you had not come back in time I might have been half bullied,
half coaxed into it—for I do like Lewis, and I hate a row; but if
you’ll back me I don’t care for anything, and I’ll defy Uncle Belassis
to his face!’
Tor smiled and stood beside the girl, who had risen in her excitement,
and was standing erect and indignant, with the letter held fast in her
hands. He put his hand upon her shoulder and looked down into her face.
‘All right, little sister. You need have no fears on that point. You
and I are more than a match for old Belassis; and you shall neither be
bullied nor coaxed into doing anything you do not like—I will take good
care of that. But leave the open defiance to me; and content yourself
with the calm _hauteur_ of the _grande dame_.’
Maud’s face took a different expression, and the angry light died out
of her eyes. She looked up at him with a grateful admiration.
‘You are just an angel-boy, Phil. I wish I could be like you; but I’m
afraid I shall never be the _grande dame_, I’m much too quick-tempered
and volatile; I can’t think how you can keep so cool. I wish I could. I
wish I were like you.’
‘So do not I—I like you as you are, Maud,’ answered Tor. ‘But I am not
going to let you make any important decision as to your future in a
moment of heat. You must think the matter over dispassionately, and
come calmly to your decision. But you see what the old fellow says
about my duty. You are not to be a loser by your decision, Maud. A wish
like that from a testator cannot be lightly set on one side. Remember
that, Maud, when you weigh the matter in the balances.’
Tor knew quite well that the more Maud thought of a marriage with Lewis
Belassis, the less she would like it, so he had no misgivings about
inculcating this dispassionate consideration. He was doing the duty of
an elder brother, without any fear that his own chances would suffer
thereby. To be the dupe of a Belassis plot and to be the victim of his
scheming would, he knew, be the more intolerable to her, the longer she
looked at the matter.
But Maud broke in upon his thoughts with an imperious gesture.
‘Nonsense, Phil! I won’t have you do anything romantic and ridiculous.
This is a big place, and you will want a lot of money to keep it up.
As long as you are not married, I’ll live here and keep house for you;
and when you marry, I’ll beg, borrow, or steal one of those dear little
cottages at the end of the park, and live there on the remains of my
fortune; and you shall keep a horse for me here, and ride out with me
once or twice a week; and I’ll stay there an old maid, until somebody
as nice as you turns up and makes love to me, and then I’ll marry him.
But,’ and here she heaved a melodramatic sigh, ‘I’m afraid there is
nobody else in the world half as nice as you.’
‘Of course not,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Now sit down, Maud, and let
us be sensible for once. I do want to find out, if I can, why Mrs.
Belassis cribbed that paper. She must have had a motive, and a strong
one. She would not have done anything quite so suspicious without.’
‘That’s true,’ assented Maud; and she returned to a minute examination
of the paper.
After turning it round and round several times, she proceeded to unfold
it, and then her eyes opened wide with a look of comprehension.
‘Look here, Phil! She has been rubbing something out. There was
something written in pencil on the inside. What was it?’
Tor looked over her shoulder, and saw plain traces of careful erasure.
He pulled at his moustache, and whistled under his breath.
‘By Jove! So she has!’
‘What was it, Phil?’ asked Maud eagerly. ‘What had old Uncle Maynard
written there?’
‘I don’t know, Maud. I had never unfolded the paper. It never occurred
to me that there was writing on the inside.’
‘No,’ said Maud slowly. ‘I don’t suppose it did. Men are never curious,
and there isn’t anything to make anyone turn over. I wonder what it
was. Something important, of course, or Aunt Celia would not have
troubled to run a risk for it.’
All three faces were grave. Tor felt that through an unconscious
blunder of his, some distinct damage might have been done to Phil,
though how or why he could not tell. It was not easy to see what harm
could ensue from neglect of a few pencilled words—added quite as an
afterthought to the letter; but at the same time, Mrs. Belassis’
conduct had made it evident that importance did attach to them; and
Tor was disturbed at this discovery.
It was useless, however, to try to conjecture what the last message
could have been, and lamentations over the casualty were equally
purposeless. Tor had some dim hope that he might surprise the truth
from one or other of the Belassis’ at some later date, but at present
silence was their only course.
Maud talked herself sleepy, and went to bed; Mrs. Lorraine was about to
follow her example, when Tor asked her to remain a little while longer,
as he had something of importance he wished to say to her.
The gentle little widow looked half surprised at this announcement, for
nobody since her husband’s death had ever cared to discuss matters of
importance with her; but she assented readily, and settled herself once
more in her chair.
‘Well, dear boy?’
‘I want to ask you what you know about Alfred Belassis—of his early
life, I mean. You have always lived in this neighbourhood, have you
not? You know as much of the family history as anyone.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do; but I do not know anything of Alfred Belassis’
early life. I never saw him until a few years before he married Celia.’
‘Who were the Belassis’?—the seniors, I mean? Were they not very much
below your family in social position?’
‘Yes, I always thought so. I always wondered how Celia could make such
a marriage, though we ought not to be proud I suppose; and Alfred
Belassis had very good worldly prospects.’
‘I want you to tell me how it all came about, so far as you know the
story. Begin with the father. How did the intimacy between the families
begin?’
‘The father was James Belassis. He was a solicitor in the town of
Darwen—where the coach stops, you know. He was a respectable kind of
man, but not a gentleman. Nobody knew much about him until father—our
father, I mean—found out that he was a very clever man of business, and
gradually put all his affairs into his hands. Other people followed
father’s example, and Belassis soon found himself in very much improved
circumstances, and on the high-road to wealth. He had been a careful,
saving man always, and had made a fair amount of money before; and
I can remember father saying one day, that he had a son whom he had
educated almost like a gentleman, and who was, he fancied, rather wild.’
‘When did all this take place?’ asked Phil.
‘I don’t exactly know when father first employed Belassis. It must have
been when I was quite a girl. But it was, I think, in 1843 that Alfred
Belassis first appeared upon the scene.’
‘What made him come?’
‘His father sent for him. He was getting on so well that he wanted his
son to come and take a share of the business, and learn enough to step
into his shoes. Alfred had been in the office when quite young; but his
father had indulged him, and it had ended by his going off to see the
world, that he might be made into a gentleman.’
‘The world must be congratulated on the gentleman it has turned out,’
remarked Tor. ‘Well, the young man came back in ’43, did he?—to a
sudden prospect of wealth and importance; and what then?’
‘I have always thought it was at that time that James Belassis began
to have hopes of making a good marriage for his son, and I believe
he always had his eye upon one of our father’s three daughters. We
were not bad-looking girls, Maud, Celia, and I; but men—marriageable
men—were scarce, and it was not to be wondered at if James Belassis
should make such a plan. His son would be rich, and he had had a
gentleman’s education, and was not a match to be utterly despised in
these parts; I think our father secretly favoured him. He wanted his
daughters well married, I know.’
‘Did Alfred Belassis fall in with his father’s plans for his future?’
asked Tor, in rather a peculiar tone.
‘Yes, I think so. He came here often, and paid us all a good deal of
attention; but for several years nothing happened. I think it was four
years before he even proposed to Celia. Maud had married your father by
that time, and I think it was soon afterwards that he asked Celia; and
they were engaged quite a long time. I used to think he didn’t really
want to marry her—he kept putting it off so much. Men were generally
afraid of Celia; I think that was why she never had an offer till
Alfred Belassis asked her. I don’t think she ever cared very much for
him; but father was for it, and she wished to be independent. I used
often to fancy Alfred was half afraid of her. He was so very long in
coming to the point.’
‘When were they married?’
‘In May, 1850—I remember I did not like them to be married in May; but
Celia said it was all superstitious nonsense. Alfred would have waited
till June, but Celia said if it wasn’t in May it should be in April;
and then they settled for May. Celia had got quite out of patience with
his “shilly-shallying.” She threatened to break off the match, if he
never intended to get married.’
‘Why didn’t he break it off, if he was so much afraid?’
‘Oh, he never could bear her to talk like that. He was bent on the
marriage, but he seemed so inclined to keep putting it off. He acted
very oddly altogether. You know Celia was a good match; for I was cut
out of father’s will when I married, and Maud and Celia had my fortune
between them. Celia was father’s favourite, and she got the most in the
end.’
Tor sat still, digesting what he had heard. All pointed conclusively
to the theory he had formed, that Alfred Belassis had not verified
the fact of his first wife’s death, before his marriage with Celia
Maynard. He had evidently been summoned home suddenly, to hear of an
increase of fortune, and fairly good worldly position, and the prospect
of an excellent marriage; and he had not had the honesty or courage to
confess that he was already married. A wife like Nelly Roberts would
be a millstone round his neck all his life, preventing his ever rising
to the standing he might otherwise hope to attain; and with his usual
lack of principle, and clumsy cunning, he had trusted that chance would
favour him, and that the ex-lady’s-maid would remain in the seclusion
where he had left her, and never trouble him more.
At the end of seven years he evidently had heard nothing of her, and
had then, though obviously with some misgivings, entered a second time
into the bonds of ‘holy matrimony.’
‘Why do you ask all these questions, Philip?’ asked Mrs. Lorraine.
‘What can it matter now, how or when all this happened? I know it was
an evil day for all of us when Belassis entered our family; but why do
you want to know the details?’
‘I will tell you why, Aunt Olive. It is a disgraceful story enough, and
I do not wish it to go further; but it will be safe with you; and I
think one of the family should know it.’
Mrs. Lorraine looked half surprised, half alarmed.
‘What is it, dear boy?’
‘Did Belassis ever mention a former marriage to your sister, or to
anyone?’
‘A former marriage? Oh dear no! He was not married, and never could
have been. He was only about three-and-twenty when he came here, and he
lived here seven years before he married. Oh no, he could not have been
married before that—it is quite impossible. What makes you ask such a
very odd question?’
‘Because he was married before—he made a low sort of marriage, with a
pretty lady’s-maid, only a few months before he appeared at Ladywell.’
And forthwith Tor launched into the history of his visit to Whitbury,
and the discovery which had been forced upon him there.
Aunt Olive listened aghast, especially when it dawned upon her that her
brother-in-law was a much greater rascal than even she had ever before
believed, and that he had shamefully deceived her sister. Only too well
did she now perceive the cause of his uneasiness before the wedding;
and her dismay at the possibility, to which they could not blind
themselves, fairly took her breath away.
‘I trust all may be well on _that_ score,’ said Tor, knowing well what
was in her mind. ‘For the girl did die, poor thing, somewhere about
1850, and we shall try to ascertain the exact date if it is possible.
I do not in the least believe that this disgraceful episode need ever
be made public; but I think it will give me the whip-hand of Belassis
if ever he is troublesome. The secret is known only to me and to Miss
Marjory Descartes. I think we are both to be trusted. I shall do
nothing which might bring down sorrow and disgrace upon the innocent.
If he lets my affairs alone, I will let his.’
Tor was not long in finding that he had got the whip-hand of Belassis
pretty considerably. He was riding over the farm the following day,
when the uncle joined him, mounted on an old screw, which was too
broken-down in spirit to frighten the most timid horseman.
‘Ah, Phil, my boy!’ he cried with great heartiness. ‘Just the fellow I
wanted to see. Ride on with me a little away from these clodhoppers—so,
not too fast. I just wanted a word or so with you.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Hum—ah—well—you spoke last evening of Whitbury, did you not?’
‘I believe I did, sir.’
‘Ah, yes—well, perhaps you might have observed a little constraint in
my manner, did you?—a little absence of my usual frank heartiness—eh?’
‘I certainly did notice something odd. I fancied it might be a
threatening of cholera,’ answered Tor, ‘you went so green.’
‘Ha! ha! Very good—cholera indeed! What a wag you are, Philip! No,
no—now let us see—what was I saying? Oh, Whitbury? yes; and Miss
Marjory Descartes. I suppose my name was not mentioned between you?’
‘She seemed to know the name Belassis, when it came up casually in
conversation. I believe she had known a Belassis in past days. A
relation of yours?’
‘Ah well, never mind now. I know you’re not a chatterer, Philip, and
I’m going to make a father confessor of you. Ha! ha! that’s rather
good, isn’t it? I say, old chap, do you know what wild oats are?’
He dug Tor playfully in the ribs. The young man smiled, and answered
readily:
‘Well, yes, sir; I have some acquaintance with the article. They are
generally pleasanter things to sow than to reap.’
‘Why, yes, boy; so you have found that out too! Ah me! we all run a bit
wild in our youth. I dare say you have played Don Juan sometimes before
now—eh? Well, never mind that. It isn’t fair to ask too many such
questions. But to come to the point; what I want to tell you is this—I
sowed most of my wild oats in Whitbury.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Yes, I did; and that’s why I didn’t much care to talk about the place.
Now mind you, boy, I did nothing really wrong—no, no. I was wild and
foolish; but I never disgraced my father’s name’—here his face assumed
an edifying expression of virtuous complacency. ‘I was only a bit gay
and wild; but still one doesn’t like such episodes brought to light
after a number of years—you will know better what I mean when you
are married, and settled down in life. My wife, now, is what I call
a fastidious woman—an uncommonly particular, upright, conscientious
woman.’
‘Quite so,’ ejaculated Tor softly.
‘Eh? yes, quite so; I knew you would agree with me, and you can
understand that I don’t want old Whitbury gossip to come to her ears.
I don’t want to meet Miss Marjory Descartes, or for her to meet Celia.
I’d rather she never came near the place at all. And I’ll take it as a
personal favour, Philip, if you will not talk about such things before
my wife, or put ideas into her head, or have Miss Marjory to Ladywell
at all.’
Belassis was flushed, breathless, and incoherent. Tor answered gravely
enough:
‘I can’t promise not to ask Miss Marjory to Ladywell; but you can keep
out of her way as much as you please. If I were you, I would tell your
wife about these innocuous wild oats, and get the matter off your mind.
However, I have no wish to introduce the subject. I always think people
had much better not meddle with their neighbours’ affairs.’
Even Belassis’ thick head caught at the meaning of these last
significant words.
‘Oh, ah—yes,’ he answered uneasily. ‘I never do interfere—I don’t mean
to. We’ll just keep on good terms, and let one another alone.’
Belassis rode off as rapidly as he dared, feeling unequal to prolonging
the interview. Tor, who had seen Maud’s hat over a distant hedge, put
his horse to a gallop, and joined her by a flying leap.
‘Phil! how you do startle one! What are you up to now?’
‘I’ve been talking with our respected uncle. I don’t think he’ll bother
us much more. The open defiance will hardly be needed.’
‘You met Uncle Belassis?’
‘Yes; I have just parted from him.’
‘Was he riding?’
‘Well, I can hardly say that. He sat on his horse, and the horse ran.’
Maud laughed delightedly, and her mind was diverted from the question
of the interview, as Tor intended it should be.
‘Oh, Phil,’ she said, ‘there came a letter for you by the mid-day post.
It’s from Germany, and I think perhaps it’s from Tor, or about him.’
Tor hastened home with all the speed he could, an eager hope possessing
him that he might see at last Phil’s familiar handwriting.