DISCOMFITED.
When Belassis heard that his troublesome nephew had gone to Germany,
and would probably be absent for a week, he seemed to breathe more
freely again; for since the evening on which he had heard of the sudden
visit to Whitbury, he had felt like one who lives with a drawn sword
suspended over his head. Not even his conversation in the field on the
following day had restored his shaken equanimity, for he was not at all
assured that his statement had been believed, although it had not been
contradicted. Belassis and his wife had both ample food for meditation,
and were glad of the respite which this visit to Germany had afforded.
‘Now is our time, if ever, to search for the will,’ said Mrs. Belassis,
the same evening that Lewis had told them of the sudden journey. ‘Why
did we not have this clue before, when Ladywell stood empty? We could
have done anything then. Now it may be difficult, and even dangerous.’
Belassis shook his head helplessly, and did not know what to suggest.
‘You never do,’ returned his wife coolly. ‘I can’t think what has come
to you, Alfred; you used to have plenty of assurance, and meddled
with matters you had much better have let alone, and now that a real
emergency has come, you are no better than a girl. I’d be ashamed to be
such a poor creature.’
Belassis did not resent this language, for he felt himself a poor
creature enough at that moment. What his wife said of him was only too
true. Some change had come over him for which he could not account, and
his old cunning and craft seemed to have entirely deserted him.
As a fact, it was circumstances that had changed, not his nature.
Belassis was a man who could go on swimmingly whilst things were
prosperous, whilst the game was in his own hands, and success within
his grasp, but he could not stand up against misfortune; and when
the tide of his luck seemed turning, he could only look on dismayed,
feeling hopelessly unequal to the task of stemming the torrent.
His father had been a clever man, and had put his son in the way of
becoming wealthy and respected. He left him a handsome property and
a flourishing business, and had secured for him a well-dowered wife.
Alfred Belassis therefore had made an excellent start in life, for he
was trusted and respected for his father’s sake, and admitted into
society for his wife’s.
So long as he had only had to deal with men like Philip Debenham
senior, all had gone well. He had fleeced him with impunity, speculated
with his money, and had contrived that all gain should be his own, and
all loss his client’s. He had even gone so far as to speculate with
Maud’s trust-money, and the speculation had been a lamentable failure.
Belassis’ own fortune, too, had suffered through his folly and ill
luck; and since this new relative had turned up, with his cool
inquiring words and amused incredulous looks, the ground seemed
actually slipping away from under his feet, and he could only lean
upon his wife for support. The idea that she might now learn the
treacherous part he had played towards her, was an added terror; and
Belassis sometimes felt disposed to make a bolt for it, and get away
altogether from his present surroundings, but his natural weakness and
irresolution deterred him.
‘I’m afraid I am but a poor creature, my dear,’ he answered, with a
sickly smile. ‘I think I cannot be very well just now.’
‘Pooh, nonsense! You’re well enough, only cowardly. Now look here. I’m
nearly sure that Philip Debenham has never seen those words about the
later will. For one thing, I don’t believe the paper had ever been
unfolded before I opened it out; and for another, if Philip had known
of it, the search would have been instituted at once; and if the will
had been in existence at all, it would have been found. I’ve never
heard that any search has been made; and besides, although Philip did
ask you something about a later will, it seemed to be pure guess-work,
for he imagined that it had fallen into your hands.’
‘I wish to heaven it had!’ groaned Belassis. ‘If there is another
will, and if it is found, we shall be ruined.’
‘Just so; and as we both believe that another will was made, we must
take care that it falls into no hands but our own.’
Belassis groaned again.
‘You really think he made another?’
‘You know I always did think he intended making another, when you told
me how perfectly ready he was to agree to your suggestion, and to make
that condition, and write that letter. You had plenty of bluster in
those days, Alfred, and Philip feared you; and you could always get the
whip-hand of him by threatening to throw up his business affairs, which
he was fool enough to think were prospering in your hands. He dared
not oppose you; but I never trusted him, when I knew how easily he had
granted that monstrous condition, and that without any love for us or
for Lewis. If he had argued and disputed and then given way, I might
have believed better in it; as it was, I never had much faith.’
‘Nor I very much; but I never could find out anything suspicious, and I
watched him as a cat does a mouse. Nothing in his papers was found to
upset the will in my possession.’
‘Well, there can be no doubt now that the will was made; the only
question is, was it accidentally or purposely destroyed? or is it still
in the library at Ladywell, hidden away? As Philip Debenham had the
acuteness to put it somewhere out of your reach, it is hardly likely he
would ever be weak enough to make away with it himself. I believe it is
still there.’
Belassis wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘Old Maynard could not find it.’
‘Old Maynard would not look with the energy that we shall. If it is
there, find it we _must_.’
‘How?’ asked Belassis vaguely.
‘That remains to be proved. After what has gone before, it may be
difficult; but I will make an attempt whilst Philip is away; if that
fails, we must consider further.’
Mrs. Belassis did make the attempt without further loss of time. That
same afternoon she went over to Ladywell, in order to consult some
books of reference in the library.
She had done the same thing sometimes in the former owner’s time, as
a means of gaining occasional access to her gruff old uncle. In this
lay her chief hope, that her visit might pass unremarked, and that she
might be allowed to prosecute her search unsuspected.
The library at Ladywell was of great size, and contained a really large
collection of books. If the will was concealed in one of these, it
might be a weary while before it saw the light. Still Mrs. Belassis was
not daunted by that thought. If it was there, she would find it, if
only opportunity were granted her. The strong probability that, even
if in existence, it might lie undiscovered for generations, was but a
poor consolation to Mrs. Belassis. So long as she believed it to be
there, she could enjoy no rest. Any day some chance might reveal its
hiding-place, and then ruin stared them in the face. It must be found
by herself or her husband, and destroyed as soon as found, and then
perhaps they would know peace again.
So Mrs. Belassis went openly to Ladywell, and was shown by her own
request into the library. Miss Debenham and Mrs. Lorraine, she was
told, were to start in ten minutes’ time for a garden-party.
This was good news. Mrs. Belassis took down a few books, and sat down
to study them, to give colour to her story in case either lady should
come in. It was not many minutes before Maud entered. Her cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes sparkled a little as she addressed Mrs. Belassis.
‘Oh, Aunt Celia, I heard you were here. I am afraid you will be
disappointed if you stay. I don’t think Phil keeps any of his private
papers in the library. Would you not like to go up to his bedroom?
I do not know, of course, as I am not specially interested in his
correspondence; but I dare say you would find there a good deal you
might like to see.’
Mrs. Belassis looked coldly contemptuous. Inwardly she was raging.
‘Such a remark hardly deserves an answer, Maud.’
‘What a good thing, for I am afraid you would not find it very easy to
make one,’ retorted Maud quickly. ‘Well, I must go now. I hope you will
find the books interesting, but I am afraid you will be disappointed.’
Maud swept away, and Mrs. Belassis heaved a sigh of relief. She
believed that she would not now be further molested; and when she
heard the carriage roll away, a smile of triumph crossed her face.
The triumph was short-lived. The door opened softly and admitted Mrs.
Lorraine.
‘Good-afternoon, Celia. I have brought my work in here this afternoon.
It is the coolest room in the house, I think.’
She sat down beside the window, and drew out her work, talking quietly
and gently the while.
‘I thought you were going to a party with Maud,’ said Mrs. Belassis
sharply.
‘I have changed my mind. It is too hot to enjoy such things.’
‘You have never let Maud go alone! She is not to be trusted by herself
anywhere.’
‘I have the greatest confidence in dear Maud. But she will not go
alone. We were to call for Mrs. Nelson. Maud will go now under her
care.’
Mrs. Belassis turned over her books with the haste of deeply-seated
annoyance. Then she turned irritably upon the gentle sister, whom she
had been accustomed for so many years to tyrannize over successfully.
‘Well, I wish you would go away now, Olive. I can’t bear company when I
want to study.’
‘I will not disturb you,’ answered Mrs. Lorraine, settling herself
quietly back in her chair.
Mrs. Belassis looked rather as she might have done had a dove turned
upon her.
‘You decline to leave me, do you, Olive?’
‘Yes, Celia, I do. You are our guest whilst you are in this
house—Maud’s and mine. It is not usual to leave guests alone.’
Mrs. Lorraine spoke timidly yet firmly. She had not lived two months
under Tor’s protection for nothing. She was not ashamed or afraid to
assume that position which he had always accorded to her. But Mrs.
Belassis’ wrath knew no bounds, and to Olive she allowed it to burst
out.
‘In point of fact, you have remained behind in order to spy upon my
doings?’
‘And whose fault is it if I have?’ asked Mrs. Lorraine, not without
dignity. ‘What should we have seen had anyone spied upon you whilst
you were shut up in Philip’s room the other day? It is you who force us
to watch you, Celia. Philip is away, and we are responsible for what
goes on in his absence.’
Mrs. Belassis sneered.
‘And so I cannot be allowed to make a few notes from these books
without supervision? Even old Uncle Maynard, the misanthrope, was less
cautious than you seem to be. Are you afraid that I shall walk off with
some rare book? I cannot think what has come over you, Olive.’
‘I could say the same of you, Celia. Why should you object to my
presence here, unless——’
But Mrs. Belassis rose with dignity.
‘I shall not remain here to be insulted. Some day, Olive Lorraine, you
shall be made to rue the day when you played the spy upon me, and made
me Philip Debenham’s declared enemy.’
‘I think enmity is better declared than secret, Celia,’ answered Mrs.
Lorraine tranquilly. ‘You have always been Philip’s enemy, and you know
it.’
‘And now you shall learn what my enmity is like, and how it can affect
your idolized nephew. Tell him to look to himself!’
And Mrs. Belassis, with a vindictive scowl at her daring sister, turned
and quitted the room and the house, feeling for once that she was
foiled.
Lewis had gone to the garden-party whither Maud was bound; and he
had gone thither with the fixed intention of having some serious
conversation with her. This intention was partly the result of his own
impatience, and his desire to come to some more definite understanding
with his pretty cousin, and partly on account of a conversation he had
had with his father upon the previous evening, in which Belassis had
urged upon him with much force and feeling, the absolute necessity
there was for him to marry Maud; and had begged that he would not lose
the opportunity afforded by the brother’s absence. He felt certain
that Maud would be more easily influenced in Philip’s absence than if
he were upon the spot; and he implored his son with feverish energy to
lose no time, and to risk everything rather than let his cousin throw
him over.
His father’s excited manner left an uneasy impression upon Lewis’s
mind. He could not see why it should be a life-and-death matter to
anyone but himself, and yet there was no mistaking the eagerness of the
elder Belassis. Lewis knew enough of his father to make him distrustful
of such earnestness.
At the same time he was willing enough to talk to Maud, for he feared
now that she was slipping from him, and he was determined not to yield
her up without a struggle.
Poor Lewis! He felt sometimes as though he had deserved a better
parentage and better prospects. He had been brought up in gentlemanly
idleness, to satisfy his father’s idea of grandeur and his mother’s
family pride, and was always considered a very lucky fellow, who would
marry an heiress, or at least inherit her fortune, and succeed at
length to the broad acres attached to Thornton House. But of late an
uncomfortable idea had suggested itself to Lewis, that things were not
quite so satisfactory as he had believed. His father’s manner often
perplexed him. His mother looked gloomy and disturbed, and he could not
but fancy that some danger, unknown to him, threatened them at this
time.
So it was in a rather dejected frame of mind that Lewis met Maud that
afternoon, and dejection is not the most favourable of moods in which
to commence a love-passage.
Maud was looking unusually bright and animated, and was always the
centre of an admiring circle. It was some time before Lewis could gain
possession of her, even for a few minutes, and not until quite the
close of the afternoon that he succeeded in leading her away to a more
secluded spot, beyond the reach of curious eyes or sharp ears.
‘Why, Lewis, where are you taking me to?’ asked Maud, pausing at length
and looking back. ‘See what a long way we have wandered!’
‘Yes, and see how nice and cool it is here!’ returned Lewis. ‘I’m sure
you like it better than all that heat and glare. There’s such a pretty
little grotto down here by the water. You’d better come and see it, now
you are so near.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll come. It’s a pretty sort of place. It’s been a nice
party, hasn’t it, Lewis?’
‘I hate tennis-parties!’ answered he, with needless emphasis.
‘Then why did you come?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘To see me!’ Maud looked at him and laughed. ‘That’s good! As if you
didn’t see me nearly every day of your life!’
‘I never seem to see you alone now for a moment,’ returned Lewis
discontentedly. ‘You always have a crowd of people round you, or that
everlasting Philip. I never can get in a word edgeways!’
Maud looked at him, and patted his arm gently with her delicately
gloved hand.
‘Now don’t be silly and tiresome, Lewis. You know you haven’t any real
grievance. Is this the grotto? It is very pretty. Shall we sit down
here a little while? Now you can talk to your heart’s content.’
They did sit down, but at the same time Lewis did not seem to have very
much to say. He looked at Maud, and looked at the trickling water, and
held his peace. He had got the chance he wanted, but he did not seem to
know how to use it.
Maud, too, was silent—and if not embarrassed, at any rate less ready
than usual to chatter to him. She sat with a look of gravity stamped
upon her face, which deepened as moments went by.
‘Well, Maud,’ said Lewis, looking up at length, ‘I suppose we are both
of us thinking about the same subject.’
‘I dare say we are,’ answered the girl slowly. ‘I suppose it is time we
came to some understanding, Lewis.’
It was not a very promising opening, and Lewis was aware of it.
‘Well, Maud,’ he said with a sigh, ‘you know I have loved you all these
years, and wanted to make you my wife. The question is, will you have
me?’
Had Maud’s feelings been in any way likely to warm towards him, such a
beginning would have been fatal; but as it was, it did not affect the
point at issue, because her mind was already made up.
‘No, Lewis; I’m afraid I can’t, after all,’ she said slowly. ‘I do like
you, and we’ve been very good friends always, and I’ve tried to make
up my mind to it. I’ve looked at the matter every way, and considered
everything, and I’m sure it would be best for us not to marry.’
Lewis sat looking gloomily at his boots.
‘Aren’t you fond of me, Maud, after the way we have held together all
these years?’
‘Yes, Lewis, I am fond of you, and you are fond of me; but I don’t love
you, and what’s more, you don’t love me—not in the way you think you
do. I am sure we should not be really happy together, so you had better
take the money, and leave me alone.’
‘I don’t want the money—I want you. It’s a beastly shame the money ever
was left like that.’
‘Yes, so it is,’ assented Maud readily; ‘but I can almost be glad that
you will have it, Lewis, for you will find it very convenient. And—and
I hope you won’t go right away, or do anything rash; because I’m very
fond of you, Lewis, though I can’t marry you.’
Maud spoke with sudden affection, and Lewis took the little hand she
held out and kissed it.
‘Why can’t you marry me, Maud? Once you thought you could. Do you care
for any other fellow?’
‘No, no, Lewis; indeed it isn’t that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It is partly because I don’t really care enough for you, Lewis; and I
don’t think you would like to find that out after we were married; and
partly—partly because I do so detest Uncle Belassis and Aunt Celia. I
could not—oh, I _could_ not take their name, and make myself more of a
relation than I am.’
‘Rather hard on me,’ remarked Lewis.
‘Very hard on you,’ assented Maud, with emphasis. ‘I know it is, Lewis,
and I feel almost mean to serve you so. Perhaps if I were in love with
you, I could put up with even that; but I’m not, and I really can’t do
it, more especially as I believe that clause in the will was all your
father’s doing—just a plot to keep the money in his own family. I think
it’s very hard on you to have such a father.’
Lewis shook his head gravely.
‘I’m afraid sometimes he’ll get into trouble one of these days. I
believe he’s been speculating awfully, and that plays old Harry with
the money. I dare say I shan’t be much of a catch after all, Maud.
Perhaps you’re wise to chuck me over.’
‘Now don’t be disagreeable, Lewis,’ said Maud. ‘You know if I wanted
money, I should get it by marrying you. I’m glad you will have
something substantial, even if Uncle Belassis does come to grief. I
have thought him looking very anxious and frightened of late. Do you
think anything has happened?’
‘I don’t know. I fancy he has something on his mind, and the mater too.
They will be in an awful way when I tell them your decision. I suppose
you can’t change it, Maud?’
‘I’m afraid not, Lewis; I would if I could. But don’t you tell them
my decision. I will do that myself on my birthday. I will not give my
final answer yet; I reserve to myself the right of changing my mind.
Don’t build on hope, but don’t tell them anything. I should like to
tell them myself.’
Lewis accepted this suggestion with some relief. He was cast down in
spirit, and had no wish to face a blustering or craven father. He had
taken his rejection more quietly than he had planned, because he saw at
once from Maud’s manner that his case was hopeless. For some reasons
he felt this final decision almost a relief. Maud had not been far
wrong in saying that his love was not of quite the right kind; and he
was conscious that his position as Maud’s husband would be anything
but a pleasant one, did his father prove—as he almost feared he would
prove—to have committed follies, and even worse, which would bring
his name into unenviable notoriety. Lewis had begun to have strong
suspicions as to his father’s integrity, and these painful doubts had
been doubly painful when he had thought of Maud. He loved her well
enough to wish to spare her all needless pain—well enough to be almost
disinterested. But this is hardly the feeling of the ardent lover, and
Maud was not wrong in saying to herself that night, that the interview
was well over, and Lewis’s heart was not broken.