PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS.
Miss Marjory was convinced by the experiences gathered in a few hours’
time, that Tor’s position was growing distinctly awkward, and might
easily become dangerous.
Signor Pagliadini was a spy—of that she was fully convinced; though
what could be his motive for playing such a part, or who could have set
him on to do it, still remained a mystery.
He could hardly be an emissary of Belassis. If that worthy had
discovered the imposition practised by Tor, he would not have any need
to bring forward a foreigner to expose the fraud. A much simpler and
more effective way would be to expose it himself, which could be done,
without any great difficulty if once the clue had been secured.
It was improbable to the last degree that a stranger, totally
unconcerned in the matter, should give himself all the trouble Signor
Pagliadini was now doing, simply from an abstract love of justice; yet,
if not a creature of Belassis, nor yet a total stranger, who could this
man possibly be?
Miss Marjory was a shrewd woman; and although her quick wits often led
her to conclusions for which no logical premises could be adduced,
these same conclusions had a remarkable way of turning out right in the
end, and therefore she had learned to put a greater confidence in them
than circumstances seemed always to warrant.
No stranger, Miss Marjory argued, who had simply known these two
Englishmen abroad, would care two straws about the matter, even if he
did find out that they had made an exchange of names. He would either
think that he had been mistaken the first time as to their identity,
or else he would conclude that one was acting for the other, and would
never dream of interfering. Englishmen were all more or less mad, he
would conclude, and were best let alone.
Signor Pagliadini evidently knew of the existence of the real Phil, and
concluded, not unnaturally, that an unfair advantage was being taken
of his helplessness. But why he should interest himself in the matter,
and take Phil’s supposed quarrel upon himself, was a question which was
hard to answer, and the only theory she could form was conclusively
negatived by Tor.
She suggested to him the doubt, whether it was possible that Philip
Debenham had had a momentary return of consciousness, and had gained
some vague idea of what was going on. Might he not (feeling himself
helpless and injured) have believed himself to be a prisoner, and
enlisted the aid of some able-bodied friend to go and discover the true
state of the case, and do what he could for the absent master, who was
being thus defrauded?
But Tor smiled at such a notion.
Phil and he understood one another far too well for such a doubt to be
possible. Eighteen years of close friendship could stand a stronger
test than this. If Phil had recovered enough to realize that Tor had
changed their names, he would understand in a moment that there was
some good reason for such an act, and would fall into the arrangement
with the confiding placidity of his nature. Besides, the thing was
impossible. The German doctor, who was the simplest-minded of men, had
promised to give Tor immediate warning of any change in his friend’s
condition. He and his sister were the only people who had been near
Phil these three months past, until he had taken the journey; and he
knew for certain that there had been no return to sensibility. The
whole thing was too improbable to be seriously discussed. The idea that
Phil could for a moment misunderstand him brought a smile to Tor’s face.
‘If you had seen the way the dear boy leaned on me, copied me, all but
worshipped me, for eighteen years, you would know as well as I do, that
he would be utterly incapable of mistrusting me, far less of setting a
spy upon me. It was very absurd of him to make such a paragon of me;
but he did it, and the traditions of years are not overset in a few
days. Besides, I saw Phil a fortnight ago, and the poor fellow was
just as senseless as a log. If my voice could not rouse him then, I’m
convinced nothing else could do so within the next ten days. By the end
of that time he was on the seas. I wish now that he were not.’
So that idea of Miss Marjory’s had to be abandoned, and she was puzzled
to find a substitute.
However, a puzzle was rather a pleasant form of amusement for Miss
Marjory, and she enjoyed the sense of mystery which surrounded her. It
was quite a novel form of entertainment.
But perplexity did not stop Miss Marjory from acting. Not a bit of
it. She felt perfectly capable of doing a great deal to hinder the
machinations of the enemy. If he made himself disagreeable to Tor—well,
she would soon contrive to make herself disagreeable to him, and Miss
Marjory flattered herself that she could be uncommonly disagreeable
when she had a mind to be.
‘I can be a perfect ogress when I choose,’ she said to herself, with a
modest appreciation of her own merits.
If he enlisted the Belassis faction upon his side, as seemed highly
probable, after the private confidence with Mrs. Belassis which Tor
had surprised—well, if they too joined in the hue-and-cry, she would
very soon silence them. Miss Marjory did not believe Mr. Belassis
would dare to be a very warm partizan in a cause which would bring him
into antagonism with her; though his wife, who was in all probability
ignorant of her husband’s early life, would stand in no awe of anyone;
but at the same time it could not be a very difficult matter to shut
her mouth, and Tor’s ally felt quite equal to the occasion.
Why Miss Marjory had so warmly espoused the young man’s cause she could
hardly have explained to herself.
His own rather romantic solicitude over his friend’s interests had
brought him into a scrape, which he ought to have foreseen from the
first; and it was certainly his own business, not hers, to get himself
clear again.
But then, Miss Marjory had known and liked Tor’s father, and had taken
a fancy to the young man for his father’s sake. She had been his first
and only confidante as to the part he was playing, and had promised
her help if it should be needed. He certainly did stand in need of
assistance at this juncture, and she was not going back on her word now.
Miss Marjory never did things by halves. _Bis dat, qui cito dat_, was
a favourite motto of hers, and certainly she had lost no time so far.
She had come as quickly as she could in response to his appeal; and now
that she was on the spot, she did not mean to let the grass grow under
her feet.
A long talk with Mrs. Lorraine the following morning, enlightened her
a good deal as to the Belassis family history; and finding that Aunt
Olive knew already of Mr. Belassis’ first marriage, she gave her the
whole history, and frankly stated her opinion of that gentleman. The
gentle little widow seemed to enjoy hearing Miss Marjory’s abuse of
him, which is a sad proof of the ingratitude of the world.
Lewis Belassis came to luncheon. He was hovering a good deal about
Maud during these last days of nominal uncertainty, notwithstanding
the rebuff he had received. The birthday was only four days distant,
and the whole family from Thornton House was to dine at Ladywell; and
in the evening Maud was to hear her father’s will read, and was, if
possible, to give her answer. She did not tell anyone what that answer
would be, but announced that it was quite ready.
There was one person, however, in whom she confided, and that one was
Ethel Hardcastle. Maud’s love-affair, or rather the matter between her
and Lewis, could not by its very nature be kept a secret. Everybody
knew that her choice had to be made, and Ethel was favoured by the
information that she meant to refuse her cousin.
For a sudden idea had entered Maud’s head. She liked Lewis, though she
would not marry him, and she liked Ethel very much; and it seemed to
her that the two were just made for one another. Lewis was sufficiently
clever and good-looking to please the fancy of a simple-minded,
warm-hearted girl; and Ethel, with her plump, pink-and-white prettiness
and confiding disposition, would be the very wife for him—far more
really suitable than Maud herself, who was much too wayward and
independent.
Ethel had confided all her history to Maud almost at the first. Her
father was in India, and had married again; but she and Horace had
inherited their mother’s fortune, and had about three hundred a year
each. Miss Marjory had given them a home for the past six years,
so that much of their money had accumulated; and Ethel would be a
well-dowered wife for a man of not too ambitious a mould.
Maud had enlisted Ethel’s sympathies on behalf of Lewis without any
difficulty; and when she saw him, she was duly impressed by his
appearance, and much touched by the melancholy glances he cast at the
merry, hard-hearted Maud.
Maud, however, was very gracious to him; and when the luncheon was
ended, invited him to ride with her and Ethel, which proposition he
accepted with alacrity. In fact, the two ladies between them made
themselves so agreeable, that he found it hard to tear himself away;
and when he finally did so, it was on the understanding that he was to
come up the following morning to play at tennis with them, Maud having
challenged him and Ethel to play against her, single-handed.
Ethel’s artless admiration for Lewis, after his departure, afforded
Maud great satisfaction. Ethel secretly wondered how it was that
some people were so hard to please, but pulled herself up with the
reflection that Maud was of course too lovely and delightful to be
easily satisfied, and she could afford to pick and choose.
‘I shouldn’t be half so fastidious,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m not
pretty or clever, or anything like that; and then no young men ever do
come to Whitbury. It is a stupid place.’
Maud talked a great deal of Lewis, and his kindness of heart and
various good points, and Ethel listened with avidity.
‘I’m getting quite an old matchmaker,’ said Maud to herself. ‘How
ridiculous it seems trying to make over one’s cast-off lovers; but I
should like Lewis to get a nice wife. I think he likes Ethel, and I’m
sure she is taken by him. I can’t see why they shouldn’t marry and be
happy, and then I shall have Lewis off my mind. For I’ve not been quite
easy about the way I’ve kept him hanging on, though that’s less my
fault than the force of circumstances.’
Maud’s friendliness to Lewis had not passed unnoticed. Miss Marjory’s
sharp eyes had at once detected it, and Mrs. Lorraine had felt a
passing uneasiness, as she observed the gracious manner her niece had
adopted towards the cousin, whose fate was trembling in the balance.
Tor, if he observed anything, did not trouble his head much about it.
Such perfect sympathy existed between him and Maud that he was certain
she never meant to marry Lewis Belassis.
Whilst the riding-party was out, he and Miss Marjory paid a visit to
Michael Meredith. She was anxious to learn from the blind man all she
could about the mysterious foreigner, and to see for herself what
manner of man this egotist and dreamer was.
Tor had related the story of the sick man’s fancy, and the odd
relations that now existed between him and Roma; and Miss Marjory had
scolded him for being so foolish and good-natured, always running into
awkward situations for the sake of other people’s hearts or purses, or
what not!
‘As if the matter were not complicated enough without your going
and getting into an entanglement like this! You’re just like your
father—very big and strong to look at, but just as weak really—as weak
as—as—well, as a _man_. I can’t say more. Men are all alike. You think
you can get easily out of this scrape as soon as the real Phil Debenham
turns up, do you? How do you know that? Just as likely as not the girl
will have fallen in love with you by that time. (Now don’t run away
with the idea that you’re very fascinating or magnificently handsome,
because you’re not—far from it. But you’re just the big, brown,
easy-going, cool-handed sort of creature that the girls of these days
lose their heads about; and this Roma may go and do the same, and most
likely will.) And then the crotchety old father may, as likely as not,
declare that after all he prefers you to the true Phil; if he’s as mad
as he seems, he isn’t a bit to be relied upon. He likes you, but he may
not like your friend; and he may try to keep you to your word. And when
father and daughter are both hanging round your neck, metaphorically
and literally, and threatening you with broken hearts and grey hairs,
and all the rest of it, then you will find what a nice mess you have
made of your affairs, and will, I suppose, expect me to step in and get
you clear of them.’
Tor, who had made one or two ineffectual attempts to speak during this
tirade, gave up all hope of stemming the torrent, and ended by laughing
heartily.
‘Yes, Miss Marjory, that is just what I shall expect. You have drawn my
character, and I will abide by it. I consider it is my part to get into
as many scrapes as I conveniently can, and yours to pull me out again.
Is it agreed?’
‘It is agreed that you are an impudent boy, as your father was before
you. Stop! Look through those trees there. Who is that with our friend
the spy? If that is this far-famed Roma, the daughter will give us less
trouble than the father.’
Signor Pagliadini and Roma were sitting together under the shade
of a great beech-tree. They could only be imperfectly seen through
the network of green leaves that shut them off from the drive; yet
something in the manner in which they sat, and their evident absorption
in one another, prompted Miss Marjory’s remark, and gave it distinct
significance.
‘What a good thing!’ said Tor. ‘Old Meredith likes him very much. And
we shall have him to ourselves, too, this afternoon, which is another
advantage.’
Michael Meredith was charmed with Miss Marjory, and talked on with
extreme affability. It was so seldom that a stranger sought him out, as
this guest of Philip’s had done, that he hardly knew how to make enough
of the occasion.
Signor Pagliadini’s name, of course, came up, and Miss Marjory
displayed great interest in him. She had been so delighted by his
talk the previous evening. Who was he? Was he an old friend of Mr.
Meredith’s? He seemed so well-bred and well-read a young man, he must
be of a good family.
Mr. Meredith confessed that he knew very little of the young man, save
that he was an old friend of one of his wife’s relatives. He brought
an introduction from Signor Mattei, who had spoken of him as a young
man of rank and fortune, but beyond that he had no knowledge of his
antecedents.
Miss Marjory, secure in her unimpeachable position, could ask a great
many questions quite naturally, which would excite suspicion from
anyone less generally vivacious and talkative. It seemed only right
for her to ask a dozen questions, and make a hundred comments, where
other people would have hardly a word to say; and whilst Mr. Meredith
was perfectly unconscious of being cross-examined, Miss Marjory had
elicited the information that he knew nothing whatever about the
mysterious stranger, except what that gentleman chose to tell him.
‘As for his introduction,’ said she afterwards to Tor, ‘we all know
what an introduction is worth, when a man has a motive in getting one.
I could get an introduction from the man in the moon, I haven’t a
doubt, if once I made up my mind to have one.’
‘I believe you could,’ answered Tor.
Whereat Miss Marjory laughed, and told him that he ought to be ashamed
of making game of an old woman.
Certainly Tor had a warm partizan in Miss Marjory. Whatever she did,
was done with a will; and when she once became interested in any
cause, she worked for it heart and soul.
Maud was her next victim. She was not quite sure whether she was good
enough for her favourite Tor, and wished to satisfy herself upon the
point. For even if not entirely what she should be, she might be
moulded to a better frame; and if Tor’s mind was made up—if he must
have Maud and nobody else—Maud he should have, and Lewis Belassis
should be made to go to the wall. Under existing circumstances, she
could in no case be allowed to engage herself to her cousin.
Maud liked Miss Marjory, and was quite ready to come and sit by her
after dinner, before Tor joined them. Mrs. Lorraine was teaching Ethel
some new stitch in crewels.
‘So your birthday is just imminent, is it, Maud? You should have let
me know earlier, that I might have come provided. However, I dare
say I can find something in my dressing-case which will supply the
deficiency. We shall see. Old-fashioned things are coming into fashion
again, I hear. Have you caught the mania yet?’
‘Oh, Miss Marjory, you are too good!’ cried Maud, laughing and
blushing. ‘I think they are perfectly lovely—everyone does now!’
‘Ah, well, we must see. Old ornaments or old lace. I wonder if I ought
to think of an approaching wedding, too?’
Maud’s eyes looked mischievous, her mouth demure. She shook her head
gravely.
‘Ah, Miss Marjory, you want to make me commit myself. You are just as
curious as anybody else, I see. You know I am not bound to give my
answer till the 24th.’
‘No; and I am not even curious about it. I know already what it will
be.’
‘Has Ethel——?’
‘Ethel has told me nothing. You have told me.’
‘What have I told you?’
‘That a girl of your nature and your name would look higher than
_that_. Philip Debenham’s sister will never marry Alfred Belassis.’
Maud laughed again, and came closer to Miss Marjory, laying one hand
confidingly in hers, with a pretty, childlike gesture that was half a
caress.
‘Miss Marjory, you have guessed quite right. I really couldn’t. I have
thought of everything a hundred times over, but I can’t bring my mind
to it. Once I thought I could. A little while back I quite fancied
it would come to that; but now that I have seen Phil—oh no! I really
couldn’t!’
‘What has Phil to do with it? Doesn’t he approve?’
‘Oh, it isn’t that! Phil does not interfere. I know he doesn’t like the
Belassis’; but he is a dear boy, and would not stand in my way, if he
thought my happiness depended upon it. But it is since I’ve known Phil
that I’ve felt as I do.’
‘Felt what?’
‘Why, what men can be and sometimes are. You see,’ she continued
naively, ‘I used to have a very poor opinion of them. You know, Uncle
Belassis and Lewis, and old Mr. Meredith, and a cross old great-uncle
of ours, were the chief specimens I had seen; and really amongst them,
and the few local youths I used to meet at the mild entertainments of
the neighbourhood, Lewis ranked quite as a bright and shining light. I
used to wonder how it was real live men were so different from men in
books, but I did not believe till he came that they were really bold
and manly, and—well, like Phil is, you know.’
Miss Marjory smiled.
‘So Phil came upon you quite as a revelation?’
‘Yes, just that,’ answered Maud, with her bright enthusiasm, which
found favour in the eyes of her listener. ‘After I had seen Phil, and
felt what it was to have a brother of one’s very own like him, why,
then I couldn’t fancy Lewis any more—I really couldn’t. And I should
hate and detest to be made into a Belassis!’
‘My dear,’ said Miss Marjory warmly, ‘I think you have judged very
wisely. And after your final decision has been formally registered,
your brother and I must see if we cannot find you a husband, the very
counterpart of himself.’
Maud laughed, and shook her head.
‘You are very clever, Miss Marjory, and Phil is very good; but I’m
afraid, with all your cleverness and goodness, you’ll never manage
that.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ returned Miss Marjory, with a very wise, not to
say mysterious, look. ‘I have a faculty for managing anything I have
once set my mind upon, which may surprise you one of these days, as it
has surprised wiser people before you.’
‘You are very like a sphinx, Miss Marjory. Please condescend to tell me
some more, and that more plainly.’
‘Well, if you must know, it would not much surprise me, if, when Mr.
Torwood turns up, you found him almost as much of a paragon as your
pattern and idol, Phil.’
‘Mr. Torwood! Oh, Miss Marjory, do you know him? What is he like? and
when is he coming?’
‘What a number of questions at once! You are as bad as I am, Maud. I
don’t know when he is coming back, because nobody can tell when he will
be well again; but I do know something about him; and his father was a
very old friend of mine. I believe he takes after his father, from all
I hear; and if so, my advice to you, my dear, is this: don’t engage
yourself to Lewis Belassis until you have seen Torrington Torwood.’
Maud looked hard at Miss Marjory, half smiling, half perplexed.
‘I don’t quite understand you—you seem in a dreadfully match-making
frame of mind. But Phil thinks so very much of your opinion, that he
has made me do the same. I will take your advice, Miss Marjory.’