MAUD’S DECISION.
When the ladies left the dinner-table for the drawing-room, some of the
old constraint seemed to fall upon the party.
It was not easy for anyone bearing the name of Belassis, to be
thoroughly comfortable at Ladywell under existing circumstances.
Matilda and Bertha were in constant dread of what their mother might
say or do next; and she, on her part, was in a state of suppressed
restlessness and irritation, which she found very hard to bear.
She had not heard what it was that passed between her husband and Miss
Marjory at the dinner-table; but she felt convinced that there was
some secret from which she was excluded, and she would gladly have
questioned the guest from Whitbury, and elicited from her the desired
information.
Miss Marjory, however, had no disposition to be pumped by Mrs.
Belassis—no inclination, in fact, for any intercourse whatever with
her. If anything occurred which should make it desirable for her to
be told of her husband’s former marriage, Miss Marjory was quite
prepared to make the necessary communication; but then, she would make
it after her own fashion, and in her own words: she had no notion of
being questioned or cross-examined. She was perfectly aware that Mrs.
Belassis was anxious to obtain a few minutes’ private conversation, and
equally determined not to permit such an interview to take place.
It may, under exceptional circumstances, be possible to catch a weasel
asleep; but under no circumstances whatsoever, waking or sleeping, was
Miss Marjory to be caught if she did not intend to be.
Mrs. Belassis soon gave up the attempt as hopeless, yet she had not the
least idea that her manœuvres had been observed.
It was not long before the gentlemen joined them in the drawing-room.
Tor’s face was somewhat grave; the Signor looked flushed and
indignant. Lewis seemed nervous and preoccupied; Belassis the same,
only to a greater extent.
Instructed beforehand by his wife (he did not himself fully understand
why), he had started inquiries respecting Mr. Torwood, and Signor
Pagliadini had taken up the subject with great zeal, and put the most
searching questions to their host.
The two Belassis’, father and son, had too much upon their minds to
take great interest in what passed, and, indeed, a good deal of it
was beyond their power of comprehension; but it was evident that the
Italian had become excited, and that the coolness and imperturbability
of their host had annoyed him more than a little.
Miss Marjory saw at a glance that something had occurred, and took
advantage of a noisy moment to say in a low voice:
‘Has anything happened? Has he made himself disagreeable? I thought I
had pretty well silenced him.’
Tor could not but smile, as he answered:
‘I thought you must have been talking to him. He seemed as if he had
been driven to desperation.’
‘Desperate, is he?’ questioned Miss Marjory briskly. ‘How very
amusing! I must certainly see what can be done for him. Mind you ask
him here for a few days. I think it is time he was brought under our
jurisdiction. I will keep an eye upon him, when once we get him to
Ladywell.’
‘I will ask him, certainly. Whether he will come, is a different
matter.’
‘You have not quarrelled, have you?’
‘No; but he nearly lost his temper. He does not, I am sure, feel
anything but enmity towards me. He may not care to become my guest.’
‘And how do you feel?’
‘Strange to say, I can’t help liking him, though he is so troublesome.
I’m sure I have never known him under his present name, but I am
equally sure that I have known him and liked him at some time or other,
and I can’t shake off the old feeling of liking. I suppose he was some
old chum of—of—Tor’s, you know. When he comes back, I dare say it will
be all clear.’
There was no time for private conference now. People were looking
impatiently at Tor, as if to suggest that he should institute the
needful formalities.
‘I think,’ said he, speaking generally to the company, ‘that we had
better adjourn to the library whilst the matter that has brought us
together to-day is discussed.’
Then, as there was a general move towards the door, Tor said, turning
to the Italian:
‘I’m afraid this next half-hour will be but a dull one for you—it is
merely some family matter that has to be settled and discussed. No
doubt you would rather smoke your cigar upon the terrace. I will join
you there as soon as I can.’
‘You are very good, but I do not care for solitude and smoke,’ answered
the Signor. ‘If I am not intruding, I should be much more interested by
listening to Mademoiselle’s decision. I have heard from Miss Meredith
what is the nature of this family gathering.’
Tor thought this showed a very fair assurance on the part of a
stranger, but there was not time to argue the point now.
‘Monsieur must please himself,’ he said coldly; ‘but all the
conversation will be in English, and it is of a nature which cannot
possibly interest a stranger.’
As Miss Marjory was to be present, by her own and Maud’s special wish,
he could not say that only the family could be admitted; so the Signor,
with something like mockery in his smile and bow, followed Tor into the
library.
Maud lifted her eyebrows as she saw him enter; but she had rather a
liking for the handsome Italian, and was more surprised than annoyed by
his appearance.
She was seated in a prominent position in the great room, and looked
quite equal to the occasion. A flush was on her cheek, and a light in
her eyes which added greatly to her attractions, and Tor looked at her
with an admiring pride.
He had never asked her, in so many words, what her decision was going
to be; but he knew it nevertheless. He knew she could never have been
so proud, so gay, so self-possessed, had she been about to surrender
her life and her future into the hands of Lewis Belassis—to sell
herself in a loveless marriage!
There was an unbroken silence in the room.
‘Uncle Belassis,’ said Tor, courteously and coldly, ‘I believe it is
your place, as executor and legal adviser of our late father, Philip
Debenham, and as guardian of my sister during her minority, to read
the will now in your possession, and any other documents you may have,
which bear upon the present question.’
He pulled forward, and placed at the head of the table, a heavy
leather-covered chair, and Mr. Belassis came forward, with all the
dignity he could assume, and sat down facing the whole company. He
placed his papers upon the table, and tried to cover his nervous
embarrassment by a pompous air of importance, which was peculiarly
difficult for him to assume in Miss Marjory’s presence.
Maud signed to Tor to come and sit beside her. She was quite able to
stand alone, but she felt as if her brother was in himself a tower of
strength, and she liked to feel him near.
Mr. Belassis unfolded his document, and, after a few preliminary
remarks, in which he spoke much of his dearly beloved and honoured
friend and brother, Philip Debenham, and his most dear niece, towards
whom he had always felt like a father, and played, as far as was
permitted him, a father’s part, he proceeded to read such portion of
the late Philip Debenham’s will as referred to the inheritance of his
daughter.
Everyone present was perfectly aware of the condition imposed, before
the money which had been his wife’s could pass to his daughter; but
yet, when the words were really read, which willed away two thirds of a
large fortune from his own child to his wife’s nephew, simply because
she might refuse to become his wife, a murmur of mingled distrust and
indignation seemed to go round the assembled company; and, in the
silence that followed, Mrs. Lorraine’s quiet voice was distinctly
heard, saying with distressful earnestness:
‘My poor, dear, loving brother never, never could have made such a
will! He loved his children too well. He was too noble, too good, too
just! Oh, there is something very, very wrong in it all!’
‘Silence, Olive! for shame!’ interposed Mrs. Belassis sternly. ‘You
forget yourself strangely.’
Tor’s eyes flashed a look at Mrs. Belassis, which it was perhaps as
well for her peace of mind that she did not see. He rose, and crossed
over towards where the two sisters were sitting.
‘Pardon me, Mrs. Belassis,’ he said; ‘but so long as Mrs. Lorraine
honours me by her presence in my house, it is my place to shield her
from insult. She has full liberty to speak her mind freely on this and
all other subjects. No one in the world has the right to bid her be
silent, least of all in my house. Aunt Olive, I think Maud would like
to have you beside her. Let me give you my arm across the room.’
Mrs. Belassis glared at him with an expression of vindictive malice,
not often so openly displayed in polite society.
‘You shall rue this bitterly, Philip Debenham!’ she hissed, in a
whisper which only he and Mrs. Lorraine could hear. ‘You shall have
good cause to know that I am not to be insulted with impunity.’
Tor smiled and bowed in his haughty careless fashion, and led Mrs.
Lorraine away.
All this had passed so rapidly, that people were yet exchanging
whispered comments upon the wording of the strange will.
Miss Marjory, of course, had plenty to say, and it was not her custom
to whisper.
‘It’s the most ridiculous will I ever heard in my life!’ she exclaimed,
with an emphatic gesture of contempt. ‘It’s positively idiotic! People
are very odd, and there’s no accounting for tastes; but really this is
beyond everything. Philip Debenham, I believe you could get the whole
thing upset in a court of law. The man must have been mad when he drew
it up. I should dispute it if I were you.’
Mr. and Mrs. Belassis looked pinched and blue, despite the warmness
of the evening. The Signor seemed listening with the most profound
interest to every word that was spoken.
Maud gave Tor a look of half-impatient entreaty, and he interposed to
say to Belassis:
‘Have you anything more to add, before my sister registers her
decision?’
‘I have a letter written by her dear dead father, whom that lady has
thought fit——’ Here Miss Marjory turned suddenly round and looked him
full in the face. The effect was instantaneous. The words died away
into silence, and he concluded feebly enough: ‘A letter to Maud—from
her father. Will you read it, my dear?’
‘I see,’ said Tor, ‘that it is neither sealed nor fastened. No doubt
you are master of its contents. I think it would be better that you
should read it to us. Is that your wish, Maud?’
‘Yes,’ she answered readily. ‘I would rather it was read aloud.’
Belassis had no choice but to obey. Perhaps he did not object to the
task. The letter might possibly convince the company that the will did
but embody the real wishes of Philip Debenham, senior.
He cleared his throat, and began:
‘MY DEAR AND ONLY DAUGHTER,’
(‘As if papa would ever have begun a letter like that!’ breathed Maud
indignantly.)
‘When this reaches your hand, you will have been made aware of my
dearest wish for your future—a wish that has been near my heart for
many long years, and which will, I am convinced, secure at once the
happiness and well-being of your future life. I mean by this, your
marriage with the son of my dearest and most faithful friend, Alfred
Belassis. I cannot doubt that the son of such a father will grow up to
resemble him; and I feel that I am doing the best that can be done for
your future, as well as gratifying my own earnest wish, when I try to
do that which will make you a happy woman for life. When your name is
Belassis I shall not know an ungratified wish; and if, as is probable,
I shall not live to see the day on which your choice is made, you will
know that by consenting to a marriage with your cousin, you will be at
once securing to yourself the fortune which I have conditionally left
to you, and doing that which has been, and always will be, the most
sincere wish of your affectionate father,
‘PHILIP DEBENHAM.’
Dead silence followed the reading of this elegantly worded epistle.
Philip Debenham had been a man of high culture and refined scholarly
tastes. His letters had been models of the art of diction. Anything
clumsy in construction, or faulty in expression, had certainly never
issued from his pen; and anyone who had ever known him in his lifetime,
or had even known what manner of man he was, must be convinced that
whether or not that letter was written by himself, its contents had
never been composed by him.
The prolonged silence occasioned Belassis a feeling of discomfort he
hardly understood. He broke it himself, by turning to Maud with a smile
meant to be insinuating and paternal.
‘There, my dear girl, you hear now what was the real wish of your dear
father. May I hope that his wishes will be carried out by you, and that
I shall soon have the happiness of welcoming you as a daughter?’
Maud’s eyes glowed with a strange light. Dim remembrances of her dead
father had risen up within her, and she felt a burning indignation
against anyone who could so have abused his confidence and exercised so
great a power over him.
She rose and spoke with a firmness which showed that she was actuated
by no mere girlish caprice.
‘My decision was made long ago, Uncle Belassis; but even had it not
been, what I have now heard would have settled the matter. My father
never wrote that letter, except at your dictation. He only made that
will under your coercion. I know it as well as possible, in spite of
anything you may choose to say. Uncle Belassis, I will never marry
your son; and I will never call you uncle again; you have been a false
friend, a cruel guardian, and a dishonest man. I have made my decision,
and you hear it now. I will lose the money. I will not marry any son of
yours. Philip will take care of me. He will be my guardian as well as
my brother now.’
She turned to him with a proud and loving look; and he stood up beside
her, and drew her hand within his arm. It was a quiet but significant
gesture, and Maud looked up in his face with a smile.
Then she turned to Lewis, and held out her other hand.
‘Lewis,’ she said, ‘you know I like you. I am sorry I cannot like you
better. It is not your fault that you are a Belassis—you are not a
bit like one; and I am very sorry for you. I am glad you will be rich,
anyway, and we will always be friends.’
But the conclave was not over yet. Miss Marjory’s tongue could never be
silent in moments of excitement, and now that she had held her peace as
long as it was possible to do so, she burst out again.
‘It’s the most infamous conspiracy I ever heard of—as clear a case of
coercion as ever was brought into a court of law. Will! letter! Stuff
and nonsense! I believe the whole thing is a great forgery!’
Belassis looked furious; but he dared not fly out at Miss Marjory.
‘Anybody is welcome to examine them; they are absolutely genuine—will
and letter both. Who knows Philip Debenham’s handwriting and signature?
I appeal to them.’
But Miss Marjory paid no heed to him. She had flown back to her former
train of thought.
‘Philip Debenham, you must dispute that will. If there is any equity in
law, you can get it reversed as easily as possible. There could not be
a clearer case of bribery and corruption, or whatever they call it—at
least of coercion and fraud. Anyone with half an eye could see exactly
how it had all happened. You have as good a case, I should say, as a
man could wish. Take counsel’s opinion at once, and act accordingly. I
should dispute that will to the death, if I were you.’
‘There will be no need to do that,’ said Lewis, coming forward and
speaking for the first time, ‘for I decline to take advantage of it. I
am convinced, like other people, that there is something odd about that
condition. Anyway, it is a very unjust one. When the money comes to
me, I shall make it over to Maud. I should be ashamed to live upon her
fortune.’
Miss Marjory jumped up, and shook him by the hand.
‘Spoken like a man!’ she said with approbation. ‘You are no Belassis,
young man, in spite of your name. I have a great respect for your
character from this moment.’
‘No—no, Lewis,’ interposed Maud. ‘The money is yours, and you must have
it. I think I am rather glad for you to have something. You must not
make it over to me.’
‘If you do, you idiot of a boy,’ growled Belassis, whose face was
purple, ‘I’ll cut you off with a shilling! I’ll turn you out of my
house—I’ll make a beggar of you before a week is over!’
‘I think I’d as soon be a beggar, as loafing round at home doing
nothing,’ remarked Lewis slowly. ‘I dare say if I tried I could get
some sort of a berth. I’m not such a fool as I look.’
‘I’ll help you!’ cried Miss Marjory eagerly—‘I’ll stand your friend.
I’ll soon find something you can do. I like to see a man who wishes to
be independent. Don’t be downhearted. Trust to me.’
‘And to me,’ said Tor, ‘if you take a step like that. I’ll try to
ensure that you never repent it.’
Belassis looked daggers at his son, and would have spoken again, but
that his wife, who had crossed the room during the confusion, laid a
warning hand upon his arm.
‘Say no more now. Lewis is a mere baby; but he is obstinate, and will
only commit himself deeper and deeper if you oppose him now. We will
soon take the nonsense out of him when we have him alone.’
‘He _must_ not do it—it would ruin us!’ gasped Belassis helplessly.
‘He shall not do it. I will take care of it. Now come, don’t give way,
or play the fool. Quite enough odium and contempt has fallen to our
share to-day, without your adding to the burden by your cowardice. We
had better get away as fast as we can, or that hateful little yellow
woman will be making fresh discoveries.’
‘I’m sure I don’t want to stay,’ groaned her husband, with evident
sincerity. ‘It’s the most awful evening I’ve ever spent in my life.
Let’s get up and go. I’ll tell them that I’ll not stay here to be
insulted any longer.’
He tried to assume his dignified air, but was promptly snubbed by his
wife.
‘You’ll do no such thing! You’ll just sit there till I make the move!
We’ve had quite enough of your muddling for one evening!’
Mrs. Belassis spoke viciously, because she felt vicious, not because
she had any special grudge against her husband at this particular
moment.
Her eyes wandered round in search of one face, and when her glance
encountered that of Signor Pagliadini, something like a magnetic
attraction seemed to draw the two into an isolated corner.
Mrs. Belassis was furious. The last link which bound her to a peaceable
policy was now snapped asunder, and she was eager to declare war at
all hazards. She was still greatly in the dark as to how the onslaught
could be made; but she knew that her nephew could be attacked with
advantage in some quarter or other, and that the Italian knew better
than she did how to plan the campaign. Desperation gave her boldness.
‘Monsieur,’ she began, in a vigorous whisper, ‘does it not seem to you
time to put an end to this game?’
‘High time!’ he answered gloomily.
‘If we do not bestir ourselves,’ continued she, feeling her way so as
to lead him as far as possible to commit himself, ‘things will have got
beyond our power. We must not let them go too far.’
A very sombre light glowed in the handsome eyes of the stranger.
‘I agree entirely with Madame.’
She looked eagerly at him.
‘Are you prepared, then, to act?’
After a momentary hesitation, he answered:
‘I believe I am.’
‘And I,’ said she, ‘will assist you.’
He did not respond warmly to this generous offer; but Mrs. Belassis
would not be discouraged.
‘Two heads, you know, Monsieur, are better than one!’
‘Madame is right.’
‘And I am not an ally to be despised. I know much of all the history of
the family.’
‘True—very true!’ he seemed to reflect.
‘Perhaps, Madame, we had better meet somewhere soon, where we can
discuss this difficult question.’
‘To-morrow, then,’ she answered eagerly. ‘Meet me to-morrow by that
fallen tree, where we talked before. At eleven o’clock I will be there.
Do not forget.’
‘I will not,’ he answered.
But this appointment with Mrs. Belassis did not hinder him from
accepting with alacrity Tor’s invitation to pay a short visit to
Ladywell; and two days later was fixed as the date when he might
commence his sojourn there.
‘That man and Mrs. Belassis,’ remarked Miss Marjory, as she watched the
departure of the company—‘mark my word, that man and Mrs. Belassis mean
mischief!’
END OF VOL. II.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_G., C. & Co._