FIRST EXPERIENCES.
It was with very strange and mixed feelings that Philip Debenham found
himself once again in his native village.
The place was almost unchanged by the eighteen years that had passed
since he had seen it last. A few cottages had vanished; a few more had
been built. His old home had been altered past recognition; but little
else was changed, so far as the larger houses were concerned.
He saw the well-known, square, uncompromising mansion of his Uncle
Belassis, and gave it a look of instinctive aversion, remembering dimly
the unhappy hours he had spent there as a boy.
He recognised with a smile the grey, ivycovered church which he had
attended as a child, and could even recall the subjects of the stained
windows which he had so admired, and recollect the half-fearful,
half-delighted interest he and Maud used to take in a carved death’s
head and cross-bones, which surmounted one of the tablets facing the
pew in which they had sat.
A great longing rose up within him to see again the little sister, who
had been his playfellow and devoted slave in the far-away childhood’s
years. Where was she now? Living still at Thornton House? Tor could not
have brought her to Ladywell, he thought—odd as it might seem not to do
so. He would have given much for one loving kiss from Maud, for one of
the caresses he knew were his due; but he was a stranger and an alien,
and could only come in disguise to see his own inheritance.
Ladywell lay embosomed in woods, which now wore their full summer
foliage. He could not see his own house, and yet the very thought that
it was his own, thrilled him with a pride and delight he had not felt
before.
He remembered well the fine old place he had visited from time to
time with his father. He could see, with his mind’s eye, the great
terrace, the smooth lawns, and brilliant flowerbeds; the hot-houses
and conservatories, and the fine stables where he had loved to wander,
petting and admiring the horses who were stalled there.
The inside of the house he remembered less vividly, but the idea of
size and magnificence was strongly stamped upon his brain; and he
heaved a sigh at the thought which rose in his mind, that his accession
to his own property could only be obtained by the disgrace of the man
who had once been his dearest, almost his only friend.
‘What’s that fine place?’ asked a fellow-traveller, of the driver, as
the conveyance which had brought them both from Darwen drove up to the
village.
‘Ladywell Manor, sir—finest place in the county.’ For the village
people were loyal in their admiration of their own Manor House.
‘Who owns it?’
‘Old Squire were Mr. Maynard—a queer old gentleman by all accounts,
who never saw nobody. He never was married, and left the place to his
nephew, Mr. Debenham. He’s main popular is the new Squire, though he’s
not long come back from his travels; a pleasant-spoke, free-handed
young gentleman as ever trod shoe-leather, and as strong and big as
John the blacksmith, and he’s the biggest man down these parts.’
‘Is he a married man?—the Squire, I mean, not the blacksmith.’
‘No, he ain’t married not yet. He’s been a-knocking about the world,
they say, till now, and hasn’t hardly had time to turn round, so far.
He’s got his aunt living up there now, a widow lady, and his sister;
but he won’t want for a wife long. Why, he’s the best match in the
country-side, to say nothing of his good looks. Oh yes, sir, we’re a
bit proud of our new Squire. You see, the old un wasn’t greatly thought
on; and this here Mr. Debenham, he’s the right sort all round. There’s
not a soul in all Ladywell as hasn’t a good word for the Squire, or who
wouldn’t stand up for him through thick and thin, so as he needed it.’
This conversation, casually overheard, had given Phil a good deal of
food for meditation.
‘It is plain he has not let grass grow under his feet,’ he thought. ‘He
has played the old trick—won the hearts of the people to strengthen his
own position. Who could have thought it of Tor? Yet what else can I
think? Facts speak for themselves.’
That evening and the following morning he spent in restless wanderings
and anxious thought.
He could not talk to the people, because he wished to make out that his
English was of the most imperfect kind; and, with all his brooding and
thinking, he could not decide upon a regular plan of action.
The Debenham indecision was in his nature, and there was now no Tor at
his side to give ready advice and assistance. He had for the first time
to stand alone and act for himself, and all he could make up his mind
to do, was to drift along with the tide of circumstances, and be guided
by his own impulse what to say and what to leave unsaid.
It was not perhaps a very wise resolve, but it was eminently
characteristic of Phil’s habit of mind. Had Mr. Belassis had his real
nephew to deal with from the first, things might have turned out very
differently for all parties concerned.
In this indecisive frame of mind Phil stood at Mr. Meredith’s door, and
was admitted to Roma’s studio.
Roma, as Tor had said to Maud, possessed that type of beauty which
Phil most admired, and the longer they talked the greater grew his
admiration.
The bust of Maud in the studio at once arrested his attention, and he
saw at a glance whose portrait it must be, from its obvious likeness to
himself. Given this opening, he followed it up, talking of the Filippo
he had once known, making up his mind that he would contrive to make
Tor pretty uncomfortable.
His next interview, with Mr. Meredith, was very satisfactory. From
the first moment it was evident he had made a favourable impression.
Something in his voice fell pleasantly and familiarly upon the
sensitive ear of the blind man, and caused him to assert more than once
that he must have met Signor Pagliadini before.
When the introduction from Signor Mattei was brought forward, Phil had
himself to read it to the blind man. By a dexterous and very slight
transposition and alteration, the impression conveyed by the letter
was, that Marco Pagliadini was quite an old friend, and had been known
to Signor Mattei from his youth upwards.
The invitation to become an inmate at Michael Meredith’s was very
welcome, and was so warmly pressed that it had not to be too eagerly
accepted. Fortune certainly seemed to favour Phil, for as a guest in
this house he could not fail to have many opportunities for making
inquiries and finding out all that was possible about Tor’s line of
action. His former acquaintance with the two Englishmen, which he lost
no time in making known, gave colour to the interest he could not but
show in all connected with Ladywell, and especially in the actions of
its present master.
He was ill pleased to find what warm allies he had made even in this
house. Mr. Meredith was never tired of singing his praises, and even
Roma threw off something of her usual calm to defend, when Phil made
a covert attack upon him, the man who, did she but know it, so ill
deserved her goodwill.
Tor’s hasty disappearance, to avoid a meeting with anyone who had known
him abroad, was a significant fact, and showed that he was really ill
at ease, in spite of his popularity.
But that evening spent in company with Roma lulled into temporary
oblivion all thoughts of anger or vengeance. Roma was, in his opinion,
the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and his somewhat fervent
nature was soon all ablaze with the ardour of a dangerous admiration,
all the more dangerous because Roma seemed with every hour to grow more
gentle, more pensive, more trustful.
He almost forgot the object of his visit in the happiness of her
society, and he was far upon the way from which there is no retreat,
before the first evening had passed. It seemed to him that his one
object in coming to England had been to find Roma, and that to win her
love was now the only object worth living for.
But his thoughts were turned into a different channel the next day, by
a visit Maud paid to her friend’s studio.
Phil was with Roma, watching her work, for Michael Meredith was not yet
down; and the young man forgot, as did also Roma, the foreign ideas of
fitness of things, and assumed an English freedom, which seemed to them
quite natural and proper under the circumstances.
‘I am expecting Miss Debenham for a sitting. She promised to come this
morning. You will see then if she so resembles her brother.’
Phil, so to speak, pricked up his ears.
‘Miss Debenham coming here?’
‘Yes, Signor.’
‘May I be permitted to stay? Will she or you think it too great an
intrusion? I should so like some converse with my old friend’s sister.’
‘Maud will be delighted, I am sure. She is the merriest girl in the
world, and adores her brother. Any friend of his will be welcome.’
There was the sound of a light footfall down the long passage.
‘Here she is!’ said Roma.
Maud entered, a fair vision, in her white dress and shady hat, with her
bright eyes, clear, rose-tinted skin, happy smile and ready laugh.
‘Roma! Here I am, you see! Not so late as usual. Oh, I beg your pardon.
Are you engaged?’
‘No; this is our friend Signor Pagliadini, who is visiting us, and is
anxious to be presented to you. He knew your brother in Italy.’
On hearing this, Maud’s face lighted up brightly, and she held out her
hand.
‘I am always pleased to see any friend of my brother’s.’
There was an unconscious, fond pride in the way she spoke the words ‘my
brother,’ which brought a keen sense of pain to Phil’s heart.
It was hard, he felt, looking into his sister’s face, after eighteen
long years of separation, that it was but a stranger’s welcome he
received, and that its cordiality was only due to the fact that she
believed him to be Tor’s friend.
He was glad that he had not to say much, glad that she was unable to
converse freely with him, and glad that preparations for the sitting
were at once commenced.
Poor Phil was not endowed with any very large amount of self-control,
and to meet thus his only sister, and a sister whom he had greatly
loved, was a hard task, and one which roused in his heart all the
bitterness which had been nearly lulled to sleep.
Time, however, brought him calmness, and he was soon able to listen to
what the two girls were saying, whilst he appeared to be looking over
some books of photographs. Roma knew that he could understand, although
he could not speak English, so he was not afraid of taking an unfair
advantage of his position.
‘Isn’t Phil a dear boy?’ Maud was saying, with her usual enthusiasm.
‘He says if things go on smoothly, he’ll take Aunt Olive and me to
Italy in the winter. Won’t that be lovely! I do so want to travel, and
I’ve never been out of England. He would have taken us to Switzerland
this summer, only it’s too soon, he thinks, for him to go away; and
there’s my birthday to get over, you know. But another summer he’ll
take us, and he’ll let me do some mountaineering, he says. Won’t that
be splendid! I should love to go up Mont Blanc, or the Matterhorn, or
some really big mountain. I believe Phil’s done all the hardest. He’s
just the most wonderful boy in the world.’
Roma let her talk on in her favourite strain, glad to catch the
animated expression such conversation always gave to her. She wound up
by her favourite and well-worn phrase:
‘Isn’t he just an angel-boy, Roma?’
‘He is very kind and good.’
Maud laughed, and shook her head.
‘Ah, you don’t understand a bit. Lots and lots of people might be kind
and good, but nobody could be like my Phil. I’m sure there isn’t such
another brother in all the world. I can’t think now, however I managed
to live without him.’
Roma smiled at her enthusiasm. Signor Pagliadini’s face was turned away.
‘It’s quite true, and you needn’t laugh. And oh, Roma, do you know what
he is going to give me for a birthday present?’
‘No. What?’
‘A horse; a horse for my very own. Such a little beauty! You know those
at Ladywell are all his, and are very nice; but he never gave one to
me, though I ride them just as I like. I never thought of wanting one;
but the other day the loveliest, sweetest, most delicious little horse
appeared in one of the empty loose boxes. I happened to see him, and
asked Phil. First he wouldn’t tell me, and said I’d no business to play
the spy; but I coaxed and coaxed, and at last he gave in. He said it
was there on approval, and if its paces and temper and everything else
were right, he was going to give him to me on my birthday. He said he
had been looking out for a horse for me for a long time. He thought I
must wonder why I had not had one before. As if I ever should!’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, I told him he was just a darling, and asked him why he didn’t give
me the horse I generally ride, who is quite nice in every way.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, he laughed, and looked amused, and said he didn’t mean to give
away the Ladywell horses, not even to me. I didn’t quite see why,
I said; and he told me I should know better some day. Anyway, he’s
got me the loveliest little horse you can imagine—bay, with black
points—and I love him ever so much already.’
Shortly after this Signor Pagliadini drew closer, and sat down near to
sculptor and model, whilst he entered into conversation.
Maud was ready enough to talk, and, though a good deal of
interpretation had to go on for form’s sake, Phil felt that he was
growing to know his sister better than she imagined.
He was ready enough, and she eager enough, to talk of the ‘friend
Filippo,’ and poured out so many stories of his prowess and generosity,
that poor Phil was quite dismayed to find how he had been supplanted in
Maud’s affection, and felt that she would not readily transfer her love
to him.
Maud liked the dark foreigner with his somewhat sad, appealing eyes.
Some subtle sympathy seemed to draw them together; and, impossible
as she knew it to be, she could not help fancying she had known him
before, at some far-distant period.
Some of the tones of his voice and the turns of expression made her
fancy this; but rack her brains as she would, she could find nothing
to account for the odd idea. It was out of the question that they ever
could have met before.
A servant came to say that Mr. Meredith was down, and would be obliged
if Signor Pagliadini would join him in his study.
Maud gave him her hand again, as he rose to obey the summons.
‘If you knew my brother once, I wish you would come up to Ladywell this
afternoon, and have tea with us. He will be delighted, I am sure, to
renew the acquaintance.’
‘I shall be most happy to do so, if the Signorina is sure I shall not
intrude.’
‘Quite sure,’ answered Maud brightly. ‘_Au revoir_, then. Remember, you
will be expected.’
‘Who is he, Roma?’ she asked, when he had gone.
‘A friend of an uncle of my mother’s, in Florence. He sent him here.’
‘He is nice, is he not?’
‘I think so.’
‘And very good-looking?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t think who he reminds me of. It quite bothered me whilst he
was talking; not a likeness, you know, but just a look every now and
then. Why, yes, I know now!’
‘What?’
‘There’s a look in his eye like the picture of papa, in Aunt Olive’s
room. That’s what it is. I’m glad I’ve remembered. I can’t bear being
puzzled like that—it’s so irritating.’
And so Philip Debenham was to go in disguise to his own house, and
meet, face to face, the man who was personating him.
It was a trying situation certainly, and some little cleverness and
resolution was required in the carrying out of his part.
Phil did not lack cleverness, but his uncertainty and irresolution
boded ill for his wish to carry things off with a high hand.
He believed Tor, warned of his visit, would contrive to meet him alone,
and of this he was glad; and he had little fear that his disguise would
be penetrated. It was peculiarly good, and lacked any sign of the
grotesque which so often, in such cases, defeats its own object, by
provoking suspicion and curiosity.
He looked so completely the Italian of rank and wealth, that he almost
at times believed himself to be what he represented; and Tor, who
_knew_ that his friend was upon the open sea, could have no reason for
suspicion.
Phil, as has been recorded, began boldly; but it was by a strong effort
that he did so. When he stood face to face with his old friend his
courage almost failed, and he was only withheld by distrust and fear
from tearing off his disguise and calling out:
‘Tor, old fellow! Here I am! What are you doing? and what am I to do?’
But he restrained himself, and spoke the more coldly and threateningly
from his very agitation. He grew angry and desperate as he saw how
coolly and calmly Tor stood his ground, and parried attacks which he
thought would have forced him to lay down his arms.
To see this man standing before him, assuming his name and station, and
almost scoffing at his well-aimed blows, was too much, and Phil felt
lashed into fury.
He charged him straight out with wronging his friend; and then Tor gave
such a bold, fearless denial to the charge, that, in spite of himself,
Phil’s distrust was shaken. It seemed his fate at this time to make up
his mind that Tor was a villain, only to have this conviction shaken
by some earnest assurance or chance discovery; and then, hardly had
the balance weighed down upon the side of friendship, before some new
revelation would wake up all the old animosity and fear.
Tor’s next asseveration, that he could hold his own against the world,
and would defy all the innuendoes cast at him by anyone, was certainly
a ‘facer’ after what had gone before; and Phil left Ladywell in as
troubled and doubtful a state as he had entered it, and more and more
convinced that Tor, with his strong will and high hand, would be no
mean opponent, all the more dangerous for the general enthusiasm he
seemed to inspire in others.
It behoved Phil to walk with great care, and to avoid raising
suspicions in the minds of his hosts. Michael Meredith, however, was
too much absorbed in his own dreams to give overmuch heed to what might
be going on in other people’s minds; and from him Phil could learn a
great deal that was valuable to him, without running any risk.
He heard with a sort of satisfaction, that Tor had enemies in his
supposed uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Belassis. Now Phil knew nothing
absolutely conclusive against these relatives of his, save that he had
not liked them as a child. His father, however, had been an intimate
friend of Belassis, and his mother had been closely related to them.
Old Maynard’s letter and Maud’s, which would have given him the clue
to the real character of his uncle, had never reached him, and he had
not the faintest idea that any suspicion of dishonesty could attach to
his name. All he knew was that he had feared and disliked his uncle
as a boy, and had been very indignant when he had doomed him to an
office-stool instead of bringing him up ‘as a gentleman.’
Time, however, had somewhat modified this feeling. Phil knew enough
of the world now, to be aware that a penniless youth of family has a
better chance of rising in the world by beginning life at a merchant’s
desk, than in any capacity that he would have selected for himself;
and he could forgive the uncle for the choice he had made. At the same
time, he could not shake off the impression that he had been unfairly
treated by being so long banished from home, and not allowed to see his
sister or any other relative; and he knew that Maud had been anything
but content with her life under her uncle’s roof.
All these considerations rose up one by one before him, and he could
not yet say whether or not he would take advantage of their dislike to
Tor to make allies of the Belassis’. Instinct warned him not to trust
them. Reason told him that his wisest plan would be to get his nearest
relatives upon his side.