THE LAST STRAW.
It was very well for Roma to tell Phil that he was not to speak again
to her of love; but he was not at all prepared to submit to such a
prohibition.
Roma loved him, and had admitted her love, therefore he had a right to
assume towards her something of a lover’s part.
‘All is fair in love and war,’ he said to himself; and he felt that
against his false friend any step he chose to take was fair.
The fact that he had, by flattering the father’s foolish vanity,
obtained the promise of the daughter’s hand against her own will, added
fuel to the fire of his anger against Tor, which he had been able only
fitfully to keep burning so far; and he now felt that he could proceed
to severe measures with less scruple than heretofore.
Roma was unhappy; he saw that plainly through the evening hours that
followed their declaration of mutual love; and the thought that Tor was
making her suffer was enough to rouse, and to keep stirring within him,
deep feelings of animosity and scorn.
Roma need not have been unhappy; but when a false position has been
forced upon a woman, it must sooner or later become a trouble and an
anxiety.
The girl had, in a great measure, forced herself into the position
she thus occupied, by her feverish dread of agitating her father, by
the promise she had obtained from Tor, and by her determination to
sacrifice anything—her life’s happiness, if need be—to his whims, which
in her eyes were sacred.
It had seemed to her a trifling thing, this sacrifice, so long as no
love had ever entered her life, save her love towards her blind father.
She would even have made a loveless marriage rather than have given him
pain, for she wrongly believed that her one duty in life was to shield
him, at all cost, from any kind of trouble.
But the events of the past few days had insensibly wrought a change
in her. She saw now that the sacrifice of her life would involve deep
pain to another; and in the light of this new love a hundred doubts and
fears, which had never troubled her before, now woke into active being.
Foremost amongst these was the haunting dread which Phil’s warning had
aroused. Would this man to whom she was pledged really give her back
her word? Or had he been deceiving her?
She had never doubted Tor before, and she certainly need not have
doubted him now; but if love brings with it a thousand bright hopes, it
as certainly brings quite as many nervous fears.
Phil had unconsciously infected her with some of his own distrust of
the man who passed as master of Ladywell, and she began to tremble lest
he had deceived her, as the Signor said he had deceived others before.
She tried to rid herself of these thoughts, she always spoke on behalf
of ‘Mr. Debenham’ when he was attacked, yet the cold fear which had
clutched at her heart would not relax its grip.
She had seen very little of Tor lately, which partly accounted for this
change in her feelings. There was something straightforward and kindly
in his presence, that always gave her confidence, and would have driven
away her fears had she but seen him frequently face to face; but of
late he had had much to occupy his time and thoughts, and he felt it
well, under existing circumstances, to see but little of Roma.
True, not many days had passed since he had paid a hurried visit to her
studio; but that did not count for much, and it seemed to her a long,
long while since they had spoken together of their mutual understanding
respecting their nominal engagement.
The girl’s heart was heavy, and her face was pale when she met their
guest at the breakfast-table upon the following day.
Phil saw this, and indignation waxed hot within him.
That morning Roma declined to allow him to enter her studio. She
wanted, she said, to work hard, and should do so better alone.
Phil walked across the park to Ladywell, and wandered aimlessly about
in its grounds and gardens, thinking bitter thoughts of his strange and
anomalous position—a trespasser and an alien upon his own property.
He saw no one but a few gardeners, who looked curiously at him, but
made no remark upon his presence there. He wandered at will amongst the
flowers and shrubs, remarking to himself upon the beautiful order which
reigned there, and wondering whether under his rule—if ever he obtained
his own—things would be as well kept up.
‘Tor always was made to rule—I used to tell him so: now perhaps he has
found it out for himself, and has learned his own power.’
Phil was in a depressed frame of mind, restless and angry, yet still
irresolute, from the feeling of helplessness which always came over him
when he pictured himself standing up against Tor.
‘He can turn me round his little finger,’ said poor Phil dismally
enough. ‘He can do anything he likes with me, and he knows it. I
believe if he had me to deal with, and only me, he could almost
persuade me that I was Torwood, and he Debenham. I know the old
feeling would all come back, and I should be like a child in his hands.
I must have some help. I must make allies somehow. I wonder what these
Belassis people are like. After all, they are my next of kin.’
Phil gathered a great bunch of roses and heliotrope for Roma, and then
slowly turned his steps back to the house.
‘My flowers!’ he thought bitterly. ‘I have to steal my own flowers, and
run the risk of being prosecuted for it.’
No harm, however, resulted from his boldness. He met nobody as he
retreated with his fragrant burden; only as he crossed the park, under
the shadow of the great trees, he saw Maud and Tor riding gaily over
the elastic sward up to the great terrace.
‘What a handsome couple they are!’ thought Phil. ‘And how fond she is
of him! I wonder what she will say when I have brought him to ignominy
and disgrace. Will that steel her heart against me? I don’t believe
women have any sense of justice when their pity is aroused.’
He found Roma alone in the room, where the cloth was laid for lunch.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed, as she saw the flowers.
‘For you,’ he said softly. ‘You know, Roma, what the heliotrope says?’
She bent her head over the flowers, and answered nothing.
‘Tell me,’ he said, with that gentle authority which a man in his
position seldom assumes in vain.
‘“_Ich liebe dich_,”’ she answered so softly that he, too, had to bend
towards her flowers to catch the words.
Next moment they had started apart, for Mr. Meredith had entered the
room with a lady upon his arm, the sight of whose face made Phil start
with surprise.
He knew at a glance who she was—his aunt, Mrs. Belassis.
Eighteen years had passed since he had seen her, but yet that handsome,
cold face, with its hard lines and clearly cut features, had not been
effaced from his recollection; and time had wrought little change in
Mrs. Belassis.
Phil felt repelled by the face, though he tried not to let himself
be too much led by his instinct of distrust. He had that gift of
a somewhat finely strung nature, of reading faces with tolerable
accuracy, and yet he did not wish to dislike or suspect Mrs. Belassis.
She might prove a useful ally, and he was anxious not to allow
prejudice to warp his judgment.
He talked with a purpose at table, and in a moment he saw that she
understood and responded. It needed but a short time to convince him
that Mrs. Belassis was a clever woman, and that she had some suspicions
of her own respecting the character of her supposed nephew: though in
what channel her suspicions ran, it was not the time and place then to
discover.
Opportunity, however, was not long wanting, for an offer of escort
home gave him the chance to speak to his aunt alone, and find out, if
possible, what it was she really thought respecting Tor.
The interview was not entirely satisfactory, for, do what he would,
Phil could not shake off the old distrust of his aunt; and the idea
of plotting against Tor with a Belassis was so repugnant to all the
instincts of his nature, that he could not bring himself to speak out
plainly.
He saw that Mrs. Belassis was upon the wrong tack in her suspicions.
She had no idea, as yet, of the trick that had been played upon the
family; and Phil had, therefore, the acuteness to wonder how it was she
so hated Tor, as to be willing to ally herself against him, and that
with a perfect stranger. She must have a motive, and an interested one,
else she would not trouble herself over the matter. What was it to her
if Mr. Torwood was wronged? It was no business of hers to arbitrate
between two friends.
So he plucked up his courage and put the question, and learned by the
answer that Tor had treated with contumely his next of kin.
He could not help inwardly rejoicing that the Belassis faction had been
so treated, for his soul abhorred them, even whilst his reason tried to
persuade him into taking them into his confidence.
How he would have answered Mrs. Belassis he never had to decide; for
as she finished her tirade against her ungrateful nephew, Tor himself
came striding down the lane, and Phil felt himself crimsoning all over.
Suppose Tor could know him! Fancy such a juxtaposition! Phil in league
with a Belassis against his old friend!
A sudden sense of shame fell upon him, as he met for an instant the
keen, quick glance from Tor’s eyes. There was no guilt, no shame in
Tor’s face; but the frank, open courage and truthfulness which had
always characterized it.
No, come what might, he could not plot against his friend. He would
speak to him openly, face to face. Phil’s better angel was now in the
ascendant, and he bid Mrs. Belassis a hasty adieu, whilst some words
she had uttered, which had passed almost unnoticed before, now recurred
to him with considerable significance.
‘Spends Mr. Torwood’s money almost more freely than his own,’ he
muttered in French; and then he added in vigorous English, ‘The deuce
he does!’
Phil pondered over this piece of intelligence a good deal. So Tor was
spending his own money freely. Spending his own meant saving Phil’s. If
he was saving Phil’s, what could be his object? Why should he save it,
if he looked upon it as his own, and meant to claim it as such? Was it
caution? or was it honesty? What could be the reason for economizing
money supposed to be his own?
Phil puzzled over this question without solving the problem to his own
satisfaction. On the whole, he inclined to believe that Tor was acting
more fairly towards him than he had once believed; and yet he could not
see his way out of the difficulty, nor understand how it was possible
for his friend to be anything but false and treacherous.
He hung about Ladywell as a moth flits about a candle: it fascinated
him to watch, as far as possible, the life that went on there; and yet
the more he watched the more he saw how strong was Tor’s position, and
the more did he fear the result of trying to oust him.
‘What would be the good to me of house and lands, if my sister hated
me, and my aunt—the only aunt I care about—feared and blamed me? I
should be detested at Ladywell, I know, if Tor were in prison. They
will never love me as they do him. Maud is just wrapped up in him.
Even Roma might turn against me then. Though she does not love him, she
would pity him, and as everybody knows, pity is akin to love.’
It never occurred to Phil that Tor might be as much wrapped up in Maud,
as Maud was in him, and the idea of his being in love with her never
so much as entered his head. As he had been told that he was engaged
to Roma, this was perhaps natural. As her heart was not concerned in
the matter, his must be; otherwise the engagement could never have been
formed.
The next event that followed was an invitation to dine at Ladywell.
This invitation Phil accepted readily. He was not now at all nervous of
being detected, and his interest in that household was most absorbing.
Tor, in giving the invitation, had implied that it was merely a
friendly dinner he was asked to share, that no company would be
invited; and he thought that perhaps some opportunity would arise which
would give him that private interview which he longed for whilst he
dreaded.
When he reached the drawing-room he found two strange ladies there,
as well as Maud and Mrs. Lorraine. One was a young girl of blooming
countenance, the other a handsome, keen-eyed, well-dressed elderly
lady, whose name was given as Miss Marjory Descartes.
Phil fancied the name was not altogether strange to him. He had a vague
idea that he had heard it before, and that in some way or another it
was associated with Tor; but he could not find the clue to the dim
train of thought aroused, and as dinner was announced, his duty of
conducting Maud to the head of her table now occupied his mind to the
exclusion of all else.
Maud was very charming and very winning, of that there could be no
doubt; and the more so from the little difficulties which arose in
making herself understood to her neighbour. Her French was more broken
and pretty than fluent, but her bright smiles and speaking gestures
quite made up for lack of words; and Phil was more and more delighted
with his sister, and more and more impatient to claim her as his own.
He noticed, even when in company and entertaining guests at her table,
how her eyes were turning continually to Tor, how her face lighted when
their glances met, and how she tried to catch what he said, and to
include him in her own talk.
‘How she does love him!’ thought poor Phil. ‘Will she ever love me like
that? I should so hate to do anything to make her shrink from me. I
will say nothing to-night, at any rate.’
This decision was a relief, and the short interval that he spent
_tête-à-tête_ with Tor, passed more easily than might have been
expected. Phil concealed the nervousness he felt, and Tor seemed always
at his ease. The interview did not last long, for they soon rose by
mutual consent, to join the ladies.
Phil was glad to escape from his host, and fell readily into
conversation with Miss Marjory Descartes, who attracted him by her
bright, pleasant manner, and by her fluent, amusing speech.
But he was not altogether easy as the conversation proceeded. He could
not define the impression produced; but he certainly experienced some
sensation which suggested the idea that he was being ‘turned inside
out’ for Miss Marjory’s inspection.
If it was so, it was so cleverly done that he was barely conscious of
the operation. It might be all his morbid fancy, he told himself. Miss
Marjory could not by any chance know anything. Tor would know better
than to betray his own secret. Still he could not be quite comfortable,
and the more he reviewed the talk afterwards, the less he liked it.
He had committed himself, he feared, more than he had intended, and had
not been clear as to his antecedents under cross-examination. He had
come without a properly prepared story, and Miss Marjory had either
found it out, or might have done so, if she had had any motive in her
apparently innocent queries.
Miss Marjory had half fascinated, half frightened him.
He could not rid himself of the idea that she was in some way an ally
of Tor’s, and in his confidence. If so, it boded ill for him, for he
knew that a clever woman was a dangerous enemy; and what Miss Marjory
had said of Tor’s likeness to Mr. Debenham and Maud seemed to imply
that if an ally, she would be an unscrupulous one.
Such remarks as hers must have been made in all simplicity, or else
with a deep motive. Phil was inclined to believe the latter theory;
though at times he accused himself of morbid fears, which led him to
suspect danger where no danger was.
Just at this juncture of affairs, came the invitation to join the
dinner-party that was to celebrate Maud’s majority. Michael Meredith,
in his presumption that he and Roma almost belonged to the family, had
all but asked for an invitation, and Tor had given it, including, as
was almost necessary, the Signor.
At almost the last moment, after all, Meredith and his daughter decided
against going, as his health was not considered strong enough to bear
the fatigue. The Signor, however, to everyone’s surprise, announced
his intention of holding to his accepted word; and nobody exactly
liked to say to him that his presence would be rather an intrusion.
Roma had told him beforehand something about Mr. Debenham’s odd will,
and the decision Maud was expected to make. He was interested, but
having no suspicions about the validity of the will, nor even of any
compulsion put upon the father in its making, he did not attach the
same significance to the matter that others had done.
Phil never forgot that dinner.
For the first time in his life he sat down to dine with a family party,
and saw, for the first time since he had grown up, the three cousins
he had played and quarrelled with as a child, and the uncle whom as
a child he had so cordially hated. He did not now look in any way
lovable. Phil could well believe that youthful impressions had been
correct.
It was rather a terrible dinner for Phil. He could not disguise the
interest with which he listened to the conversation that went on; and
then Miss Marjory turned upon him, told him he was not an Italian, and
asked why he could not say straight out who he was and what he had come
for.
Phil had not a word to say, and for awhile sat dumb and confounded;
but even a worm will turn, and he felt that he must do so. He tried
to attack Miss Marjory, and find out what she did know; but he was
defeated at all points. He was no match for his opponent; and all he
could find out was, that he was known to be a spy, and, even if his
identity was not guessed at, the object of his visit was; and that
every means would be taken to defeat him, and to upset the claim he was
about to put forward.
The enemy was even so strong that he was warned on his own account to
desist, and plainly told that an attempt to coerce ‘Mr. Debenham’ would
only recoil upon his own head.
Miss Marjory undertook to defeat him single-handed, and such was the
respect inspired by her indomitable will and aggressive, confident
manner, that Phil almost believed his cause already lost.
Like one in a dream he made his way to the library, where Maud’s
decision was to be heard. He resented Tor’s attempt to exclude him as a
personal affront. Who had the best right to be there, the brother, or
the brother’s friend?
Phil listened to all that passed with a feverish interest, not taking
in its full significance, but observing only what he thought might be
afterwards useful to himself. He saw that Tor had made bitter enemies
of the Belassis’, husband and wife, and knew that they would now
support him, heart and soul, in his claim to wrest his own from the
hand of their foe.
Very willingly did he now agree with Mrs. Belassis that the time had
come to put an end to the game, and ready enough was he to meet her
upon the morrow to discuss their campaign.
But then, again, when they had met face to face, he could not quite
make up his mind to be frank. He despised the tools he had brought
himself to employ, and was ready to hate himself for stooping to use
them.
He did betray the secret, half unwittingly, and gave the clue of the
tangle into his aunt’s hands; but he let her believe that Philip
Debenham was away at sea, for not yet was he prepared to give her his
full confidence.
Their conversation has already been given; they nearly came to an
understanding more than once; and then Phil, with instinctive distrust,
pulled up, and would not commit himself further; but he knew that he
had betrayed too much for it to be possible any longer to keep the game
in his own hands; and that, if his promise to Tor were to be redeemed,
he must see and speak to him without delay.
He was to go to Ladywell as a guest next day. Nothing could be done
before then, he thought, by Mrs. Belassis; yet, as he approached the
door on his way to the Manor House, he encountered her coming forth.
‘They _will_ dispute it,’ she said, in a hurried whisper. ‘He means to
keep the name and position he has assumed. Try your power if you will;
but his mind is made up.’
Phil went slowly up to the house.
‘I must try my power. I will. There is no other course open to me now.
Whatever may be the result, I must make myself known. I will demand an
interview this very night. I am glad that I cannot hesitate longer,
that things have gone beyond my control. What will he say? How will he
take it? Shame and fear and anger I must see, but oh! how strange they
will look when stamped upon his face! Oh, Tor, Tor! why have you done
this thing?’