A MAN AND A BROTHER.
Lewis Belassis did not cease his visits to Ladywell because Maud had
rejected him. On the contrary, he came as often as ever, and was made
decidedly more welcome than he had been before.
He was in no way put out by the arrival of the new Philip Debenham, and
even heard with equanimity the news of Maud’s engagement to Tor.
Phil liked this cousin of his, Belassis though he was, and Lewis liked
Phil and admired him. He felt that he had more in common with him than
with Tor, and so he came a good deal to Ladywell.
What he did with himself during the busy days which followed Phil’s
sudden arrival, nobody seemed quite to know. He was often about the
place, that was certain, and frequently dropped in to lunch; but
neither Phil nor Tor, Maud, Miss Marjory nor Mrs. Lorraine, saw much
of him at other times, although they all declared with one voice that
they thought the young man had very much improved of late. Nobody was
specially interested in Lewis, so far as they knew.
Miss Marjory had not left Ladywell yet, though she had made an attempt
to do so, saying that her work was done, and that she ought now to be
at home. Phil and Tor, however, had combined to entreat her to stay at
least another week, and she had consented, without any great amount of
persuasion.
One day, as she happened to be looking out of her window over the
gardens, she saw a sight which at once arrested her attention.
It was not any very uncommon sight certainly, and one which was
frequently to be seen at Ladywell at that time—a young man and a young
girl walking together, absorbed in earnest conversation; and yet it set
Miss Marjory thinking, and as she thought, a little frown knitted her
brow.
Half an hour later she heard a footfall outside her door, and called
out:
‘Ethel!’
‘Yes, Cousin Marjory.’
‘Come in—I want you.’
So Ethel came in, her blooming face somewhat more blooming than usual,
and a little smile of happiness sparkling in her blue eyes.
Miss Marjory’s face lost its look of gravity, and she smiled too.
Sometimes Miss Marjory had been known to say of herself, that she did
not feel as though she should ever be really old. In heart, she was
still young.
‘Where have you been, Ethel?’
‘In the garden.’
‘Were you alone there?’
‘N—no!’—here the colour deepened somewhat, but Ethel looked up
fearlessly and frankly, and added: ‘Mr. Lewis Belassis was with me.’
‘He has often been with you lately, has he not?’
‘Ye—yes, Cousin Marjory, rather often. You see, everybody is so taken
up just now! There is nobody else for him to talk to!’
Miss Marjory smiled, and then her face grew grave.
‘Has he been making love to you, Ethel?’
Her face grew rosy red.
‘I—I hardly know—not exactly; but I think—I can’t help fancying——’
‘That will do, child; you needn’t tell me any more.’
Miss Marjory sat so still for a few minutes—so still, and so
thoughtful—that Ethel, after looking at her once or twice, began to
grow nervous.
‘You are not angry, Cousin Marjory?’
‘No, child, not angry; but I wish, all the same, that it hadn’t
happened—not just yet, at any rate,’ she added, catching the look on
Ethel’s face.
‘Cousin Marjory, we couldn’t help it—indeed we couldn’t! Please don’t
say we mustn’t!’
Miss Marjory smiled, and shook her head.
‘My dear child, I have no authority over you. You are of age, and your
father is alive; and now that he has married again, and has made new
ties, I do not imagine he will seriously oppose your choice, provided
it seems at all suitable. You have your own independent fortune, even
if it is not a very large one. I have no right to lay a veto on your
marriage.’
‘But I hope you will like it, Cousin Marjory!’
Miss Marjory laughed a little.
‘To speak the truth, Ethel, I have never looked forward to having very
much in common with your husband, or with Horace’s wife; so you need
not be disappointed on that score.’
Ethel opened her blue eyes wide. She was not quite equal to taking in
the full meaning of Miss Marjory’s remark.
‘I thought you liked Lewis!’
‘I think, considering his parentage and bringing up, he is a marvel;
but I don’t know anything specially remarkable about him otherwise.’
‘He is very nice!’ said Ethel meekly, feeling that she was making but a
poor champion for the man whom she really loved fondly.
Miss Marjory sat with knitted brow, wrapped in thought of no very
pleasant kind.
‘Don’t set your heart too much upon this man, Ethel.’
‘Oh, Cousin Marjory! Why not?’
‘It may be impossible for him to marry you.’
‘Oh, Cousin Marjory! I thought you said you would not forbid it!’
‘It will be no doing of mine, child. But, as I said before, it may be
an impossibility for all that. Now don’t begin to cry. I have not said
that it cannot go on, only that it may not be able to do so. Lewis
would be the first to tell you so himself, if he knew what I know.’
‘What is that?’
‘Never mind; it does not concern you. Be a brave woman, Ethel, and not
a child! So you are quite sure that this Lewis wants to marry you?’
‘I am almost sure.’
‘Has he asked you?’
‘Not quite.’
‘But almost?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have almost answered him?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sort of thing wouldn’t suit me,’ said Miss Marjory. ‘When I was
young, we didn’t do things by halves as you do now. When I was your
age, men asked the plain question, and got a straight answer—very
straight it generally was, if I remember right! However, times change,
and so do people and their ways. Well, well! if you don’t mind
shilly-shallying, I don’t see why I need. Has he got anything to marry
on—this Lewis of yours?’
‘Not very much without Maud’s money, and he isn’t going to touch that.
He is very high-principled, Cousin Marjory. He is going to give that
all back, as soon as it is made over to him.’
‘Well, that is honourable enough. I like him for that. He has not a
ghost of a right to that money, though it is legally his. Well, and
when he makes over that, what has he left?’
‘Only about a hundred a year—something an uncle left him once. I have
three hundred a year, you know, Cousin Marjory; and I have not spent
nearly that whilst I have been living with you. Lewis doesn’t think his
father will do anything for him, after he has given over Maud’s money,
he will be so angry; but he means to try and get something to do. I
thought—we thought—you know you said——’
‘Said I would help him to something? Well, I’ll do what I can, if he
shows himself worthy. I’ll do that in any case, whether you marry him
or not, for he’ll need a helping hand. I can’t say I like the idea
of your marrying a Belassis; but, as I said before, that’s not my
business, and no good ever comes of trying to shape out other people’s
lives for them. But mind what I say, don’t be led on past recall,
and don’t pledge yourself, or set your heart on it yet. It may be
impossible.’
‘Oh, I hope not!’
‘I hope not too.’
‘Can’t you tell me more, Cousin Marjory?’
‘No, not now, child; but I hope to be able to do so shortly.’
Lewis Belassis was wandering aimlessly along a field-path, not very
far from Ladywell, and indulging in a dream of a brighter future
than had ever before seemed to await him, when he was accosted by a
respectable-looking man, who had the air and appearance of a well-to-do
tradesman.
‘If you please, sir, can you direct me to Ladywell Manor?’ said the man.
Lewis eyed him curiously, for there was an odd resemblance to his
father in the man’s voice and appearance, which suggested to his mind
the fanciful idea that he might be a poor relation, who had been
studiously kept in the background all this while, and whose very
existence was unknown to him.
It would be just like his father to be ashamed of a poor kinsman, Lewis
thought; but the resemblance was not strong enough to afford any real
reason for the fancy thus conjured up.
‘Ladywell Manor—yes, certainly, you can get to it this way; but the
field-paths are rather intricate, and you would most likely stray. If
you’ll walk to the end of the field with me, I can put you into a much
more direct way of finding it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the man, and turned back readily.
‘I’ve just come from Ladywell,’ remarked Lewis, inwardly wondering
what could be the man’s business there. ‘It’s a fine old place.’
‘Yes, sir? I’m a stranger in these parts. I come from Whitbury; it is
Miss Marjory Descartes that I’ve come to see. She’s our great lady at
Whitbury.’
‘Ah,’ said Lewis, his first faint impression dying away; ‘she’s a great
lady, I fancy, wherever she goes.’
‘Like enough, sir,’ answered the other; and they walked on in silence.
As they reached the road, two friends of Lewis’s rode by.
‘How do, Belassis?’ said one.
‘Morning, Belassis,’ said the other.
Then the strange man turned and looked at him.
‘Is your name Belassis, sir?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
Lewis’s first suspicion woke again into new life.
‘So is mine,’ said the man—‘Alfred Belassis.’
‘Why, I thought there was something of a Belassis look about you,’ said
Lewis heartily, for he was not a cad, and was above coldshouldering a
poor relation. ‘Shake hands; I fancy we are some sort of cousins. I’ll
walk your way, and we’ll find out.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the man slowly, ‘if you’re the son of Mr. Alfred
Belassis of these parts, maybe I’d best walk your way, and see him.’
‘You are a relation of ours, then?’
‘Yes, sir; and I’m afraid, perhaps, a nearer one than you’ll quite
relish.’
Lewis laughed good-naturedly.
‘Never mind my father—he always was a growler, as I dare say you know;
but so far as I am concerned, you will be very welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir; you mean kindly, I see, only you don’t know yet who I
am.’
‘No, I don’t; but I wish you’d tell me.’
‘Well, sir, I’m your half-brother—if you want to know.’
‘My—half—brother!’
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid you won’t like it; but I’ve not come here to
force myself upon you, or make myself unpleasant. I’ve got a word to
say to my father, whom I never knew; and when I’ve said it, I’ll go.
He’ll be glad of my message, even if he isn’t glad to see his own son.’
‘My half-brother!’ repeated Lewis once more, with even greater
astonishment.
‘Yes, sir; Mr. Alfred Belassis married my mother before he married
yours.’
‘I never knew he had a first wife! I don’t believe anyone knew.’
‘Like enough, sir. He behaved real bad, he did—deserted my mother
less than three months after he married her, and never sent her word
or line, or took the least bit of notice of her. She thought he had
died, and sort of believed in him all along, I’ve heard tell. But Miss
Marjory had me brought up—my poor mother was always weakly; and she
told me the whole story when I grew up. We’ve got a bad father, you and
I have, sir.’
‘My name is Lewis. If we are brothers, you should not call me “sir,”’
said Lewis, feeling, as he had often felt of late, that his father was
a despicable character.
‘I know my place, sir,’ answered the man, not without dignity. ‘I like
you for not flying out, because we’ve got the same father; but we’ve
been brought up different. You’re a gentleman, whilst I keep a shop.
I’ve made a tidy lot of money in business; but I know my place, and I
know I’m not like you.’
‘You may thank your stars you’re not,’ said poor Lewis. ‘It seems to me
I’ve nothing to call my own, but the name my father has disgraced.’
‘We needn’t disgrace it, sir,’ said the man respectfully. ‘I never was
ashamed of it—downright ashamed—till I got a letter from Miss Marjory a
week ago.’
‘And what did that tell you?’
‘Why, that your father, sir—and mine—didn’t ever trouble to find out
that my poor mother was dead, before he married yours. He does not even
know now that she is his lawful wife.’
Lewis flushed hotly.
‘But she is?’
‘Yes, sir, she is: I’d not have liked to come here and face you all,
if things had turned out different; but it is all right in that sense,
though he don’t really know it. Miss Marjory, she wrote and told me
about things here, and bid me try to find out the exact date of my
mother’s death, from the people who brought me up. She thought they’d
be most likely to know. They didn’t know exactly, but I got to know
the place where she died, and I went down to see the registers and find
out. She died on the 2nd of May, 1850, and Mr. Belassis married again
about a fortnight later. But he didn’t know anything about this death.’
Lewis walked on in silence. He felt very much inclined not to go home
at all, after what he had just heard, so profoundly disgusted was he
with his father; but on the whole he decided that he would do so, and
take this elder brother with him.
It was luncheon-time when he arrived, and they were a little late, so
that the servant had withdrawn.
Lewis entered boldly, with the young tradesman close behind him.
‘Allow me,’ said he to his father, ‘to introduce to you your first-born
son, Alfred Belassis.’
Matilda and Bertha screamed, Mrs. Belassis turned pale, her husband
purple.
‘D—— your impudence!’ he cried, starting up. ‘What do you mean by
coming here with such a story? I’ll kick you out of my house if you
dare ever enter it again!’
It seemed uncertain to which of the two sons the threat was made. The
elder one took it as addressed to him.
‘I’ve no particular wish ever to come again, sir. I am not proud of the
relationship, and I don’t care to claim it. I only came now to bring
you something which I think you may like to possess;’ and he took from
his pocket-book and handed to Mr. Belassis a certified copy of the
register of the death of his first wife.
He took it, looked at it, and handed it across to his wife. An immense
load seemed lifted at once from his shoulders; but instead of feeling
any gratitude towards the man who had brought the good news, or any
spark of affection for the son of whose very existence he had not been
aware till now, he was only filled with a burning rage against anyone
who had dared to bring home to him, and in a manner to make public, the
most disgraceful episode of his early life.
He was too angry even to consider his own interests, or to try and
conciliate the man who possessed knowledge so much to his discredit.
He turned furiously upon Alfred Belassis, and swore at him more loudly
than before.
‘Get out of my house, you blackguard! coming forcing your way in under
false pretences, and making up scandalous stories to extort money! I
know the ways of gentlemen like you; and if you don’t make the best of
your way out double-quick, I’ll have you kicked out by the servants!’
But Lewis laid his hand upon his half-brother’s arm to detain him.
‘This man is your son as much as I am!’ said he boldly. ‘He is my
brother, and I won’t stand by and hear him insulted! If you turn him
out of your house, I shall go too!’
Mrs. Belassis smiled contemptuously. She thought her son was only
making himself ridiculous, and she considered the presence of that
other man in the room a positive insult to herself.
‘You can go to the devil, both of you!’ growled Belassis fiercely.
‘What do I care?’
Lewis took Alfred’s arm, and led him from the room and from the house.
Mrs. Belassis smiled even more contemptuously.
‘He will come back to-morrow like a whipped puppy, with his tail
between his legs.’
‘What does it all mean?’ asked Bertha. ‘Why do you and papa always
quarrel with everybody? Who is that man?’
‘A distant relative of your father’s, who is very troublesome and
pushing. We have helped him till we are tired, and now, I think, he
will come no more,’ answered Mrs. Belassis grandly.
‘Why did Lewis say——’
‘Lewis is a fool!’ snapped Mr. Belassis; and then he added, a little
uneasily: ‘but I don’t want to quarrel with him, for all that.’
He looked at his wife, who merely smiled, and said:
‘You need not be afraid of Lewis. I can turn him round my little
finger!’
The relief given by this certificate was intense, to the proud, hard
woman who had ruled at Thornton House with a rod of iron. Her contempt
for the husband she had married was unbounded; but, at least, she was
his lawful wife, and therefore policy bound her over to his cause.
She knew quite well why Lewis must be kept in a good humour; for his
father’s good name was at his mercy, or would be very shortly, when the
handing-over of Maud’s trust-money could no longer be delayed.
Mrs. Belassis, however, had small opinion of Lewis’s force of
character, and attached no importance to this foolish quarrel.
As the newly-acquainted brothers walked across the park towards
Ladywell, Alfred said:
‘You shouldn’t have quarrelled with them for my sake, sir.’
‘I wasn’t going to stand seeing you treated like that! You’re as much
his son as I am!’
‘Yes, sir, true enough; but, of course, things have changed; and he
doesn’t like to be made to think of the past.’
‘He needn’t have insulted you.’
‘No, sir, he needn’t; but when a man’s temper is up, he doesn’t pick
his words. We’d better have had it out more quiet-like, without the
missis and the young ladies sitting by.’
‘Well, one can’t think of everything, and truth’s truth. I know I
should have quarrelled with him sooner or later; it doesn’t much matter
how it happened.’
‘But you’ll make it up again, surely, sir?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me “sir.” I don’t know if I shall make it
up. We’ve got a quarrel brewing on our own account. There’s a lot of
money come to me by law, which isn’t mine by right—only by a piece of
trickery. I’m not going to keep it. I’m going to give it back to the
rightful owner, and my father will be furious—I know he will.’
‘And when you’ve given up the money, and quarrelled with your father,
how are you going to live, if I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘I must earn my living somehow—sweep a crossing if need be. Well, no,
I’ve got just enough to keep me above that; and I hope to get a decent
berth of some kind, if such a thing’s to be had. I did want to get
married’—here Lewis sighed—‘but, of course, that must wait till I’ve
something to marry upon—eh, Alfred?’
He found it easier to talk to this friendly tradesman-relative of his
affairs, than he would have done had he been of equal social standing.
There was a straightforward honesty about the man which pleased him.
Alfred seemed to ponder for a while.
‘You see, sir, it wants capital in these days to get a good
berth—unless one’s a lad, and can work up from the bottom. Right must
be done, but you’d have found the money very useful.’
‘I know that well enough,’ sighed Lewis; ‘but I can’t rob my own cousin
of what would have been hers, but for my father’s scheming. They all
say it was that, and I believe it.’
‘No, sir; I see you couldn’t. I don’t believe riches got like that ever
prosper. Well, we’ll see what can be done. You’ve stood by me like a
brother, and it would be a poor return if I couldn’t do the same by
you.’
‘Thanks, Alfred,’ said Lewis; but he smiled inwardly, wondering how
this shopkeeper brother’s support could be of any assistance to him.