THE LOST WILL.
Phil and Tor had sat up late one night, as was often the case, and it
was not until nearly one o’clock that they retired to their respective
rooms.
When Tor reached his, he found that a fall of soot had taken place,
which had blackened things so much, and left so unpleasant an odour in
the room, that to remain there was impossible.
It was too late to disturb the servants, or to have another room made
ready for him; but Tor was too much the traveller to care where or how
he slept. He merely made his way to an empty bedroom, kicked off his
boots, and lay down upon the bed in the smoking-coat he had previously
donned.
In five minutes he was sound asleep, with the facility of one used to
‘roughing it;’ but with the instinct of a man not unused to danger,
he suddenly woke up, with all his faculties about him, and presently
became aware of curious sounds in the room beneath him.
A moment’s thought convinced him that these sounds, whatever they
were, came from the library, which was directly underneath the room he
accidentally occupied, and which lay in a wing of the building not much
used.
There were certainly sounds proceeding from the room below; the longer
Tor listened the more was he convinced of this—stealthy sounds, which
he could not exactly understand, yet which were, from time to time,
distinctly audible.
After a few minutes spent in listening, Tor rose, and without resuming
his boots, passed quietly from the room. A dying moon gave a feeble
light to corridor and staircase; and after a visit to his own room to
fetch his revolver, the young man walked silently down to the library.
The door stood slightly ajar, as if the occupants, whoever they might
be, were anxious to hear if any sound should arise in the house. Tor,
however, took care to make no noise, and he did not hesitate to push
open the door and slip silently into the room, for the feeble light the
midnight guests had brought with them was far away at the upper end,
and the door and all in its neighbourhood lay wrapped in the deepest
gloom.
Once inside, Tor looked well at the intruders, and recognised, with an
odd mixture of feeling, Mr. and Mrs. Belassis.
‘What in the name of all the powers brings _them_ here?’ he thought,
but he stood motionless, half through surprise, half from an instinct
of caution, which warned him that it would be wise to find out, if
possible, the reason for this strange nocturnal visit.
Both husband and wife were closely examining a heavy volume they had
lifted from the shelf. They shook it, examined its cover, and otherwise
pulled it about; after which it was restored to its place, and the next
volume lifted down, to be submitted to a similar process.
Tor watched them with a deepening interest. They seemed so absorbed
by their task, that many minutes passed before either of them spoke.
As, however, Belassis replaced upon a shelf the last of the volumes it
contained, he sighed heavily, and remarked:
‘I don’t believe we shall ever find it.’
‘Well, if we don’t, nobody else will, and that’s all I care about; but
until we have examined every book the library contains, we can never
feel safe.’
Belassis sighed again.
‘It will be an endless task!’
‘No, only a long one; and we can come here as often, in reason, as we
please; and Betsy Long can look at the books as she dusts them, if we
can’t get here safely ourselves.’
Tor’s gaze deepened in intensity. Metaphorically speaking, he pricked
up his ears at this.
‘I believe we shall come to grief, somehow. That girl will betray us.’
‘Not she; she knows better than to forfeit double wages, and lose both
her places.’
But Belassis was not to be comforted.
‘I don’t believe we shall ever do any good by this; and I’m getting
quite done up with these disturbed nights.’
Mrs. Belassis looked him all over with a cold contempt, which seemed
to wither him up. When she spoke, it was with a crushing disdain.
‘Really, Mr. Belassis, I have half a mind to take you at your word,
and give up this attempt—and leave others to find Philip Debenham’s
last will. It seems to me that you would rather live, with total ruin
hanging over your head, than give up a few nights’ rest and take a
little trouble. Anyone more hopelessly pusillanimous, it has never been
my lot to come across!’
‘It seems such a hopeless search, my dear,’ began Belassis feebly. ‘If
we really _knew_ the will was here, it would be different.’
‘We do know it!’ snapped Mrs. Belassis. ‘Philip Debenham told old
Tom Maynard that he had hidden it here. We have that in his own
handwriting. What more do you want?’
‘Old Maynard could never find the will, though.’
‘Old Maynard had not the same motive that we have. He would soon grow
tired of the search.’
‘He thought Debenham must have destroyed it.’
‘He did not know what we do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He did not know how Philip Debenham feared, and hated, and distrusted
us, during the last years of his life.’
There was a pause, which Mrs. Belassis broke.
‘Come, Alfred, do have a little common-sense. You know, as well as
I do, that Philip Debenham simply made that will at your dictation,
because he was weak and foolish, and believed you had much more power
to do him mischief than you really had, if he had only played the man
and taken his affairs into his own hands. We both knew he would not
allow that will to stand, if he could possibly make another, and we
always expected that a later one would turn up amongst his papers, and
were prepared to act accordingly; but it did not. Nobody brought one
forward, and we never found any evidence of the existence of a second
will. You know, however, that we have never felt absolutely at ease on
the subject, although, as years passed by, it seemed most improbable
that anything could or would turn up. Then, when I found that letter
of old Maynard’s to young Philip, and discovered the pencil memorandum
inside, which he had never read, it became evident that our suspicions
had all along been correct. He had made a new will, and had hidden it,
with more cunning than I should have given him credit for, at Ladywell,
out of our reach. Knowing all this, how can you pretend that it is not
worth searching for?’
‘He might have removed it himself,’ suggested Belassis humbly.
‘You know better than that. If he had once found a safe place of
hiding, out of your reach, he would never have been tempted to remove
it. Hating you more and more as he did at the close of his life, is it
likely he would ever have changed his mind about the will?’
And then the search continued in silence for a long while, whilst Tor
stood concealed in his recess, watching them with lynx-like eyes.
He did not choose to leave the room, even for a moment, lest in that
moment the missing paper should be found. He did not feel inclined, now
that he was no longer master of the house, to step out and confront
them, and demand the reason of this strange nocturnal visit.
So he waited and watched in silence, for what seemed a long time, until
a faint blue film stealing into the room, announced the approach of
dawn.
‘We must be going now,’ said Mrs. Belassis. ‘We have done a good two
hours’ work, and have made a considerable way with the task. Four or
five more nights ought to see the end of it. We have done nearly half
in the four nights we have spent here already. I wish the light did not
come so soon. It is hardly safe to be abroad after dawn. Come, Alfred,
we must be going.’
Tor slipped away from the room as they replaced the last volume on the
shelf, and mounted a few steps of the staircase. Two minutes later Mr.
and Mrs. Belassis came out, and locked the door carefully behind them.
Then they took their way towards the offices, and Tor followed quietly,
at a discreet distance.
Betsy Long emerged from one of the rooms at the sound of their
footsteps, yawning portentously.
Mrs. Belassis slipped something into her hand as she passed, and the
girl curtseyed and said:
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Then the worthy couple made their exit by the back-door, which Betsy
carefully locked behind them. Turning round, she uttered a loud scream,
for her ex-master stood before her.
‘Nice goings on, these, Betsy,’ remarked Tor quietly. ‘What have you
got to say for yourself, eh?’
Betsy trembled and whimpered, and did not seem to have anything at all
to say.
‘Now, stop all that noise,’ said Tor, with that quiet authority in his
tone which always ensured instant obedience, ‘and answer me truthfully,
if you can. Are you and Mrs. Belassis in league together?’
‘Yes, sir, if you please, sir,’ answered Betsy faintly.
‘And you have been her tool and spy ever since you came here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What have you done for her so far, since you came, besides letting her
in these four times to search the library?’
Betsy trembled still more, but felt compelled to answer.
‘Please, sir, not much. I read a few letters, and listened, when I
could, to what went on. My missis—I mean Mrs. Belassis—said as she
thought all wasn’t right, and bid me watch and find out all I could;
but it didn’t seem to me there was much to do except to look for the
paper—what’s hidden away in the library.’
‘Well, you’re a nice honest young woman, anyhow!’ remarked Tor, seeing
that the girl had not anything of much importance either to tell or to
conceal. ‘Now, you go straight up to your room, and stay there till you
have leave to quit it. And pack up your things ready to go back to your
old mistress when the right time comes; but if you dare to disobey and
leave before you have permission, it will be the worse for you.’
And with that Tor strode back to his room, and finished his night in
peace.
In the morning, at the breakfast-table, he told his story, which was
listened to with great excitement and interest.
‘You never let them go scot-free!’ cried Miss Marjory. ‘Oh, Mr.
Torwood, I thought better things of you! Why did you not confront them
at their task?’
‘Because I thought that, on the whole, it would be better to confront
them later on with the will in my hand, and the information on my lips,
that it was to their nocturnal visits I owed the clue which had enabled
us to find it. I thought that, on the whole, that would be the most
crushing way of doing it.’
‘Perhaps!’ said Miss Marjory, still half-reluctantly; ‘but I never
could have resisted the temptation, if I had been there.’
‘And now the will will be found!’ cried Phil, ‘and Maud will have her
rights again. Oh, if this isn’t just first-rate! Tor, you rascal, why
didn’t you summon me to confront my virtuous aunt and uncle?’
‘I felt it was not safe to let them out of my sight; and I’m not sure,
in any case, if I could have trusted your discretion.’
‘You see, he’s boss still, for all his protestations,’ said Phil to
Miss Marjory. ‘I always have to play second fiddle to him, in reality.’
‘And a good thing too,’ answered Miss Marjory, with emphasis.
Mrs. Lorraine had listened with intense interest to Tor’s account of
what he had overheard the Belassis’ say to one another. When she really
understood that the will—whose existence had always been suspected—was
supposed to be hidden away in the library at Ladywell, a little pink
flush rose in her cheeks, and she hastily left the room, returning,
however, in a few minutes with an old-fashioned manuscript-book.
‘My dear,’ she began, half-timidly, half-eagerly, ‘I think I have
something here which may prove a clue. I have not thought of it for
many years; but perhaps there was a meaning in it which I did not
understand. I will read you a little bit out of my diary, about the
death of your dear father, Philip. I think I can understand better now
what it was he meant.’
Everyone listened with interest to the extract, which Mrs. Lorraine
proceeded to read:
‘“My dear brother-in-law died this morning, at nine o’clock. I was
with him alone during his last hours, for it was no place for young
children, and he could not endure Alfred Belassis near him, and
became so painfully excited if he even appeared, that we had to forbid
him the house.
‘“His mind, which had seemed much clouded since the stroke, cleared
somewhat, I fancied, during the last hours of his life. He could
not speak, although he made great efforts to do so; and he could
not write, for his hand was paralyzed. I hope I did not do wrong in
deceiving him; but he was so greatly distressed, almost whilst he was
dying, that I had to pretend I had understood him.
‘“He struggled time after time to tell me something, but he could
only stutter and stammer and make inarticulate sounds. I could only
make one word out of these stuttering attempts, and that word was
‘Aristotle.’ Of course he must have been half-wandering, or else I had
quite misunderstood him. Just at the last, he looked more despairing
than ever, and kept looking into my face so imploringly, saying
‘Aristotle—Aristotle;’ and not knowing what else to do, I said, ‘Yes,
yes, I quite understand—Aristotle—it will be all right, dear Philip.’
And then he looked so wonderfully relieved, and shut his eyes and
dropped into a kind of sleep, from which he never woke.”’
Mrs. Lorraine ceased reading, and looked round.
‘I never could understand how it was that my saying those words could
have comforted him so, but it did. I have always kept his Aristotle
in remembrance of what he said; but I never could make any sense of
his words, and thought I must quite have misunderstood them. I fancied
afterwards that what he really wished to say was something about a will
he might have made, doing more justice to Maud; but I never could see
what Aristotle could have to do with it.’
‘Come along!’ cried Phil eagerly, springing up. ‘Let us all go and
search for this valuable document. Aristotle is our clue, and before an
hour is over, Maud shall have her own again! Hurrah! _A bas_ Belassis!
Won’t the old villain just curse and swear when he finds that he has
betrayed the hiding-place himself!’
Maud’s eyes sparkled, more with excitement at the idea of the Belassis
overthrow than at any special desire for an increase of fortune.
She seized Ethel by the hand, and rushed after Phil; Mrs. Lorraine
followed, and Miss Marjory and Tor brought up the rear.
‘This will ruin Belassis if it is found,’ remarked she, as they crossed
the hall.
‘How so?’
‘Because he’s speculated with the trust-money, and lost it. He told
Lewis so—told him he should be ruined if he insisted on claiming it and
handing it over to Maud, as he wished to do.’
‘He’s a nice kind of guardian and executor!’ said Tor grimly. ‘Well, if
this will is found, he will have to abide by the consequences of his
own act.’
‘And serve him right, too!’ said Miss Marjory briskly. ‘It is time
punishment did overtake him at last.’
Already the room had been reached, and an eager search begun. Mr.
Maynard’s library was extensive, and not over-well arranged; but all
the authors were together, and in a moment Aristotle was pounced upon,
and every volume of every edition was pulled down from the shelves for
inspection.
But after about five minutes of eager, rapid search, a silence and
slight consternation fell upon the searchers, for it became evident
that there was no will hidden away in these volumes.
‘It’s gone!’ cried Phil dismally, ‘or else it’s in some of the other
books. What a sell! I thought we were safe to find it. Can anybody else
have been beforehand with us?’
‘Not likely,’ said Tor, ‘as the Belassis’ have failed in their attempt.
Bar accident, it ought still to be here. Does anybody know if the books
have been left just as they were when Mr. Maynard was alive?’
‘Yes; they have not been disturbed at all,’ said Mrs. Lorraine. ‘They
are all in their old places, as he kept them.’
‘That is well,’ said Tor, and strode across to where the vacant space
yawned, from which the books had just been removed.
The rest crowded round him as he began a careful examination of the
woodwork behind the shelves, tapping with his knuckles on every inch of
exposed wood.
‘There!’ cried Miss Marjory suddenly; ‘there’s a hollow there. Try
again!’
Tor did so, and the doubt became a certainty.
‘There’s a crack in the woodwork here, too,’ he said, scanning it
eagerly. ‘A chisel and a hammer, and we’ll see what we shall see!’
Maud darted off and quickly returned, bringing the required implements.
A little dexterous manœuvring and a square of wood fell forwards,
disclosing to view a cavity into which was inserted a paper, folded
square, so as just to fit the place made for its reception.
‘Maud,’ said Tor, turning round, ‘you had better take it out. I am
convinced that it is your father’s last will.’
Maud’s hand trembled a little as she did his bidding. In perfect
silence she drew the paper out of its long-hidden place of concealment,
and looked at the superscription: ‘_To my daughter, Maud Debenham_.’
‘You open it,’ she said, giving it to Tor. ‘I don’t feel as if I could.’
Tor obeyed. The envelope addressed to Maud contained two documents; one
was a letter, the other a paper, which bore the important words, ‘Last
will and testament of Philip Debenham,’ dated four months later than
the will which had been produced by Belassis.
‘Read it, Tor,’ said Maud.
He obeyed. It was not a long will. It merely, as before, left all
the father’s property to Philip and the mother’s to Maud—without
any condition whatever. Mr. Twyne, the lawyer, and Mr. Maynard were
appointed executors, and Mr. Maynard was made guardian to the children.
Mr. Debenham seemed to have a presentiment that his hale and hearty
old uncle would outlive him, as indeed had been the case. He had had
an idea that he would die young, which also had verified itself. No
mention whatever was made in the will of Belassis or of his son.
The letter to Maud was next read; it was a very different production
from the one Mr. Belassis had brought forward.
‘MY DEAR DAUGHTER,
‘Four months ago I was induced by your uncle to make a will most
unjust towards you, and towards your dear dead mother, my beloved
wife. Why I consented to do this and to write the letter he dictated
to me, need not now be explained; suffice it to say that I yielded to
pressure (the nature of which you cannot understand), because I knew
that it was in my power to reverse the condition which my pen had
imposed upon you and upon your future.
‘I have now reversed it. I have done you justice; and it is possible
that you may never know the terms of the will which this one will
supersede.
‘My child, beware of your uncle, Alfred Belassis. Do not trust him, do
not give him one particle of power over you; and above all, try not to
fear him. Blind trust, followed by blind fear, has been the curse of
my life. I pray that you and Philip may be delivered from a like curse.
‘This fear is still master of me, bitterly though I scorn myself for
it. This letter I am now writing, and the will I have just framed,
must be hidden away from his sight, or I may be induced to give way to
him, and do you irreparable harm. When I feel my end approaching, then
and only then shall I reveal to some trusty friend the hiding-place I
have selected for these precious papers.
Then and only then will you learn how much your father loved you, and
how bitterly he suffered for even seeming to consent to do you so deep
an injustice.
‘Farewell, my dear and only daughter; think kindly and not scornfully
of your weak but unhappy father.
‘PHILIP DEBENHAM.’