Cousin Kate

Chapter XIV

Kate had not previously penetrated to the East Wing, but when she passed through the door which shut it off from the Great Hall, and was met by Tenby, who conducted her to the saloon that was known as The Master’s Room, she knew, after a quick glance round, that Sir Timothy, allowing his wife a free hand in the rest of the house, must have prohibited her from laying a finger on his own apartments. The room was not shabby, but it was rather over-furnished, as though Sir Timothy had crammed into it all the pieces for which he had a fondness, and cared nothing for the formal arrangements dear to Lady Broome’s heart. He was seated in an old-fashioned wing-chair when Tenby ushered Kate into the room, talking to Dr Delabole, but he rose, and came forward, murmuring, as he saw the appreciative look in her eyes: “More homelike, Kate?”

She laughed. “Yes, indeed, sir! Good evening, Dr Delabole! I learn from Sidlaw that my aunt has contracted the influenza which is running so much about, and is feeling very poorly. I hope you don’t expect any prolonged indisposition?”

“Oh, no, no!” he replied reassuringly. “It is a severe attack, you know: very severe, and we must expect her to be pulled by it, and must endeavour to persuade her not to exert herself prematurely: she must resign herself to being in a tender state for at least a sennight. We shall be hard put to it to do it, if I know her ladyship!” He laughed gently. “I daresay you won’t credit it, but when I revived her from her faint, she tried to struggle to her feet, and insisted that there was nothing amiss! And when our good Sidlaw told her that she had fainted she snapped her nose off, saying: “Nonsense! I never faint!” However, she soon found that she couldn’t stand without support, so we were able to carry her up to her bed, and mighty glad she was to be there, for all she wouldn’t own it! I have just been telling Sir Timothy that I have given her a soothing draught, and that she is now asleep. I shall visit her during the night, but I fancy she won’t wake for some hours. And Sidlaw will be with her, you know: she has had a truckle-bed set up in the dressing-room, and is entirely to be relied on.”

“Oh, yes! There can be no doubt of that,” said Kate. “She has been giving me a sharp set-down for offering to lend her my assistance! I knew she would: so would my own old nurse if anyone offered to help her in the same situation!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t go into her room, if I were you, Miss Kate. It is a very infectious complaint, and it would never do if you were to be ill!”

“I don’t think it at all likely that I shall be,” answered Kate. “I know it’s fatal to say that, but I was lately in a house positively stricken with influenza, and between us the cook, and the second housemaid, and I nursed the mistress of the house, her three children, and two other servants, and the cook and I were the only ones who didn’t take the infection! So I’m not afraid.”

He laughed heartily at that, and said that he now expected to be summoned to her bedside; advised her not to go to her aunt for a day or two; and archly warned Sir Timothy that he should warn my lady that she must not take ill again, if she did not want her lord to console himself by flirting with a pretty young lady.

Sir Timothy accorded this witticism a faint, cold smile, and inclined his head courteously. Daunted, the doctor laughed again, not so heartily, and said that he must hurry away to seek his own dinner, or Torquil would be growing impatient.

Sir Timothy smiled again, very sweetly, and the doctor bowed himself out of the room. Sir Timothy’s eyes travelled to Kate’s face of ill-concealed disgust, and amusement crept into them. “Just so, my dear! An intolerable mushroom! Or do I mean barnacle? He keeps me alive, for which I must be grateful—or ought to be! Will you drink a glass of sherry with me?”

“Yes, if you please, sir. But if you mean to talk in that style you will be sorry you invited me to dine with you, because I shall sink into the dismals, and become a dead bore!”

“Impossible!” he said, with his soft laugh. “You have a merry heart, my child, and I don’t think you could ever be a dead bore.” He poured out two glasses of sherry as he spoke, and came back to his chair, handing her one of them with a slight, courtly bow.

“I don’t know that, sir: I do try not to be a bore, at all events! As for a merry heart—well, yes! I think I have a cheerful disposition, and—and I own I delight in absurdities! But that’s not at all to my credit! I always laugh at the wrong moment!”

The door opened just then to admit Pennymore, followed by the first footman, carrying a tray of dishes. When these had been set out, Pennymore informed Sir Timothy that he was served, and Sir Timothy formally handed Kate to the table, saying, as he did so: “I had meant to invite Philip, to make it more amusing for you, but the silly cawker has gone off to dine with young Templecombe. He sent up a message from the stables. You must accept my apologies for him!”

“Not at all, sir! Isn’t there a proverb that says one’s too few, and three’s too many?”

“Very prettily said!” he approved. “You’ve a quick tongue and a ready wit: that’s what I like in you, Kate. If I had a daughter, I should wish her to be of your cut. But I daresay she would have been a simpering miss, so perhaps it’s as well I have no daughter. What are you offering me, Pennymore?”

“Compote of pigeons, sir, with mushroom sauce. Or there is a breast of fowl, if you would prefer it.”

“With a bechamel sauce!” said Kate. “I know all about that! It ought to have been sweetbreads, but I am very glad it’s not, because I don’t like them!”

“Why, isn’t it sweetbreads?” he asked, rousing himself from the melancholy which had descended on him with the thought of the daughters who had died in early childhood.

Very willing to divert him, she gave him a lively description of the effect Lady Broome’s fainting fit had had upon Mrs Thorne’s sensibilities, and the chef’s excitable temperament; and of the analogy Ellen had discovered in an attack of influenza, and the palsy-stroke which had laid one of her aunts low. He was a good deal amused, and the rest of dinner passed happily enough. When the covers were removed, and Pennymore set the port and brandy decanters before his master, he was moved to bestow an approving glance upon Kate, and, later, to inform Tenby that he hadn’t seen Sir Timothy so cheerful this many a day. To which Tenby replied: “He hasn’t much to make him cheerful, Mr Pennymore : as we know!”

Pennymore shook his head sadly, and sighed, looking in a very speaking way at the valet, but not giving utterance to his thoughts. Tenby echoed the sigh, but maintained a similar silence.

Left alone with his guest, Sir Timothy offered her a glass of port, which she declined, saying, however, that she was very content to nibble a fondant while he lingered over his wine. “Unless you would prefer me to withdraw, sir?” she said, her fingers poised over the silver dish in front of her. “Pray don’t say I must! It is so cosy here—quite the cosiest evening I’ve spent at Staplewood!”

“You haven’t much taste for formal pomp, have you, Kate?”

“No,” she said frankly. “Not every day of the week, at all events!”

“Nor have I, which is why I prefer to dine in my own room. But I don’t permit Pennymore to wait on me in the general way. Only when Minerva is away from home, or indisposed. To deprive her of the butler would be rather too much!”

She ventured to say: “I fancy Pennymore would prefer to wait on you, sir.”

“Yes, he is very much attached to me. You see, we were boys together. He has been with me through some dark times: a true friend! He’s fond of Philip, too, and so am I. It’s a pity Philip and Minerva dislike one another, but I suppose it was bound to be so: Minerva doesn’t care for children, you know. And I’m bound to own that when they first met he wasn’t at all a taking boy! He was a sturdy little ruffian, tumbling in and out of mischief, and impatient of females.” He stared down into his wineglass, a reminiscent smile playing round his mouth. “Disobedient too. I never found him so, but I’m afraid he was very troublesome to Minerva. She resented my affection for him—very naturally, I daresay; and he resented her being in his aunt’s place. He was very fond of my first wife: the only woman he was fond of in those days, for he was barely acquainted with his mother. Anne was very fond of him, too, and never jealous, as God knows she might have been, when she saw him so stout and vigorous, and had the anguish of watching her own son die. We lost all our children; two were still-born; and only Julian lived to stagger about in leading-strings. Both my little girls died in their infancy—faded away! They were all so sickly—all of them, even Julian! But nothing ever ailed Philip! Some women might have hated him, but not Anne! She thought of him as a comfort to us.” He looked up at the portrait which hung above the fireplace. “That was my first wife,” he said. “You never knew her, of course.”

Kate, who had already stolen several glances at the portrait, answered: “I wondered if it was. I wish I had known her.”

“She was an angel,” he said simply.

Knowing that his mind had drifted back into the past, Kate remained sympathetically silent. His eyes were still fixed on the portrait, fondly smiling; and Kate, also looking at it, thought that no greater contrast to the first Lady Broome than the second could have been found. Anne had been as fair as Minerva was dark, and nothing in her face, or her languid pose, suggested the vitality which characterized the second Lady Broome. It might have been the fault of the artist, but, although she had a sweet face it lacked decision. She was reasonably pretty, but not beautiful: the sort of woman, Kate thought, one might easily fail to recognize, unless one had been particularly well-acquainted with her. No one who had once met the second Lady Broome could fail to recognize her again.

She was still gazing at the portrait when she discovered, to her discomfiture, that Sir Timothy had withdrawn his eyes from it, and was watching her instead. “No,” he said, as though he had read her thought, “she wasn’t like your aunt.”

“No, sir,” agreed Kate, unable to think of anything else to say.

He stretched out a frail hand to pick up the decanter, and refilled his glass. “Your aunt has many good qualities, Kate,” he said, with deliberation, “but you must not allow her to bullock you.”

“No, I d-don’t mean to!” Kate replied, stammering a little. “But she hasn’t tried to—to bullock me, sir! She has been only too kind to me—far, far too kind!”

“She is a woman of great determination,” continued Sir Timothy, as though Kate had not spoken. “Also, she is ruled, mistakenly, I think, by what she conceives to be her duty. I don’t know why she brought you here, or why she treats you with kindness, but I do know that it was not out of compassion. Some end she has in view. I don’t know what it may be: I have not cared enough to discover what it is.” He raised his eyes from their contemplation of the wine in his glass, and turned them towards Kate. She saw that they smiled in self-derision, and was shocked. He returned his gaze to his wineglass, and said cynically: “You will find, my child, that as you approach the end of your life you will no longer care greatly for anything, and will be too tired to take up arms against a superior force. One becomes detached.”

“You still care for Staplewood!” Kate said, in an effort to raise his spirits.

“Do I? I did once, but of late years I have grown aloof from it. I am beginning to realize that when I am dead it won’t matter to me any longer, for I shall know nothing about it.” He raised his glass to his lips, and sipped delicately. “Oh, don’t look so distressed! If I cared—” He stopped, and stared ahead into the shadows beyond the table, as though he were trying to see something hidden in them, and yet was afraid to see it. His lips twisted into a wry smile, and he brought his eyes slowly back to Kate’s face. “Perhaps it’s as well we can’t see into the future!” he said lightly. “I didn’t think I cared for the present either or for people, but I find myself fond of you, Kate—as if you were my daughter!—which is why I’ve roused myself from my deplorable lethargy to warn you not to let yourself be bullied or coaxed into doing anything your heart, and your good sense, tell you not to do.”

Kate began to speak, but he checked her, with a thin hand upraised, and a shrinking expression in his eyes. “I don’t know what it is that Minerva has in mind, and I don’t wish to know,” he said, on a querulous note of old age. “I’m too old and too tired! I only want to be left in peace!”

Kate said calmly: “Yes, sir. I shan’t do anything to disturb your peace. You may be sure of that!”

He drank a little more wine, and seemed to regain his customary detachment, and, with it, his—tranquillity. He sat in silence for a minute or two, watching the play of the candlelight on the wine still remaining in his glass, but presently he sighed, and said: “Poor Minerva! She should have married a public man, not a man who had never an ambition to figure in the world, and was worn-out besides. She has many faults, but I cannot forget that when my health broke down she abandoned the life she loved without one word of complaint, and brought me home—for I was too ill then to decide anything for myself—and would never afterwards own that she wished to return to London. She has a strong—compelling—sense of duty, as I’ve told you: it is a virtue which she sometimes carries to excess. She has also unbounded energy, which I have not, I am ashamed to say. She’s ambitious, too: she wanted me to enter politics: couldn’t understand that I’d no interest—no wish to shine in that world! Or in any other,” he added reflectively. “It was my brother Julian who was ambitious—Philip’s father, you know. I never had but one ambition: to hand my inheritance on to my son! It seemed to me to be of the first importance that the line should not be broken. Well, no matter for that! When the doctors told Minerva that London life wouldn’t do for me, and she came to live with me here, from year’s end to year’s end, she knew she must find another interest, or mope herself to death. That was admirable: another woman, of less strength of character, would have repined, and dwindled into a decline!”

“But instead,” Kate reminded him, “she interested herself in what she knew to be dear to you: Staplewood!”

He was shaken by soft laughter. “Ironical, isn’t it? I taught her to love Staplewood; I taught her to be proud of the Broome tradition; I encouraged her to squander a fortune transforming the gardens, and replacing all the furniture in the house, which she declared to be too modern, with furniture of an antique date. I daresay she was right. Perhaps the mahogany chairs and tables which my father bought, and the carpets he laid down, were out of harmony with the house: I never thought so, but I grew up with them, and accepted them, without thinking much about them. But I think I haven’t much taste. I recall that Julian, when he came here once on a visit, said that Minerva had improved the place out of recognition. That was high praise, for he had excellent taste himself. But as Minerva’s interest in Staplewood grew, mine diminished. Unreasonable, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said Kate diffidently, “you felt it had become more hers than yours, sir.”

He considered this, slightly frowning. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel that to this day. I’ve always known that it was within my power to call a halt, but I’ve never done so. At first because I was glad that she was so eager to enter into my own feeling for Staplewood; and later—oh, later, because, in part, I knew I was to blame: it was I who had encouraged her to devote herself to the place, and how, when she had learnt to love it, could I discourage her? And, in part, because I felt myself to be unequal to a struggle with her.” The derisive smile touched his lips again. “I like to blame my declining health for that, but the truth is that Minerva has a stronger character than mine. She doesn’t shrink from battle as I do, and she is by far more ingenious than I am. All I wish for is peace! Very ignoble! Dear me, how I’ve rambled on! One of the infirmities of old age, my dear! But I have begun to be uneasy about you, and I know your aunt as you do not. I’ve told you what are her good qualities, so you won’t think I don’t recognize them when I tell you that you are deceiving yourself if you believe that her kindness and her caresses spring from affection. Poor Minerva! She is a stranger to the tender feelings which elevate your sex, and make us coarser creatures adore you!”

She smiled at this, but said: “I am not deceived, sir. I must be grateful to my aunt for her exceeding kindness, but I know that she brought me here to serve—oh, a foolish end! I have told her that I shan’t do so, and I can assure you that I shan’t let myself be coaxed, or bullied. So pray don’t tease yourself any more! I am very well able to care for myself.”

He looked relieved, and proposed a rubber of piquet. It was plain that whatever he might guess he shrank from having his suspicions confirmed, and would not willingly intervene in his wife’s schemes. Kate liked him too well to despise him, but she was forced to realize that there was a milkiness in his character which did indeed make him appear ignoble. It was possible that his health was responsible for his reluctance to face a difficult situation, but she could not help feeling that he had probably chosen, all his life, to look the other way when in danger of being faced with anything unpleasant. She made no attempt to embroil him with his wife, but received his invitation to play cards with every appearance of cordiality. In fact, she had hoped to have escaped one of these sessions, and to have had an opportunity to retire early to her bedchamber, not because she wished to go to bed, but because she had as yet had no opportunity to think over all that had occurred during the most eventful day of those she had spent at Staplewood. The extraordinary happenings had begun with Torquil’s disquieting behaviour in the park; this had been followed by the astonishing news that Mr Nidd was in Market Harborough; and the climax had been reached when she had received an offer of marriage from Mr Philip Broome. This, not unnaturally, had cast everything else into the background; and she was honest enough to admit to herself that very little of the period of reflection which she had so earnestly desired would be wasted in consideration of any other problem. She felt that her mind was in turmoil, making it impossible for her to concentrate on the play of her cards. And, strangely enough, it was not the chief problem which teased her: whether or not to accept Philip’s offer: but a host of minor difficulties, which her experience of the male sex led her to think that Philip would dismiss as frivolities. But they were not frivolous, nor would the Broomes think them so. When she left Staplewood, she would leave also everything that Lady Broome had given her, and how, with barely enough in hei purse to bestow vails on Ellen, and on Pennymore, was she to purchase her bride-clothes? And from whose house was she to be married? And who would give her away, in her father’s place? These details might seem unimportant to Philip, but they would not seem unimportant to his relations; and although he might say that he didn’t care a pin for their opinions he would be a very odd man if he did not wish his bride to present a creditable appearance. A bride who was unattended by relations of her own, and came to Church from a carrier’s yard, would inevitably earn the contempt, and perhaps the pity, of the Broomes, and that would gall Philip past endurance.

She wondered if this had occurred to him, and whether he might already be regretting his rash proposal; and, if so, whether he would find an excuse to cry off, or put a brave face on it. She felt that she could bear it best if he were to cry off, but she also felt that he was not the kind of man to play the jilt, and became so lost in these melancholy reflections that Sir Timothy asked her if she was tired.

Could she have but known it, Philip was not regretting it in the least; and none of the difficulties which she perceived had occurred to him. Nor would they have dismayed him had they done so. Oh the contrary, he would have welcomed them as heaven-sent excuses to escape from the fashionable wedding so much more desirable to women than to men. Had he been asked what kind of a wedding he would like to have, he would have replied without an instant’s hesitation that he would much prefer a private ceremony, with no guests invited, except a groomsman to act as his best man, and Sarah Nidd to give Kate away.

In point of fact, he was not, at that moment, thinking about weddings. On arrival at Freshford House he had driven his curricle to the stables, and had handed his horses over to Mr Templecombe’s head-groom. Halfway to the house, he was met by his host, who greeted him by demanding, in incredulous accents, if her ladyship was trying to discourage his visits to Staplewood by refusing to house his groom.

“That’s it,” replied Philip cheerfully.

“Well, I thought that must be the reason why you tipped me the office to bite my tongue! Coming it strong, ain’t she? I’ve heard of hosts who make it a rule not to house their guest’s postilions or cattle—some of ’em stipulate that only one servant is allowed!—but I call it the outside of enough to tell you she won’t have your groom! Next she’ll be asking you not to bring your valet!”

“Oh, she didn’t say she wouldn’t have my groom! She merely suggested that his presence added unnecessarily to the expenses of maintaining the establishment, and hinted that some unlucky investments had made it imperative for my uncle to retrench. As for Knowle, she has no need to ask me not to bring him! From the moment that the servants at Staplewood discovered that he was not so much a gentlemans’ gentleman as a general factotum they treated him—even Pennymore!—with an hauteur which made him so uncomfortable that he begged me not to bring him here again! Tenby looks after me—and, since I don’t belong to the dandy-set, and am perfectly able to dress myself without assistance, that doesn’t impose a very arduous task upon him!”

“I wonder that Sir Timothy should permit such a thing!” Mr Templecomble blurted out.

“He doesn’t know it,” said Philip curtly. “And he won’t know of it from me! He is far from well—seems to have aged overnight! He lives in his own wing of the house for the most part of the day. When I remember—” He broke off, clipping his lips together.

“Very distressing,” agreed Mr Templecombe sympathetically. “Haven’t seen him riding out this age. I know he don’t hunt nowadays, but he was used to hack round his estates until he had that nasty attack last year. Didn’t seem to pluck up after it. Think he’s had notice to quit, dear boy?”

“I don’t know. He is so much changed! He seems to be content to let all go as it will—wishes only to be left in peace! I suppose, looking back, he always had too gentle a disposition—no stomach for a fight! But in those days, while my aunt lived, he was not put to the test: they were in perfect accord!”

Mr Templecombe tactfully refrained from any other comment than an inarticulate murmur of assent; but after a decent interval had elapsed, he coughed, and ventured to ask: “What does that oily scoundrel say of him?”

Philip had no difficulty in recognizing Dr Delabole in this description. “What you might expect! He sees no cause for immediate alarm—must remind me that my uncle is an old man, and has a weak heart! He impresses upon me that he must not be agitated, and hedges me round with a host of medical terms, when I ask for a more precise diagnosis. He is Minerva’s creature, but—” He paused, his brows drawing together as he considered the matter. A wry smile twisted his mouth; he said: “I must do him the justice to own that he is very attentive to my uncle, and very quick to apply restoratives when my uncle suffers one of his spasms.”

“Ever thought of consulting one of the medical nobs? Croft, or Holford, or—or—well, I don’t know much about any of ’em, but it stands to reason a fellow who sets up his plate in London must be top-of-the-trees!”

“Yes, I have frequently thought of it, but have been foiled, not by Delabole or by Minerva, but by my uncle himself! He has accepted what he feels to be the inevitable, and has begged me not to ask him to submit himself to the ordeal of being catechized and physicked by some stranger. So what can I do? The devil of it is that I fear he may be right!”

They had by this time reached the house, and Mr Templecombe, with an understanding nod, pushed him into the hall, saying: “Shouldn’t wonder at it if he was. Very painful for you, but no sense in letting yourself be thrown into gloom by what you can’t mend. Come and eat your dinner—such as it is! The merest picnic! You know how it is with me now that m’mother has taken Dolly off to London, and left the house in holland covers!”

Having had previous experience of Mr Templecombe’s mere picnics, Philip was unalarmed. Dinner might be set out in the breakfast-parlour, and served by the pantry-boy, but Mr Templecombe’s notion of a picnic included plovers’ eggs, some fillets of salmon, with a caper sauce, a blanquette of fowl, and a raised pie. There were no kickshaws, by which term Mr Templecombe scornfully described fondues and trifles and jellies, opining sagely that Philip had no greater liking for them than he had himself. “Females like ’em, but for my part I think ’em only fit for routs and drums and balls! Well, I put it to you, Philip! How many evening parties have you been to where you wanted to eat the refreshments?”

“True!” agreed Philip. “They look pretty, but, myself, I make a beeline for the ham!”

“Exactly so! And that reminds me!” said Mr Templecombe, looking round the table. “There ought to be a ham now! A devilish good one, too, of our own curing! Here, Tom, where’s the ham?”

The pantry-boy said apologetically that it was all ate up, barring a bit near the knuckle; and upon Mr Templecombe’s demanding indignantly who had eaten it all up, grinned, and said simply: “You did, sir!”

“It must have been a good ham!” remarked Philip, helping himself generously to a dish of salmon. “All the same, I don’t want any, you know. By the by, what was it you wanted to consult me about?”

“Tell you after dinner! Know whom I ran into ’t’other day in Bond Street? Old Prudhoe! Never more surprised in my life! Haven’t seen him in years!”

“No, nor have I. Was he on the toddle?” asked Philip, mildly interested. “I suppose you haven’t heard anything of poor old Treen, have you? I met Minstead when I was last in London, and he told me that it was bellows to mend with Treen: said he was about to wind up his accounts, but I haven’t seen any notice in the papers.”

Since both gentlemen shared a large circle of acquaintances, they fell easily into reminiscence; and, one thing leading to another, and both being landowners and agriculturists, they slid from reminiscence into such fruitful topics as the delinquencies of tenants, and the pigheadedness of farmers; and it was not until they had retired to the library that Philip repeated his question, by which time Mr Templecombe had been able to think of some detail of winter sowing on which he might conceivably have wanted advice—if he had not known quite as much about the most modern methods of farming as his friend. Philip very obligingly gave him the benefit of his own experience, but he was not deceived, and when Mr Templecombe opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it again, he grinned sardonically, and said: “That wasn’t what you wanted to ask me, was it? Empty the bag, Gurney!”

“Well, no!” confessed Mr Templecombe. Fact is, I don’t want to ask you anything! Dashed delicate, and I wouldn’t mention it if you wasn’t a friend of mine! Or if you was still visiting Staplewood as often as you used to do. Can’t get it out of my head that you may not know, and that it ain’t the part of a friend to keep mum!”

“May not know what?” asked Philip levelly.

Mr Templecombe picked up the brandy decanter, and replenished both glasses. Having taken a fortifying drink, he said: “No use beating about the bush. It’s Torquil. People are beginning to talk, Philip.”

“What do they say?” Philip still spoke in a level voice, but a grim note had crept into it, and his eyes were suddenly uncomfortably searching.

“Why, that there’s something devilish odd about him! They don’t understand why he should be kept so close, for one thing. You know, dear boy, you can’t expect people to believe he’s still invalidish when they see him careering all over the countryside on that nervous chestnut of his! Don’t believe it myself! Well, you gave me a pretty broad hint when you told me not to let him dangle after Dolly, didn’t you?”

“With extreme reluctance! I could not let—But I might have spared myself the pains! I found that Minerva was as anxious as I was to prevent such a marriage. That confirmed me in my suspicion! Under ordinary circumstances, one would have supposed it to be a very eligible match, but I fear that the circumstances are not ordinary. Your sister has too many relatives, and this place is too near Staplewood. I collect, by the way, that she didn’t break her heart over Torquil?”

“Oh, Lord, no! I don’t say she wasn’t a trifle dazzled—well, he’s a dashed handsome boy, ain’t he?—but Amesbury no sooner showed his front than she tumbled into love with him, and never gave Torquil another thought. Was he badly hit?”

“I don’t think so. Understand me, Gurney, this mustn’t be talked of! It is all conjecture—I can prove nothing!”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve warned me!” said Mr Templecombe, wagging his head. “Otherwise I might have gone on the gab all over the country, mightn’t I?”

“No, of course you wouldn’t!” said Philip contritely. “Forgive me! The truth is that I never come to Staplewood in these days without being blue-devilled by fears which I can’t prove, and therefore dare not utter. The less I say the better, Gurney! You’ll have to bear with me!” He added, with a flash of humour: “That ought not to be difficult; you’ve been doing it many times these dozen years!”

“Oh, longer than that! Twenty at least!” retorted Mr Templecombe. “Rising thirty, ain’t you? Well, I know you are, because there’s only a couple of months between us. By Jove, it’s more than twenty years! You were eight when you first came to live with your uncle, weren’t you?”

“You didn’t have to bear with me in those days!” protested Philip.

“Oh, didn’t I just? Did I ever come off best from a set-to? Did I have a natural right? Did I—”

“No, Gurney, honesty compels me to admit you didn’t! They were good days, weren’t they?”

“Depends on which way you looked at ’em,” said Mr Templecombe caustically. “Not being as strong as you, I looked at ’em, in general, from underneath!” He tossed off the brandy in his glass, set the glass down, and said, in quite a different voice: “Is Torquil queer in his attic, Philip?”

“Is that what people are saying?”

“Whispering. It’s what I’m saying.”

“I can only give you one answer: I don’t know.”

“You suspect it, don’t you?”

“I’ve suspected it for years. At first, it was merely a thought that flashes into one’s head, and then is banished. He was a sickly child, and it was reasonable to suppose that his bodily ills should have an effect upon his nerves. I can recall his falling into strong convulsions, when he was a baby; and if ever there was an infectious complaint going about, as sure as a gun he would catch it! He was used to suffer from sick headaches too, so everybody cosseted and indulged him till he became abominably spoilt. If he was crossed, he threw himself into an ungovernable rage, which in general ended in a fit of the vapours. The only person who could control him was Minerva. She established a complete mastery: he was afraid of her, and still is.”

“Well, that don’t surprise me!” said Mr Templecombe, with feeling. “So am I! Most aweinspiring female!

“I suppose she is. At all events, she inspires Torquil with awe. As he grew older, he became much improved in health, thanks, I believe, to Delabole, but it was not thought advisable to send him to school. It was hoped that by the time he reached manhood he would be well. And physically I think he is well. Mentally—I think he’s worse. Lately, I’ve noticed a disquieting change. This must go no further, Gurney!”

“Yes, it’s likely I’d go buzzing it about, ain’t it?” said Mr Templecombe, incensed.

“No, of course it isn’t! But I have to be so careful to guard my own tongue—If I’m wrong—if Torquil isn’t mad—what a shocking thing it would be in me even to hint at such a thing!”

Mr Templecombe nodded. “So it would. Not sure you couldn’t be summonsed for libel, or slander, or something. What’s this disquieting change you’ve noticed? He seemed all right and regular when I last saw him.”

“Except at certain times, he is all right and regular. But he is growing to be suspicious, to fancy everyone his enemy—particularly me.”

“You don’t mean it! Why, he used to follow you about like a tantony-pig! A curst nuisance he was, too!”

Philip smiled. “He was, wasn’t he? Well, it was only to be expected that he would want to follow me about: for one thing, he was lonely, poor little fellow; and for another, I am ten years older than he is, and became a hero in his eyes. Of course, that didn’t last, but until a year or two ago he continued to be very fond of me. In his sane moments, he still is, but he is convinced that I am his chief enemy and would be happy to see him underground.”

Mr Templecombe sat up with a jerk. “Then I’ll tell you what, Philip! Lady Broome put that notion into his head! Jealous of your influence over the boy!”

“I think she did put it into his head, but not for that reason. She was afraid that if I saw too much of him I should learn the truth—if it is the truth. But it wouldn’t have taken root in a sane mind! It may have been there already. I’ve been informed, on good authority, that a feeling of persecution, suspicion of everyone, sudden hatred of one’s nearest and dearest, are among the better known symptoms of madness.”

“But—Good God, does your uncle know of this?”

Philip was silent for a moment, heavily frowning. “I don’t know,” he replied at last. “Minerva has seen to it that he and Torquil should live at opposite ends of the house, and he rarely comes out of his wing until dinnertime. Sometimes I think he doesn’t know, but it is as I told you: he shrinks from facing what is unpleasant.”

“No wish to shove my oar in,” said Mr Templecombe, with a deprecatory cough, “but should you not tell him, dear boy?”

“No. Good God, no! What have I to tell him but my suspicions? If he shares them and shuts his eyes to them, God forbid that I should force him to look them in the face! If he is in ignorance, long may he remain so! He is too old, too worn down by trouble, to be made to suffer such a blow! I’ll have no hand in blackening his last days! All his hopes are centred in Torquil: the son who is to carry on the succession!”

“Shouldn’t have thought, myself, that he cared as much for the succession as Lady Broome does,” suggested Mr Templecombe.

“Oh, with her it’s an obsession!” said Philip impatiently. “But he does care for it: make no mistake about that! I hope with all my heart that it may please Providence to carry him off before it becomes necessary to confine Torquil!”

“As bad as that?” exclaimed Mr. Templecombe, startled.

“I fear it. He is becoming violent,” said Philip brusquely. “Unless I am much mistaken, he severely mauled his valet, on the night of the storm. I saw Badger on the following morning, and he was in bad shape, I can assure you—and mighty anxious to escape questioning. Delabole told me a lying tale about his being quarrelsome in his cups, forgetting that I knew Badger well!”

“Yes, but—here, I say! If Torquil’s violent, why doesn’t Badger cut his stick?”

“He’s devoted to him. No doubt, too, Minerva makes it well worth his while to remain—and to keep his tongue between his teeth!”

Mr Templecombe, his brow furrowed, considered the matter, and presently entered another caveat. “That’s all very well, but what about the rest of ’em? Don’t any of ’em suspect?”

“I don’t know, but I think not yet. Whalley is in Minerva’s pay; Pennymore and Tenby may suspect, but they are deeply attached to my uncle, and wouldn’t for the world say a word to upset him. As for the footmen, and the maids, I fancy they look upon Torquil’s migraines as commonplace. They know that he is subject to them, and they are quite accustomed to being kept away from his room when he is laid-up. Whether he really is still subject to them I don’t know, but strongly doubt. They afford Delabole an excuse for drugging him, and as Torquil doesn’t seem to remember anything that happened during one of his attacks, I daresay it is not too difficult to persuade him that he has been prostrated by migraine. But if his fits of mania become more frequent, as I fear they may, it won’t be possible to conceal from the servants that the balance of his mind is disturbed. Nor will it be possible to allow him as much freedom as he now enjoys.”

“Poor little devil!” said Mr Templecombe. “No wonder he’s dicked in the nob!”

“That’s what I thought, until I realized that Minerva wouldn’t insist on Whalley’s accompanying him whenever he rides out unless she had good reason. She’s no fool! He is never allowed to go beyond the gates without Whalley.”

“Nevertheless he does go beyond them,” said Mr Templecombe dryly. “At least he did once, to my certain knowledge, and for anything I know he may have escaped more than once.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, about six months ago! I heard of it from my people. Mind you, I didn’t make much of it, and nor did anyone else, except that he was thought to be uncommonly wild. He bounded into the Red Lion, in the village, late one evening, boasting about having given ’em all the slip, at Staplewood, and calling for brandy. Well, Cadnam—you know: the landlord—well, he thought he was half-sprung already, but when he tried to fob him off with a glass of port Torquil flew into a passion, and hurled the glass at his head. Seems he had a notion of milling Cadnam down: according to the tale I heard—but I only got it third hand, and I daresay it was pretty garbled, it took a couple of fellows to hold him back. Then Delabole walked in, and they say Torquil quietened down at once, and looked devilish scared. Well, the doctor ain’t popular in the village, and as soon as he’d led the boy off, those who were in the tap enjoyed a good laugh, and said that it served my lady right for keeping the poor lad in leading-strings, and she’d only herself to thank that he’d got into such prime and plummy order the instant the doctor’s eye was off him. As far as I could discover, none of ’em thought any more about it until Badger came into the Red Lion the next evening, and said that that was just how it was. He spun a yarn about Torquil’s having been in a quarrel with his mother, and being ordered up to bed by her and so—and so—and so! If only he’d had enough rumgumption to have buttoned his lip, it’s my belief the affair would have been forgotten in a sennight, but when he went to such pains to assure Cadnam that Torquil was shot in the neck, and to beg him not to mention the matter, for fear of it getting to my lady’s ears—well, that made Cadnam, and a couple of others who were in the tap at the time, think there was something dashed smokey about it, and—oh, you know how fast a rumour spreads in a place like this, Philip!”

“Oh, my God, what a muttonhead! What a damned, well-meaning clunch!” exclaimed Philip bitterly.

“Yes, but there’s nothing to say the boy wasn’t shot in the neck,” said Mr Templecombe. “And if it weren’t for the doctor’s continued presence at Staplewood, there’d be a good deal less scandal-broth brewed! Lady Broome says he’s there on Sir Timothy’s account, but that won’t fit! We all know he was sent for when Torquil took the smallpox, and dashed nearly slipped his wind, and that was before Sir Timothy got to be so feeble! Well, there’s a nasty ondit being whispered over the tea-cups: daresay you know what it is!”

“I can guess! That Delabole is Minerva’s lover? I don’t think it’s true, but true or not it was bound to be said,” replied Philip indifferently.

“Yes,” agreed Mr Templecombe. “The thing is she ain’t over and above popular, dear boy! And another thing that has people in a puzzle—well, it has me in a puzzle too!—is why the devil she brought Miss Malvern to Staplewood. Seems an odd start!” Receiving no answer to this, he said, with a shrewd glance at Philip: “Very agreeable girl, ain’t she?”

“Very,” agreed Philip.

“Got a great deal of countenance,” persevered Mr Templecombe.

“Yes.”

“Oh, very well!” said Mr Templecombe, incensed. “If you don’t choose to tell me you’re tail over top in love with her, it’s all one to me! I may not be one of the tightish clever ’uns, but I’ve got eyes in my head, and I know what’s o’clock!”