Cousin Kate

Chapter XVIII

By the time Kate had had a lengthy session with the chef, a lengthier one with the housekeeper, and had been forced to endure the slow garrulity of the head-gardener, it was past noon, and she was feeling very ready for a nuncheon. Few things, she ruefully decided, were more exhausting than being obliged to listen to what amounted to monologues, delivered in a rambling style, and almost wholly devoid of interest. The chef, not content with having his suggested bill of fare for dinner approved, laid several alternatives before her, and enthusiastically described his method of dressing various dishes, even going to the length of disclosing the particular herb he used to give its subtle flavour to a sauce of his own devising. Mrs Thorne, with equal enthusiasm, described, in revolting detail, the various ailments to which she was subject; and Risby, seeing her go into the rose-garden with a basket on her arm, joined her there, watching her proceedings with a jaundiced eye, and prefixing his subsequent remarks with the information that she shouldn’t ought to cut flowers in the heat of the day. He then followed her round, discoursing in a very boring way on the proper care of gardens, with digressions into the different treatment demanded by what appeared, from his discourse, to be plants of extreme delicacy and sensibility. Escaping from him at last, Kate realized that she had been subjected to these floods of eloquence because Lady Broome never encouraged her servants to talk to her of anything beyond the sphere of their duties, not even Mrs Thorne, who had come to Staplewood from the Malvern household, and was slavishly devoted to her. They all stood in awe of her, the only one amongst them to whom she unbent being Sidlaw.

Pennymore met Kate, when she entered the house, with the intelligence that Mr Philip had taken Sir Timothy out in the tilbury. He was beaming with satisfaction, and when she said: “Oh, I’m glad! It will do Sir Timothy good!” he replied: “Yes, miss, it will do him good, as I said to Tenby, when he was misdoubting that it might be too much for his strength. “What Sir Timothy wants to do,” I said, “won’t harm him!” Which he was bound to agree to, seeing that he knows as well as I do that Mr Philip will have an eye to him, and turn for home the instant he thinks Sir Timothy is growing tired. Wonderful, it is, the way he perks up when Mr Philip comes to stay! It seems to put new heart into him, as one might say. Now, if you will give me your basket, I will myself put the roses into a jug of water, Miss Kate, until you have eaten a nuncheon. You will find it waiting for you in the Red saloon.

She also found Dr Delabole waiting for her. He was eating strawberries with evident relish, and he instantly recommended them to her, saying that they had been picked that morning, and were still warm from the sun. As the sun was streaming in through the window, this was hardly surprising, but he rattled on, extolling the superiority of strawberries plucked and eaten hot from their bed over those bought in London; and drawing her attention to the particular excellence of the strawberries grown at Staplewood. “I have never tasted better!” he said earnestly. “But everything grown at Staplewood is so good! Her ladyship’s genius for providing food to delight the eye in her arrangement of the flower-gardens does not lead her to neglect the inner man! She is a remarkable woman, as I am persuaded you must agree! Truly remarkable! All is done under her supervision! She even orders what vegetables are to be grown; and the fruit trees, you know, are of the choicest varieties!”

“How is my aunt today?” Kate asked, hesitating between a ham, and some cold beef.

“Not as stout as I could wish,” he replied, “but better! Decidedly better! As I foretold, nothing would do for her this morning but to leave her bed. And now she is determined to see you! Had she wished to see anyone else I must have withheld my permission, but you, I know, can be trusted not to chafe her nerves. I daresay you may think I am making a great fuss about nothing: she certainly thinks so! but the truth is—though she would rip me up for daring to say so!—that she is not quite herself yet! These stomach disorders are not to be trifled with. And her attack was a particularly violent one: indeed, at one moment I was really alarmed!”

It struck Kate that he was more uneasy than the occasion seemed to warrant, but before she could do more than assure him that she would try not to chafe her aunt’s nerves Pennymore came in, carrying a covered dish, which he set down before her, saying that he had ventured to suggest to the chef that a baked egg might be welcome to her. “Which, miss, he was very glad to cook for you, knowing, as he does, that you never partake of anything at breakfast but a scone, and a cup of tea.”

“Why, how kind of you both!” said Kate. “Pray tell Gaston that it is precisely what I was wishing for!”

“And precisely what I should have recommended, had I been applied to!” said the doctor, in a hearty tone. “But we can always rely on our good Pennymore!”

Pennymore was so much revolted by this playful remark that he became suddenly afflicted with deafness, and left the room without betraying by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he had heard it.

Undismayed, the doctor said archly: “You are to be congratulated, Miss Kate! You have made yourself beloved of us all, from Sir Timothy down to the kitchen-maids! One would say you had been managing large households all your life!”

“I am afraid you are offering me Spanish coin, sir,” she replied coolly. “I have never met the kitchen-maids, and have had very little to do with managing the house.” She saw that he was about to utter another of his fulsome compliments, and said, before he could do so: “How does Torquil go on today? I am sorry he should be laid up again.”

“Oh, it was nothing more than a touch of the sun, and becoming overtired! He was a little feverish last night, to be sure, but he is a great deal better today, and will come down to dinner, I hope. I could have wished that Mr Philip Broome had not come out on to the terrace yesterday—and that you, Miss Kate, had not called to him to take your place at quoit-throwing! Not that I blame you! You cannot be expected to understand the effect Mr Broome’s visits have upon Torquil! It is sad it should be so, but Torquil is never so well when his cousin is at Staplewood.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He is so excitable, and so anxious to vie with Mr Broome! It is very natural, and very natural that Mr Broome should encourage him. Most good-natured of him indeed! But he does not appreciate how necessary it is that Torquil should not, be allowed to exert himself beyond his strength. It would be wonderful if he did! Young men of vigorous constitution seldom realize how easily such frail boys as Torquil can be knocked-up.”

She returned no answer to this, and, after a moment, he said, with a little laugh: “And now I learn that he has taken Sir Timothy out in the tilbury! No doubt with the kindest of intentions, but imprudent—very imprudent! I wish I may not have Sir Timothy on my hands, as well as her ladyship!”

Kate had meant to have preserved a strict silence, but this was too much for her resolution. She raised her eyes from her plate, and stared at the doctor, saying, with an air of astonishment: “But surely, sir, I have heard you trying to persuade Sir Timothy to go out for drives?”

“Ah, yes, but in the barouche, not in a tilbury! It is an effort for an old man to climb up into any of these sporting carriages, you know.”

She rose, pushing back her chair, and said: “I expect he had as much assistance as was needed. Excuse me, if you please! I have been cutting fresh roses for my aunt’s room, and must now go to arrange them in a bowl. Do you permit me to take them to her myself, or is she, perhaps, resting?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” he said, hurrying to open the door for her.

She went out, and, some twenty minutes later, mounted the Grand Stairway, carefully carrying the glass bowl in which she had arranged a dozen half-opened roses. At the head of the stairs she encountered Sidlaw, who had been lying in wait for her in the upper hall. She said pleasantly: “Is her ladyship ready to receive visitors? Dr Delabole tells me that at last it is safe for me to see her. I am so glad she is better.”

Sidlaw’s sniff expressed her opinion of the doctor. She said grudgingly: “She is in a way to be better, miss, but further than that I will not go. I thought I would drop a word of warning in your ear, which is why I’ve taken the liberty of intercepting you.”

“No need,” Kate said lightly. “The doctor has already warned me not to chafe her nerves.”

“Him.” Sidlaw ejaculated. Her face worked; she spoke with suppressed passion, twisting her bony fingers together. “He doesn’t know—nobody knows except me! It was worry that wore her down, till she was in a state to take any infection. She’s never given way, never once let a living soul suspect what a struggle it has been to her to support her spirits. She’s had nothing but trouble—she that I thought to see become a leader of fashion! Such style as she had! Everything prime about her! And so beautiful!”

“She is still very handsome,” offered Kate, hoping to check the flow of this unaccustomed eloquence.

But Sidlaw was obviously suffering from pent-up emotion, and she swept on, unheeding. “She ought to have married a nobleman—one of those who were the sprigs of fashion, twenty years ago! There was several dangling after her, for she was very much admired, I promise you! She was born to be a duchess, as over and over again I told her! And what must she do but throw herself away on Sir Timothy, a man old enough to have been her father!” She gave a gasp, and made an effort to control herself. Darting a rancorous look at Kate, she said: “I shouldn’t have said so much. I’m sure I don’t know what came over me, miss.”

“I don’t regard it,” Kate replied. “I know how anxious you have been since my aunt took ill, and how devotedly you’ve nursed her. You’re tired—overwatched! Will you take these fresh roses in to her, and see if I may go in? I don’t wish to disturb her if she’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping!” Sidlaw said scornfully. “It’s little enough sleep she’s had for weeks past!” She took the bowl from Kate, muttering that it was to be hoped Kate would do more for her aunt than cut roses, and walked off down the gallery to Lady Broome’s bedroom.

She reappeared a minute later, carrying a vase of wilted flowers, and told Kate, ungraciously, that she might go in to sit with my lady. “And you’ll please to remember, miss, that she’s in a poor state!”

“I’ll remember,” promised Kate.

Sidlaw dumped the vase down, and went before her to open Lady Broome’s door. “Miss Kate, my lady!”

“Come in, Kate!” said Lady Broome. “That will do, Sidlaw!… Dear child, come and sit down where I can see you!”

She held out her hands, and, when Kate took them in hers, pulled her down to kiss her cheek.

She was reclining on a Carolinian day-bed, drawn across the foot of the great four-poster, and wearing one of her elegant dressing-gowns. At first glance, Kate did not think that she looked ill, but when she studied her more closely she saw that the lines on her face were accentuated, and her eyes rather strained. She said, with a smile, and a gesture towards the fresh roses, which had been placed on a small table beside her: “There has been no need for Sidlaw to tell me who has kept my room supplied with flowers every day! Thank you, my love! Such a refreshment, their scent! So tastefully arranged too!”

“I think roses arrange themselves,” said Kate, sitting down on the low chair by the day-bed. “Are you feeling better, ma’am? After such a violent catching, I expect you are sadly pulled.”

“A little,” Lady Broome acknowledged. “It is a judgement on me for boasting that I am never ill! I am keeping my room today, but I shall leave it tomorrow. What a shockingly bad chaperon I’ve been to have left you alone! I am afraid it must have been awkward for you, my poor child.”

Kate stared at her in patent surprise. “Good God, ma’am, how should it have been?”

“One young female in a household composed of gentlemen? Fie on you!” said Lady Broome playfully.

“But one of the gentlemen was Sir Timothy,” Kate reminded her.

Lady Broome laughed. “To be sure! I wish he may have known that he was a deputy-chaperon, but I doubt it! One would have supposed that Philip would have seen the propriety of removing himself when his hostess was taken ill—though why I should have supposed it I don’t know! He has never yet shown the smallest consideration for anyone but himself. When does he mean to take himself off? Has he said anything about it?”

“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.” Kate rose as she spoke, and went to draw one of the heavy brocade curtains a little way across the window. She looked over her shoulder, and asked: “Is that better, ma’am?”

“Dear Kate!” sighed her ladyship. “Always so thoughtful, so quick to perceive a need! The sun was dazzling me a trifle. Do you know, ever since you came to Staplewood, you have made me forget that I have no daughter? You are so exactly what I should have wished my daughter to be like! Indeed, I find myself thinking that you are my daughter—and so, I know well, does Sir Timothy! You have even been managing all the household affairs, to the manner born, Delabole tells me!”

Considerably embarrassed, Kate stammered: “There has been very little to manage, ma’am. I only wish there had been more! I am conscious—deeply conscious!—of—of how much I owe to your kindness!”

“Yet you will not do the only thing I have ever asked of you!” said Lady Broome, with a melancholy smile.

Kate had been about to return to her chair, but at these words she checked, and stiffened. She said, in a constrained voice: “If you mean, ma’am, as I believe you do, that I won’t marry Torquil, I beg you will say no more! It is too much to ask of me!”

“Is it? I told you to think it over, Kate, but I’m afraid you haven’t done so. You have only perceived the evils of such a marriage: not its advantages. Believe me, these are very real! You are no longer a girl, dreaming of romance: you must surely be considering your future, for you don’t want for sense. Sit down!”

“Aunt Minerva, pray say no more!” Kate begged.

“Don’t argue with me, girl!” Lady Broome said, with a flash of temper. “Sit down!” She controlled herself with a visible effort, and forced up a smile. “Come! I have something to tell you—something I have never told anyone, not even Delabole!” She waited until Kate had reluctantly resumed her seat, and then held out a coaxing hand. “Don’t hold off from me!” she said caressingly. “That would quite break my heart, for I have come to love you dearly, you know.” Her fingers closed round Kate’s hand, and held it. “There! That’s better! You are the only comfort left to me, child—the only hope! Do you think me a happy woman? I’m not. Life has used me harshly, I think: everything I most wanted has been denied me! I wonder what sins I can have committed to have made fate punish me so cruelly?”

“Oh, don’t say so, dear ma’am!” Kate interrupted. “You are not yourself! This is nothing but a sick fancy!”

Lady Broome sighed, and shook her head. “No, alas, it is the truth. I have put a brave face on it, but I’ve failed in everything I set out to do. I hope you will never know how bitter a thing that is.”

“Now, how can I tell you civilly that you are talking nonsense?” said Kate, in a rallying tone. “If the effect of my visit is to cast you into dejection I shall be in hot water with Dr Delabole, and Sidlaw too, and very likely I shall be forbidden to come near you again! Tell me, if you please, if you failed when you set out to make Staplewood beautiful?”

’Ah, you don’t understand!” said Lady Broome. “I only did so because I realized, when I was obliged to give up all that I most enjoyed, that unless I could discover something of interest to keep me occupied I should mope myself to death. You must remember that I was still a young woman when I knew that I must bring Sir Timothy here, not for a visit merely, but for the rest of his life. That was a severe blow. I have grown accustomed, but in those days I detested the country. Your father told you how ambitious I was, but I don’t think he knew that my most passionate ambition was not to marry a duke, but to escape from the intolerable boredom of my home! My father—your grandfather, my love—was not of a sociable disposition. In fact, he was excessively untoward, and he had my unfortunate mother quite under his thumb. Had it not been for his sister, I should have found myself buckled to the Squire’s son before I had been allowed even a glimpse of London! She, however, offered to bring me out, and to frank me for one Season. She was married to a man of birth and property, and moved in the first circles. She had married her daughters to men of fortune and consideration, and said she would do the same by me. But she reckoned without my lack of dowry.”

Kate blinked. “But surely, ma’am—I mean, when my grandfather cut Papa out of his Will, you must have been heiress to all his property!”

“I was, but he was never wealthy, and he suffered some bad reverses on “Change. I was used to think him a shocking pinch-penny, until my mother explained matters to me. Well, that’s past history: I’ve told you only that you may understand why I married Sir Timothy. I had many admirers, but the only offers I received were from men I could not like well enough to marry. My aunt said I was a great deal too nice, and I knew she wouldn’t invite me to spend a second Season in Mount Street; indeed, she told me that if I threw away my chances she would wash her hands of me. And I knew that if I went back to my home at the end of the Season I should never see London again. I can tell you, I was in such despair that I could almost have brought myself to marry any man who could give me position, and the means to live up to it! But then Sir Timothy proposed to me, and I became engaged to him.” She saw that this story was winning no response, and pressed Kate’s hand, saying with a faint smile: “Ah, you are thinking that I was very mercenary, are you not? I wish you had known Sir Timothy twenty years ago: one of the most charming men imaginable! So handsome, too! He fell in love with me as soon as he saw me. It was at the Opera. He came up to my aunt’s box, and begged for an introduction.”

“And you, ma’am? Did you fall in love with him?”

’No, no! I liked him very well, but I had no notion then that he would one day propose to me. He is twenty years older than I am, you know, and in those days that seemed very old indeed to me. I respected him, however, and gladly accepted his offer. My aunt told me that it was indelicate of me to show joy at my engagement, but Sir Timothy didn’t think so: it made him very happy, for he was afraid that he might be too old to make me happy. The Broomes said he was infatuated. His sister Mariaan odious woman!—told him that he would soon become a cuckold if he married a girl young enough to have been his daughter. So vulgar! I have always been glad that she didn’t die until she had been forced to acknowledge that she had wickedly misjudged me. But they all disliked me, and Philip, of course, positively hated me! He was the most disagreeable boy: as self-important then as he is today! But we were married in spite of them, and I became most sincerely attached to Sir Timothy. He wanted an heir, and when Torquil was born he thought nothing too good for me. His first wife had not cared for London, so the Broome town house had been disposed of, but because I loved London he bought a house in Berkeley Square for me. Oh, how happy I was—for just three years! London, for the Season; then Brighton; then back to London again, for a few weeks; then visits to our particular friends—large house-parties, you understand! Theatricals were all the rage: I recall going to the Priory, at Stanmore, when Lady Cahir took the chief part in Who’s the Dupe, a most diverting farce, and very well played. Then we had parties here, always during the hunting season. I once held one over Christmas: that was a triumph indeed! And—”

“But where was Torquil?” Kate interrupted. “Did you take him with you?”

“Good God, no! I did keep him in London for a time, but it did not agree with him: he was always ailing, and Sir Timothy became so nervous that he would lose him—the children of his first marriage all died, as I daresay you’ve been told—that I sent him here, with his nurse.”

“I wonder you could bear to part with him!” Kate said, before she could stop herself.

“My dear child, I make no secret of the fact that I am not one of those women who dote on infants! To own the truth, I find them repulsive! They are for ever screaming, or dribbling, or being sick! Besides, his nurse managed him far better than I could—even had I not been much too busy to make the attempt. To be a successful hostess takes up one’s time and energy, I promise you. And I was successful. And then it ended.”

She stopped, leaving Kate at a loss for something sympathetic to say. Having no social ambition herself, and with the unfading memory of her mother, who could never bear to be parted from either her husband or her child, it was difficult for her to appreciate what her enforced abandonment of a life of high fashion had meant to her aunt. That it had meant a great deal to her was patent in her face. Lady Broome was looking into the past with fixed, embittered eyes, and her mouth set rigidly. In desperation, Kate faltered: “It must have been very hard for you, ma’am.”

Her words recalled Lady Broome from her abstraction. She brought her eyes round to Kate’s face, and said “Hard!…” A contemptuous little laugh shook her. “No, you don’t understand, do you?”

“You see, I don’t think I should enjoy the sort of life you’ve described,” Kate excused herself. “So I can’t enter into your feelings. But I do understand that—that coming here to live—giving up all that you liked so much—must have been a sacrifice.”

“No one has ever known what it cost me, not even Sidlaw! Whatever my faults, I’ve never been one of those women who weep and whine, and fall into lethargies, throwing everyone into gloom with their die-away airs! And no one—not even Maria!—could accuse me of failing in my duty to my sick husband! I sold the town house; I took on my shoulders all the business which Sir Timothy was too enfeebled to attend to; and devoted myself to Staplewood, knowing how much he loved it! I hadn’t cared, until then, to acquaint myself with its history, but to please him I began to study the Broome records, and to bring them into order. I had supposed that it would be a drudgery, but I became fascinated. I believe I know more about the Broomes than Sir Timothy does—and I sometimes think I care more! But there was one thing he cared for, and had never disclosed to me. It wasn’t until I found the genealogical tree—at the bottom of a chest, full of old letters, and accounts, and forgotten deeds—that I realized that for two hundred years Staplewood, and the title, had descended from father to son in unbroken sequence. How many families can boast of that? I understood then why Sir Timothy was so anxious every time Torquil contracted some childish ailment, and I became determined that it should be no fault of mine if he descended, like the children of Sir Timothy’s first marriage, into an early grave.”

Kate, who had listened to this speech in gathering dismay, began to feel sick, but clutched at the straw offered by the rapt, almost fanatical, light that shone in Lady Broome’s eyes, and the little triumphant smile which curled her lips. The doctor, she thought, had been right when he had warned her that her aunt was by no means restored to health: she was obviously feverish. She said: “Well, he hasn’t done so, has he? So that is another object you haven’t failed to achieve! Dear aunt, you have let yourself be blue-devilled by nothing more than the dejection which—so I am told—is the aftermath of a fever! I think I should leave you now: Dr Delabole warned me that you are not as well as you think, and I see that he was right! The thoughts are tangled in your head: what a shocking thing it would be if I believed some of the things you’ve said! I don’t, of course: I haven’t much experience of illness, but I do know that people who are recovering from a severe bout of fever are not to be held accountable for anything they may say when they are feeling low, and oppressed.”

She would have risen, as she spoke, but Lady Broome startled her by jerking herself upright on the day-bed, and saying, in a voice of barely repressed exasperation. “Oh, don’t talk as if you were the ninnyhammer I know you’re not! Sit still!” She cast aside the light shawl which covered her legs, and got up, and began to pace the room with a nervous energy that seriously alarmed Kate. After a pause, during which she managed to bring her sudden spurt of temper under control, she said, with what Kate felt to be determined calm: “I had not meant to come to a point with you so soon, but what happened on the day that I was taken ill has forced it on me. Kate, if you feel that you owe me anything—if you feel a particle of affection for me!—marry Torquil, before it becomes known all over the county that he’s insane! Staplewood must have an heir in the direct line!” Her eyes, unnaturally burning, perceived the sudden blanching of Kate’s countenance, her widening stare of horror. Misreading these signs, she exclaimed: “What, have you lived at Staplewood for so many weeks and remained blind to the truth? You’re not a green girl! You’re not a fool! Don’t tell me you have never suspected that Torquil is mad!”

Deathly pale, Kate flinched, and threw up a hand, as though to ward off a blow. She said numbly: “I thought—oh, I was certain!—that you didn’t know!”

“I?” said Lady Broome incredulously. “Good God, Kate, why do you suppose that I brought Delabole to live here? Why have I kept Torquil in the old nursery wing? Why have I never allowed him to go beyond the gates without his groom, or to consort with any of the boys and girls of his own age? Why do you imagine that Badger was at hand when he tried to shoot you?”

Kate shook her bowed head, and uttered, almost inaudibly: “He didn’t try to shoot me. It was the dog. Torquil gave the gun to me as soon as I told him to.”

This seemed to give Lady Broome pause. The angry light died out of her eyes; she said, after a moment’s cold consideration: “If you say so, I believe it. It proves how right I was when I judged you to be a suitable wife for him. I have observed you closely, and I’ve seen how good your influence has been. He likes you, and you’ve made him respect you: it may be that marriage might arrest the progress of his insanity; it may even be that you are the cause—oh, quite unwittingly!—of its increase during the past weeks. Delabole is of the opinion that his—how shall I put it?—his manhood, first roused by the Templecombe child’s empty prettiness, grew stronger when I brought you to live at Staplewood, and has excited his brain. You’ve held him at a distance, and he has found relief in—committing certain acts of violence.”

Kate looked up quickly, an appalled question in her eyes. Lady Broome smiled with a sort of indulgent contempt. “Oh, yes!” she said, faintly amused. “I know about the rabbit you found. I know everything that Torquil does. I have known for years—ever since I realized there was more to his fits of ungovernable rage than mere childish naughtiness. What I suffered—the despair—the chagrin—when the knowledge was forced upon me that the taint had reappeared in my son—my only son!—I can’t describe to you! He inherited his sickly constitution from Sir Timothy, but his madness came to him through me! Oh, don’t look so alarmed! it didn’t come through the Malverns, but through my mother! One of her great-uncles had to be confined: it was kept so secret that very few people knew about it, and it didn’t appear either in my grandfather’s or my father’s generations. Or in mine! I had never dreamed that it would visit my son! It was only when Torquil’s nurse spoke to me—told me that she was puzzled by him—that I began to suspect the truth. I dismissed her at the earliest opportunity that offered, as you may suppose! I said that he was too old for a nurse, and appointed Badger to attend to him. He had previously been employed to wait on my predecessor’s nursery, and had been dreading dismissal from the moment Sir Timothy married me. Fortunately, as it chanced, Sir Timothy’s rather exaggerated notions of his obligations to his dependants made him insist on Badger’s continuing at Staplewood; and, still more fortunately, Badger became deeply attached to Torquil. I daresay he was sincere, since Torquil, when he grew out of infancy, was an amazingly pretty little boy, you know! Of course, I’ve been obliged to pay both him and Whalley to keep their lips buttoned, but I never grudge the price of faithful service. Delabole, too! I knew he could be bought! I sent for him when Torquil had the smallpox. Dr Ogbourne had previously attended the family, but I knew that he was beginning to be suspicious, and I seized that chance to be rid of him. I hoped, at that time, that I might be mistaken, and that Torquil’s disturbing fits of violence did indeed arise from ill-health, but as time went on I knew that his brain was sick, as well as his body. That was the most crushing blow of all I had suffered. I felt at first that my one remaining ambition had been shattered. But I don’t readily despair, and I thought that if he survived, if I could keep him quietly at Staplewood, guard against any excitement, never let him go beyond the gates alone, and, above all, establish my mastery of him, his malady might be cured, or, at the worst, remain in abeyance. I saw that it would be necessary to maintain a constant watch over him, for although there were periods—sometimes lasting for weeks—, when he was perfectly docile, one never knew when something would upset him, and bring on one of his attacks of mania. I soon learned, however, that these almost always occurred at the time of the full moon: they still do, but there have lately been signs that this can no longer be depended on. And it is becoming increasingly difficult to control him. I can do so, and perhaps you can; but the day is coming when it will be necessary to confine him more closely. It will be too late then to give him a wife, and all my care, all the sacrifices I have made, all the stratagems I’ve been forced to employ to hide his lunacy from everyone but those few I can trust, will have been wasted! That, Kate, is why I depend on you to fulfil the only hope I have left!”

Kate had sunk her head in her hands, and she did not raise it. She said, in a voice of suppressed anguish: “But what of him? What of him, ma’am. Haven’t you one thought to spare for him?”

Lady Broome frowned down at her in utter incomprehension. “I don’t understand you,” she said coldly. “I must, surely, have told you enough to make you realize that he is never out of my thoughts? I have watched over him, nursed him through all his illnesses, supplied his every want, cosseted him, borne with his odd humours—and you can ask me that! Do you think it has been an easy task? Let me tell you that it is so long since I enjoyed peace of mind that I have forgotten what it was like to go carefree to bed, and to wake in the morning without feeling that there was a heavy cloud hanging over me! My greatest anxiety now is that I may not be able for much longer to hide the truth about him. It was easy enough when he was a child, but he has grown too strong for Badger to overpower. Delabole can do it, but Torquil has become very cunning, and has several times given them both the slip. Neither of them can control him as I can, with no more than a word! When I set out to master him it was with the future in mind: it was imperative that he should stand in awe of me, acquire the habit of obeying me. Childhood’s habits are not easy to shake off, you know. If I could have induced Delabole to be sterner—but he has always been too easy-going, and Badger, of course, merely dotes on Torquil. He’s not afraid of either of them: indeed, he holds them in contempt!”

Kate said faintly: “Does Sir Timothy know the truth?”

“Good God, no!” Lady Broome exclaimed. “I’ve kept them apart as much as I could, so that he shouldn’t guess. I think the shock would kill him! No one knows, except Sidlaw. It was a fortunate circumstance that until about three years ago Torquil was hardly ever out of flannel. He caused me many anxious moments, but Sir Timothy got into the way of thinking of him as invalidish. So did everyone else, and so they might well! What I went through with him!—I can’t remember any epidemic that passed him by—he even had typhus, and but for me would have died of it! As for the number of times he was laid up with a putrid sore throat, or a heavy cold in the head, to say nothing of his sick headaches, they are past counting! I think only one person is suspicious, and that, I need hardly say, is Sir Timothy’s dear nephew. But he can’t know that Torquil isn’t sane, and although I don’t doubt he would be happy to make mischief I do him the justice to believe that he wouldn’t run the risk of causing his uncle to suffer what might well be a fatal heart-attack unless there was an end to be served. But there is none! While Torquil lives, sane or mad, Philip cannot become Broome of Staplewood. And if Torquil were to father a son Philip would never succeed Sir Timothy!”

It was several moments before Kate could trust herself to speak. Hot words rose in her throat, but she choked them back. Digging her nails into the palms of her hands, she at last said, with no more than a tremor of indignation shaking her voice: “So it was to entrap me into marrying Torquil, whom you knew to be insane, that you invited me to come to Staplewood! And I thought it was so kind of you, ma’am!”

Lady Broome lifted her eyebrows quizzically. “Well, and have I not been kind to you, Kate? Over and over again you’ve said that you wished there was something you could do to repay me, but when I tell you the only thing I want from you, you give back. I hadn’t thought that you would offer me nothing but lip-service. As for entrapping you—what moonshine ! Pray, how did I do so? I had no power to force you to come to Staplewood, and I have no power to keep you here. You are free to go whenever you wish.”

Kate got up. “I will go tomorrow, ma’am,” she said quietly.

Lady Broome smiled. “Certainly—if you have the money to pay the coach fare! Or do you expect me to frank you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No? I hope you don’t mean to sell the pearls I gave you!”

Kate instantly unclasped the necklet, and held it out. “Please to take it, ma’am!”

Lady Broome laughed indulgently, and went to sit down again on the day-bed. She patted it invitingly, and said:

“Come, dear child! I was only making game of you! If you still wish to go back to London when you’ve heard what I have to say to you, I’ll send you in my own chaise—only not, I think, tomorrow. Such a sudden departure would present a very odd appearance, and give rise to the sort of gossip neither you nor I should like. What, can’t you bring yourself to sit down beside me?”

“I think it is time I left you, ma’am. Pray don’t say any more! It is quite useless to try to persuade me to do what you wish. Indeed, it is worse than useless, for I might be led into saying what would be grossly uncivil, and that I am determined not to do.”

“Well, if you choose to stand!—” said Lady Broome, shruging her shoulders. “I am not going to try to persuade you; I am merely going to ask you to look at two pictures. The first is what your life will be if you go back to London. You may find another situation—hough you weren’t being very successful when I came to offer you a home, were you? What can you earn, as a governess fit only to teach young children the alphabet? Twenty pounds a year? You won’t be able to save much out of that paltry wage to provide for your old age. And when the children grow old enough to be taught accomplishments you will be dismissed, and it will be all to do again—with the little money in your purse dwindling until you are ready to scrub doorsteps only to earn a few shillings to pay your landlady. Do you hope for marriage? Believe me, my dear, men may make up to you, while you keep your looks, but even a tradesman thinks twice before he offers for a penniless woman no longer in the first blush of youth. Yes, it’s an ugly picture, isn’t it?”

“Very ugly, ma’am.”

“Now contrast it with my second picture!” invited her aunt. “It is what life would be like if you married Torquil. You would be rich enough to be able to indulge your whims; you would become, in due course, Lady Broome—”

“Unless Torquil murdered me in one of his rages!”

“I have no fear of that. I should not permit him to be alone with you during the periods when he is liable to take leave of his senses. At all other times he is perfectly tractable. It may well be that if you make him happy he will grow calmer. If not, and he has to be confined, you will be free to amuse yourself as you please. You won’t find me a strict mother-in-law! I shall present you at the outset, of course—”

“And will you present Torquil too, ma’am? Wouldn’t it be rather too exciting for him?” Kate interrupted sweetly.

“Much too exciting,” replied Lady Broome. “Torquil will be kept at home by a sudden indisposition. In any event, it would not be for me to present him, but for his father to take him to a levee. While it is safe for him to remain at large, you would have to content yourself with no more than brief visits to London, with a female companion: that can easily be arranged. If he gets beyond control, either the West Wing can be made secure, or—and this is something I have had in mind for some time—it might be preferable to acquire a house in one of the quieter watering-places, and to send him there, in Delabole’s charge. Delabole will know how to set about hiring suitable attendants: men who have had experience of looking after mad persons.”

“Oh, stop, ma’am! for God’s sake, stop!” begged Kate, pressing her hands over her ears. “You are talking about your son!”

“My dear child, do you imagine that I mean to send him to Bedlam? He will be perfectly kindly treated, and no money will be spared to make him comfortable. As for you, once you have given Staplewood an heir—why, provided you are discreet, which I don’t doubt you would be, I should turn a blind eye on any little affaires which you may have!”

Feeling that if she did not escape she would become hysterical, Kate went hurriedly to the door. Her aunt’s voice followed her. “Think carefully before you give me an answer!” she said..