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 county, 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 any time 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 the 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 everyone 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 awe-inspiring 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 was 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 dinner-time. 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 h
im, 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 commonplaces. 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 its 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 small-pox, and dashed nearly slipped his wind, and that was before Sir Timothy got to be so feeble! Well, there’s a nasty on-dit 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!’
Fifteen
Kate lay awake for a long time after she had blown out her candle that night, trying to think what she ought to do; but although she had longed all the evening for the opportunity to consider her problems in the seclusion of her own room, she found herself quite unable to pursue any very consecutive or useful line of thought. When she tried to think dispassionately about Philip’s proposal, and to weigh in the balance the possible advantages to him of the marriage against the certain disadvantages, her mind refused to remain fixed, but strayed into foolish recollections: how he had looked when he had first met her; how his smile transformed his face; what he had said to her in the rose-garden; what he had said in the shrubbery; what he had said in his curricle; and what he had looked like on all these occasions. The mischief was that no sooner had his image imposed itself on her mind’s eye than she was wholly unable to banish it, which was not at all conducive to impartial consideration. She came to the conclusion that she was too tired to think rationally, and tried to go to sleep. When she had tossed and turned for half an hour, she told herself that it was the moonlight, which was keeping her awake, and she slid out of bed to draw the blinds across the unshrouded windows. Every night Ellen shut the windows, and drew the blinds; every night, when Ellen had left her, she flung up the windows, and swept back the blinds; and every morning Ellen, who had a deeply inculcated belief in the baneful influence of the night air, and seemed to be incapable of understanding that her young mistress had become inured to it during the years she had spent in the Peninsula, remonstrated with her, and prophesied al
l manner of ills which were bound to spring from admitting into the room the noxious night airs. Failing to convince Ellen that she could not sleep in a stuffy room, Kate had adopted the practice of opening her windows when Ellen had carefully closed the curtains round the bed, and withdrawn to her own airless and tiny bedchamber.
The wind had died with the sun, and it was a hot, June night, so still that Kate could almost have supposed that a storm was brewing. But the sky was cloudless, with the moon, approaching the full, sailing serenely in a sky of dark sapphire. Nothing seemed to be stirring abroad: not even an owl hooted; and the nightingales, which had enchanted Kate when she had first come to Staplewood, had been silent for several weeks. Kate stayed for a moment by one of the windows, gazing out upon the moonlit gardens, wondering if Philip had yet returned from Freshford House, and listening for the sound of horses trotting up the avenue. Ghostly in the distance, the stable-clock struck the hour. She listened to it, counting the strokes, and could hardly believe it when it stopped at the eleventh, for it seemed to her that she had been lying awake for hours. She had never felt less like sleeping; and, after one look at the crumpled bedclothes, drew a chair to the window, and sat down, wishing that a breeze would get up to relieve the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. The house was wrapped in silence, as though everyone in it but herself was asleep. She concluded that Lady Broome must be better, until her ears caught the sound of someone coming on tiptoe along the gallery, and guessed that the doctor was on his way to take a last look at his patient. Or had he done so, and was he creeping back to his quarters in the West Wing? It had seemed to her that the footsteps were coming from the direction of her aunt’s bedchamber. A board creaked outside her door, and the footsteps stopped. She waited, her eyes widening, and her breathing quickened. Someone was listening, no doubt for some sound to betray that she was still awake. There was a nerve-racking pause, and then she heard a faint grating noise, as of someone cautiously inserting a key into the lock of her door. She was out of her chair in a flash, and had reached the door and wrenched it open before Sidlaw, wearing a drab dressing-gown, and a night-cap which imperfectly concealed the curl-papers with which she had screwed up her sparse gray locks, could turn the key in the wards. For a moment they confronted each other, Kate’s eyes flashing with wrath, and Sidlaw obviously discomposed. The key had been jerked out of her hand, and lay on the floor. She stooped to pick it up, and Kate said, in a dangerously calm voice: ‘Thank you! I’ll take that!’