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 w
ell, 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!”
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