She gave a rather watery giggle, and subsided again on to his chest. “Don’t make game of me! You know very well what I mean! What would all your relations think?”
“Of course! That is a serious consideration. I wonder why it should not have occurred to me?” he said, apparently much struck. “Could it have been because what they think doesn’t seem to me to be of consequence?”
“It is of consequence to me,” she said, into his coat.
“Is it? Then there’s only one thing for it! We must be married privately, by special licence!”
“Oh, Philip, as though that would make it any better! Do, do be serious!”
“I am being serious, little wet-goose. I am determined to remove you from Staplewood as soon as may be possible; and since neither of us, I hope, is so lost to all sense of propriety as to consider a flight to the Border to be pardonable in any but extremely ramshackle persons—what one might call the baggagery, you know!—I believe my best course will be to convey you to London, to the protection of your nurse, for just so long as it will take me to procure the special licence, and to send an express to my steward, telling him to make all ready for our homecoming. After which, I mean to carry you off to Broome Hall immediately. Oh, Kate, my dear love, you don’t know how much I long to see you there! Or how much I hope that you will like it!”
“I am very sure I shall,” she replied, with simple conviction. “But it would be quite as ramshackle for me to run away to London with you immediately as to fly with you to the Border, my dear! Consider! Surely you could not wish me to behave with such a want of conduct—so ungratefully? Every feeling must be offended!”
“You have no cause to be grateful to Minerva!”
“Oh, yes, I have!” she said, smiling mischievously up at him. “If she hadn’t brought me here I should never have met you, my dear one!”
His arms tightened round her until she felt her ribs to be in danger of cracking, but he said unsteadily: “That was not her object, you artful little Sophist!”
“No, far from it! What was that you called me?”
“A Sophist, my love—an artful one!”
“What does it mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“One who reasons in a specious way!” he answered, laughing at her.
“Oh, I don’t!” she said indignantly. “How can you be so uncivil?”
“I am not on ceremony with you!” he retorted.
“No, so I collect!” she said, gently disengaging herself. “We must discuss this, you know—and without prejudice, if you please! Come and sit down! We shan’t be disturbed: Torquil and Dr Delabole are going to Market Harborough, and you know my aunt is unwell, don’t you? Which is one of my reasons for not dashing away to London in such an unseemly fashion—as though she had been ill-using me, and I had seized the chance offered by her illness to escape! You should know what sort of gossip that would give rise to! Could anything be more unjust? Whatever her motive was in inviting me here, I have received nothing but kindness from her, and I will not leave Staplewood in such haste as must astonish all those who know that I had the intention of remaining here until the end of the summer, and lead to conjectures which might reflect on me, you know, and that you wouldn’t like!”
It was evident, from the arrested expression on his face, that this possibility had not occurred to him. He said emphatically: “No!”
“Of course you wouldn’t! As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t like it myself. I wish you will not stand there frowning down at me! It puts me in a terrible quake!”
He smiled, and came to sit beside her on the sofa, saying: “Fibster!”
“Not at all! You wouldn’t believe how pudding-hearted I can be!”
“No, that’s true: I wouldn’t! If you were pudding-hearted you wouldn’t remain here!”
I’m not afraid of Torquil,” she said quietly, “but I promise you I dread telling my aunt that I am going to marry you, Philip. I must do so: to go away without telling her would be very much too shabby, don’t you agree?”
“You may leave it to me to tell her!”
“On no account! That would not only be rag-mannered, but it would make it seem as if my conscience was shockingly guilty. It will be your task to break the news to Sir Timothy.”
“That’s easy! I mean to do so at once, and I have a strong notion that he will be pleased.”
“I hope he will be. He invited me to dine with him yesterday, and—and he did me the honour to say that he liked me, and would have wished a daughter to have grown up to resemble me. And I think he was perfectly sincere, because he warned me not to let myself be bullied or cajoled into doing what my heart, and what he called my good sense, told me was wrong. I believe that he did so out of affection, and I know that he shrank from the task. Well, he warned me that I was deceiving myself if I supposed that my aunt had brought me to live with her out of compassion. He said that although he didn’t know what it might be he did know that she must have had a motive—and to say that of her must have been excessively distasteful to him.”
He had listened intently to her, an expression of gathering surprise in his face, and he exclaimed: “Then he must indeed hold you in affection! I believed I enjoyed as much of his confidence as anyone, but he wouldn’t have been so frank in talking to me. I have sometimes wondered whether he is frank with himself—allows himself to take notice of what is unpleasant. It is painful to see how much he shrinks from facing anything that—oh, that must disturb his peace! He was not always so, Kate! If you had known him when my Aunt Anne was alive—in the days of his happiness!—I suppose his can never have been a strong character, but—but even though I can’t now respect him, I can never forget how much I owe to him, or cease to love him! I wish I could explain to you—make you understand—”
She was a good deal moved, and checked him, laying a hand over his hard-clenched ones, and saying gently: “I do understand. I have seen what you describe: his character is not strong, but he is very lovable. I have loved him almost from the moment of first seeing him, and I can readily understand what your feelings must be, and—and why you hold my aunt in such dislike, and your own aunt in such veneration. He told me how it had been: he said she was an angel.”
He nodded, biting his lip. “She wasn’t a beauty, or a clever woman, but so good! In those days, Staplewood was my home, not a—a show-place! And my uncle cared for it as he no longer does! I daresay Minerva improved the gardens, but what he cared for, before his health broke down, was his land! I have been riding about the estate lately, and I can tell you this, Kate: my own land is in better heart! Minerva talks glibly enough, but she knows nothing about agriculture, and thinks, because the fellow that became bailiff When old Whatley was pensioned off flatters her, that he’s first rate. Well, he ain’t! My uncle must know it, for it’s only a few months since he gave up hacking round the estate, but he seems not to care!”
“No,” agreed Kate. “He told me that I should find when I approached the end of my life that I should no longer care very much for anything. I thought it was the saddest thing I had ever heard said.”
He did not answer for a moment or two, and when he did speak it was sombrely. “It may be best for him.”
She hesitated before saying: “You think there is trouble coming to Staplewood, don’t you? Is it Torquil?”
“I fear it.”
“Philip, is—is Torquil deranged? she asked, horror in her eyes. “Oh, I can’t think it!”
“I tried for years not to think it, but lately I have realized that instead of outgrowing his strange humours he has become worse. I think him dangerous, Kate, and I know that he can be violent. If he is excited, or thwarted, it is as though his rage overpowers his brain, and he lets his instinct govern him. And his instinct is to kill. That is Why—”
“You are thinking of his having shot at that dog!” she interrupted. “I too suspected for a dreadful moment that he was mad, but I promise you that he didn’t mean to shoot me! Even when I rippe
d up at him, which you may suppose I did—I was never more angry!—I know he had no thought of injuring me! He was—oh, like a sulky schoolboy! Saying that if I hadn’t moved I shouldn’t have been in danger, and that he wasn’t aiming his piece at me. It’s true that he threatened to shoot Badger, but, you know, Philip, he cannot have meant to do so, because he must have known he had fired both barrels! And, if you bear in mind that he is only a schoolboy, you will own—or you would, if you had been there!—that the temptation to hold Badger at bay must have been irresistible! He came running up in such a stew! And stood positively transfixed when Torquil pointed the gun at him, and warned him to keep off, in the most dramatic style! I must say, it put me quite out of patience with him, for nothing could encourage Torquil more than to stand trembling with fright! A man who has known Torquil since his childhood, and is, I fancy, devoted to him! How could he suppose that Torquil would shoot him?”
Philip replied, with a curling lip: “He could not—if he believed Torquil to be sane! Or if, unless I am very much mistaken, Torquil had not tried to kill him on the night of the storm!”
0h, no! Oh, no!” she whispered, recoiling. “The scream I heard—Are you telling me it was Badger who screamed?” He shrugged, and suddenly she remembered that she had not recognized the voice, and that Badger had been seen on the following morning with sticking-plaster on his face, and a bandage round his neck; and she buried her face in her hands, with an inarticulate moan of protest. “You must be mistaken! you must!” she uttered, when she could command her voice. When he did not answer, she said urgently: “He must have woken up in a night-terror: my aunt told me that he is subject to them! And as for the dog, Dr Delabole told me that he was once, as a child, badly bitten by a retriever, and it left him with a dread of dogs!”
He frowned. “Yes, it’s true that my uncle’s Nell did turn on him. Minerva insisted on having her shot, but from what I knew of Torquil it was my belief that he came by his desserts. He had a pet rabbit once, and strangled it. You’ve probably heard of brats who pull the legs off flies? Well, that wasn’t enough for Torquil! When he was nine he tried to wrench a kitten’s tail off. Have you forgotten that when I arrived here, and walked in on you, he had his hands about your neck!”
She had turned very pale, and her eyes dilated in a look of sick dismay. She was obliged to swallow once or twice before she could speak, for her throat was suddenly dry. Shuddering convulsively, she at last managed to say, in a sort of croak: “Then—was it Torquil?—That rabbit I found in the wood! But Dr Delabole said it was boys from the village—that Torquil had been in his room for an hour! Oh, no! Oh, no! it is too terrible, too appalling! Oh, poor boy—poor, unhappy boy!”
She broke into tears, again covering her face with her shaking hands. Philip drew her gently to rest against his shoulders, patting her, and stroking the nape of her neck in a way that conveyed comfort and reassurance. He said, when she had mastered her emotion: “What rabbit was this, Kate?”
A quiver of revulsion ran through her, and it was in a halting, scarcely audible voice that she recounted the episode. He listened to her in silence, but when she ended, asked her, rather sharply, if the doctor had been searching for Torquil.
“I don’t know. I thought so, because I heard my aunt ask Pennymore if Torquil had not come in yet. That was why I was searching for him. He had left me in a rage, and I felt that the least I could do, having upset him, was to find him, and bring him back to the house. But when I told Dr Delabole that I was looking for Torquil he said that Torquil had been in his room for an hour past. I quite thought that he would be laid low by one of his migraines, for that is in general what happens after one of his fits of passion, but it seems that he fell asleep, and woke so much refreshed—Oh, no, Philip, he could not have done that dreadful thing! Why, he was in his most amiable mood! Indeed, he was gay, and he looked so much better, so much happier! I had expected him to be at outs with me, because I had lost my temper with him, and said some pretty cutting things to him, which made him dash off in a fury. He seemed to have forgotten about that, and you may be sure that I didn’t remind him that we had quarrelled!” She broke off abruptly, as he interjected: “O God!” as though the words had been wrenched out of him, and demanded, in bewilderment: “What do you mean? Why do you look like that?”
He replied with deliberate calm: “I think that the whole affair was wiped from his mind as soon as he had satisfied his instinct to kill. I don’t pretend to understand the minds of madmen, but it has seemed to me on several occasions that he has no recollection of what he has done when temporarily out of his senses. I even think that to kill, in an inhuman bestial way, that rabbit, or a bird caught in a net, or some other helpless creature, satisfies some terrible instinct in himself, and acts on him like a powerful narcotic. More than that! as a tonic! If he had the smallest remembrance of what he has done when possessed by his fiendish other self I daresay he would be as horrified as you are.”
“He knew that he had tried to shoot that dog!” she said swiftly. “He has just begged my pardon!”
He said, his frown deepening: “I fancy his behaviour was due more to fright than to madness.”
“But it was only a playful young dog—hardly more than a puppy!” she protested. “Even a person who was afraid of dogs must have seen how friendly it was! Why, it—” She stopped suddenly, remembering that the dog had bristled and growled and backed away from Torquil.
“Friendly to Torquil?”
“No. It—it seemed to fear him!” she blurted out.
“Animals do fear him,” he replied. “That’s why there are no dogs at Staplewood, other than my uncle’s old spaniel bitch, who is too old and lazy to stray from his side. They say that animals know when one is afraid of them: it is certainly true of horses. Is it fantastic to suppose that instinct warns them to beware of madmen? Gurney spoke last night to me about what he called the “nervous chestnut” Torquil rides. I let it pass, but I’ve ridden that horse, Kate, and he went as sweetly as you please for me. Torquil has only to take the bridle in his hand to set him sidling, and bucking, and no sooner is Torquil in the saddle than he begins to sweat. And, make no mistake, Torquil isn’t afraid of any horse that was ever foaled! I don’t say I’ve never seen him unseated—the best of us take tosses!—but I have never seen him unseated by the efforts of his mount to get rid of him, or fail to win the mastery over the most headstrong brute in the stables! But horses don’t show their fear of one by growling, and bristling, and they rarely savage one. Certainly Torquil has never been savaged by a horse, but a dog did once turn on him, and that experience left him with a dread of dogs. I think he acted of impulse when he tried to shoot your friendly stray. He may have been hovering on the brink of one of his crazy fits, but you were not afraid of him, and you recalled him to his senses, probably by speaking sharply to him—as I did, when I found him with his hands round your throat, and as Minerva has the power to do. He stands in great awe of Minerva, and in a little awe of me. It seems that he is also in awe of you. But the day is coming—and soon, I fear—when even Minerva won’t be able to control him. That is why, my darling, I can’t feel easy while you remain at Staplewood.”
“But my aunt doesn’t know—cannot know!—” Kate stammered. “She believes that it is merely irritation of the nerves—that he is much better!—”
“In fact, he is much worse!” he interrupted. “Until now, although I have suspected that he suffered from some intermittent mental disorder, I could never be perfectly sure of it. I have frequently driven over from Broome Hall to visit my uncle, but of late years I’ve only stayed for one night.” He smiled wryly. “Minerva has not encouraged me to prolong my visits! Indeed, she has been most ingenious in finding reasons why I shouldn’t do so. But this time I’ve been deaf to all her hints, and I’ve seen much that it wasn’t difficult to conceal from me for a few hours. I tell you frankly, Kate, I have been shocked by the deterioration in Torquil! Irritation of the nerves? Is that what Minerva
calls it? Irritation of the brain would be nearer the mark, and well she knows it! Why do you imagine that she still keeps him in the nursery wing?”
“She told me—so that he may be quiet!” Kate faltered.
“So that he may be kept safe!” he said grimly. “Why do Delabole and Badger both have their quarters in that wing? Why is he never permitted to ride out alone? To find his level amongst youngsters of his own age?”
“Because—oh, Philip, pray don’t say any more! You dislike my aunt too bitterly to do her justice! If she is deceiving herself—or, which I think very likely, is being deceived by Dr Delabole, can you wonder at it that she should cling to the belief that his rages spring from ill-health, and will vanish when he grows stronger? Or even that she should shrink from facing a terrible truth?” She sprang up, and took a hasty turn about the room. “You have pity for your uncle! He shrinks from facing it! If Torquil is indeed mad, how can it be possible that he shouldn’t know it?”
He was prevented from replying by the entrance of Pennymore, wearing the look of one whose sense of propriety had been outraged. He addressed himself to Kate, saying, in his stateliest manner: “I beg your pardon, miss, but since her ladyship is unwell I feel it my duty to inform you that Mrs Thorne has seen fit to Prophesy!”
Chapter XVI
Philip gave a shout of laughter: conduct which Pennymore considered to be so unseemly that he ignored it, keeping his eyes fixed on Kate. He said in a perfectly expressionless voice: “In consequence of which, miss, the chef, so far as I am able to understand him—but he has relapsed into the French tongue, which he is regrettably prone to do when excited—has formed the intention of leaving Staplewood tomorrow.”
Philip’s shoulders shook, but Kate was not amused. “Good God!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, miss,” agreed Pennymore, according this very proper way of receiving the tidings the tribute of a slight bow. “Furthermore, one of the kitchen-maids has so far forgotten her position as to fall into the vapours.”
Cousin Kate Page 24
