She had been vaguely aware, while she tried to compose her letter, of voices in the garden, and as she wrote the superscription someone ran up the terrace steps, immediately below her window, and Torquil shouted: “Kate! Are you there? Do come down!”
She rose, and went to the window, leaning out to look down into his upturned face. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled; as soon as he saw her, he said again coaxingly:’
“Do come out, coz! See what I’ve brought from Market Harborough!” He held up a circular metal plate, with a hole in the centre.
“But what is it?” she asked.
“Why, a quoit, of course! Matthew has been showing me how to throw it, and I can tell you it requires a great deal of skill! We’ve paced out the ground, and driven in the iron stakes at either end—” He looked over his shoulder to shout to the doctor: “What did you tell me the stakes are called, Matthew?”
“Take care!” Kate said warningly. “Don’t disturb your mother!”
He looked rather impatient, but said nothing. Dr Delabole, who had come across the lawn to the foot of the steps, said: “Hobs, my boy, hobs! Do you care to try your skill, Miss Kate? It is quite a diverting pastime!” .
She agreed to go down, wondering if Philip had emerged from the East Wing, and hoping that she might be able to snatch a word with him on her way out into the garden. However, there was no sign of him downstairs, so she was obliged to go out with the anxious question in her head unanswered.
The rules of the game were quite simple, the players standing facing one another, by one of the hobs and being provided with an equal number of quoits, which they cast, in turn, at the opposite hob, the object being to throw the quoits as near as possible to the hob.
The doctor offered himself as scorer, but had first to combine this role with that of instructor, Kate never having played the game before, and making a number of wild casts. Torquil, on the other hand, seemed to have a natural aptitude for it, getting the range immediately, and sending his quoits spinning towards the hob with an expert flick of his wrist. He was obviously enjoying himself, intent on improving his skill, and flushing with gratification when the doctor said jovially that he would have to be handicapped.
“I wish he might be!” said Kate fervently.
“Nothing easier!” declared the doctor. “We can extend the range, you know: there is no limit! You shall be allowed to stand halfway, and he shall throw from—what do you say, Torquil? Twenty yards?”
“What is it now?” asked Kate. “It seems more than that to me already!”
“Eighteen,” replied Torquil. He watched her throw the quoit she was holding, and exclaimed: “No, no, don’t hurl it! Use your wrist! Here, let me show you!” He came running up to her, looking just like an eager schoolboy, for he had thrown off his coat, and his neckcloth, and his hair was dishevelled. He grasped her hand, with his strong fingers, and forced her to bend her wrist over. “There! Do you see what I mean?”
She said meekly that she did see what he meant, but doubted her ability to carry out his instructions, adding that she had never before suspected that her wrists were made of tallow. She then caught sight of Philip, who was leaning his arms on the stone parapet of the terrace, watching them, and hailed him with relief, inviting him to take her place.
The instant the words were out of her mouth she knew that the suggestion was unwelcome to Torquil, and realized that he was afraid his cousin would outshine him. Half his pleasure in the sport arose from the applause which greeted his best shots. It was regrettable, but understandable: even pathetic, Kate thought; and wished she had held her tongue.
But Mr Philip Broome said hastily: “No, no, I’m no match for Torquil! I haven’t played quoits for years!”
The cloud vanished from Torquil’s brow. He laughed, and said boastfully: “I have never played before!”
“Doing it too brown, you young gull-catcher!”
“I swear it’s true!” Torquil said, his eyes alight with glee. “Matthew, isn’t it true?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said the doctor, with a lugubrious shake of his head. “There’s no beating you at it!”
“Oh, isn’t there, by Jove?” said Philip. “That puts me on my mettle! Have at you, Jack-sauce! Cousin, if you mean to sit on the steps, sit on my coat!”
He stripped it off, and handed it to her, murmuring, with a reassuring smile: “I shan’t have to abduct you after all!”
She gave him a look of heartfelt relief, but no further words passed between them. He walked away to bargain for a few practice throws, and she carefully folded his coat of Bath superfine, and sat down to watch the contest, at first thinking that Torquil was by far the better player, and then, as Philip’s casts began to improve, coming to the conclusion that he meant Torquil to win, but not easily enough to make him suspicious. Now and again his cast beat Torquil’s, but more often his quoit was found to lie an inch farther from the hob. At the end of the match, Torquil was flushed, and triumphant, very hot, and beginning to be very much excited. He promptly challenged Philip to a return game, and snapped the doctor’s nose off, when that well-meaning but tactless gentleman advised him against over-exertion, repeating the challenge, the sparkle in his eyes hardening to a glitter.
“Tomorrow,” Philip replied.
“I tell you, I’m not tired!”
“You may not be tired, but I am! What’s the time, Doctor?”
The doctor, pulling out his watch, announced that it was nearly half past five, at which Kate sprang up, exclaiming: “As late as that? We shall be late for dinner! For heaven’s sake, don’t start another game!”
“Oh, what the devil does it signify? Mama ain’t coming down!”
“No, but your father means to dine with us, and it won’t do to keep him waiting,” said Philip imperturbably. “Furthermore, I have already had one brush with Gaston, and, I warn you, Torquil, if his sensibilities are wounded again, you shall have the task of applying balm!”
“Gaston? What are you talking about?” asked Torquil impatiently.
“It’s my belief,” said Philip, eyeing his severely, “that you knew all about it, and took care to be well out of the way! See if I don’t give you your own again, that’s all!”
“But I didn’t!” protested Torquil, diverted. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about! I believe you’re hoaxing me I’
He was still hovering on the brink of fury, but his curiosity had been roused, and by the time Philip had regaled him with a highly coloured description of his encounter with the chef, he was laughing again, and had forgotten his determination to play another game of quoits.
He was strumming on the pianoforte at the far end of the Long Drawing-room when Kate next saw him, twenty minutes later, and paid no heed to her. She thought he looked tired, and dispirited, and so, apparently, did Dr Delabole, who was watching him covertly when Kate came into the room, an anxious frown on his forehead. It vanished when he became aware of her entrance, and he got up bowing, and smiling, and handing her to a chair, with the slightly overdone civility which characterized him. Torquil stumbled over a passage, and brought his hands down in a crashing discord, ejaculating savagely: Fool, fool, cowhanded fool! I shall never be first Kate, never!”
He jumped up from the pianoforte, slamming down the lid, and coming with hasty, impetuous strides down the room, just as Sir Timothy entered, leaning on Philip’s arm. For a nerve-racking moment Kate feared that he was going to brush past his father, and fling himself out of the room, but either his cousin’s presence, or Sir Timothy’s gentle voice, bidding him good evening, made him stop in his tracks. He responded awkwardly: “Oh—good evening, sir!” and, after standing undecidedly beside a chair in the middle of the room, sat down, but took no part in the general conversation. This did not augur well for the comfort of the evening, but his temper gradually improved, and he ate what was, for him, a very good dinner. By the time Kate left the dining-room, he had made three spontaneous remarks, and had allowed
himself to be drawn into a sporting discussion.
As she walked up the Grand Stairway, Kate wondered how to keep him diverted, and decided that the best plan might be to set out the Fox and Geese. This had amused him on a previous occasion, and might do so again. On the other hand, he might despise it as a child’s game: one never knew with him how long a craze would last. Everything depended on his mood, and tonight this seemed to be uncertain.
But when he came in he was smiling at something Philip seemed to have said to him, and as soon as he saw the Fox and Geese board, exclaimed: “Oh, I’d forgotten that! Look, Philip, do you remember?”
Philip waited until Sir Timothy had lowered himself into his accustomed chair before turning his head towards Torquil. “Look at what?—Good God! You don’t mean to tell me those are the pieces I once made?” he exclaimed incredulously. He walked over to the table, and laughed, picking up one of the lop-sided geese. “Ham-handed, wasn’t I? How in the world have they survived? Do you still play?”
“Oh, no, not for years, until I played with Kate, three or four evenings ago! I thought they had been lost, but she found them at the back of the cabinet over there, and we had a famous battle! I beat her all hollow, and she swore revenge on me. Are you ready to begin, coz?”
“Do say you don’t wish to play, Kate!” begged Philip. “I am persuaded you would liefer talk to my uncle! I shall then offer, very good-naturedly, to play as your deputy. Lord, how it takes me back! I wonder if I remember the rules?”
He sat down as he spoke, and began to set out the seventeen geese. Torquil, who had been inclined to resent his intervention, at once became enthusiastic, and Sir Timothy made an inviting gesture towards a chair near his own.
She had purposely set out the fox and geese on a table towards the other end of the room, and although it was not out of tongue-shot, a low-voiced conversation could be maintained which would neither disturb the players nor be overheard by them. Nevertheless, Kate moved her chair rather closer to Sir Timothy’s, saying, as she sat down: “Philip was right, sir: I have been anxious to talk to you ever since—ever since I knew that he does indeed wish to marry me!”
“But were you in doubt? He must have expressed himself very badly!” said Sir Timothy.
She laughed, blushing a little. “No, but—I wasn’t expecting him to make me an offer, and I was afraid he might regret it. After all, it is only a week since we first met!”
“Are you afraid you might regret it?” he asked, still amused.
“Oh, no, no!”
“Then why should he? He is not at all volatile, you know!” He held out his thin hand, and as she shyly laid her own in it, said softly: “I think you will suit very well, my dear. I’m glad to know that you are going to be happy. I feel sure you will be, both of you.”
“Thank you, sir!” she whispered, fervently squeezing his hand. “As long as you don’t dislike it!—”
“There’s only one thing I dislike about it, and that is that I must lose you. You brought the sunshine to Staplewood, my child! And I fear that when you leave I shan’t see you again. Your aunt won’t make you welcome. It is not I, but she, who will dislike your marriage to Philip. You know that, don’t you?” She nodded, and he continued, sighing faintly: “Philip tells me that you mean to break the news to her yourself. You would oblige me very much, Kate, if you won’t do so while she is still so unwell. She is all unused to having her will crossed, and I am afraid it will upset her very much.”
She replied immediately: “You may be easy on that head, sir: I will do nothing to upset her until she is better. What does Dr Delabole say of her?”
“He went up to see her when we left the dining-room, and has promised to report to me how she goes on. I daresay he will soon be with us, so I will say only one thing more to you, my dear! Whatever your aunt may say to you, let Philip be the judge of what is best for you to do—and be sure that you both take my blessing with you!”
Chapter XVII
Kate had no opportunity that evening to exchange more than a few whispered words with Philip as she slid her letter to Sarah into his hand, for although Sir Timothy went away to bed, escorted by Dr Delabole, before the tea-tray was brought in, Torquil remained, and it was not many minutes before the doctor returned. This had the effect of making Torquil invite Kate to walk down to the bridge with him, to see the moonlight on the lake. The arrival of the first footman, carrying in the tea-tray, provided her with an excuse; she added that she was rather tired, trusting to Philip to divert his wayward mind. This he did by proposing a game of billiards, but not before Torquil had announced his intention of going down to the lake by himself.
Kate was thus left to sustain the burden of Dr Delabole’s conversation, which was largely concerned with Lady Broome’s state of health, but interspersed with anecdotes, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible fund. It struck her that under his cheerful manner he was concealing anxiety, but when she asked him if he thought Lady Broome’s condition more serious than he had divulged to Sir Timothy, he quickly denied it, assuring her that her aunt was on the mend. “It was a severe attack, though soon over, and it has pulled her—there’s no denying that, as I told her, when she was determined to get up. She bit my nose off, but that’s a sign of convalescence, you know!” He chuckled reminiscently. “How it did take me back! I daresay you would find it hard to believe that she could ever have had a temper, but I promise you she had! Oh, dear me, yes! Quite a violent one! I have been acquainted with her since she was twelve years old—watched her grow up, you might say. Ay, and watched her bridle her temper, until she had it under such strict control that I had almost forgotten how passionate she was used to be until she flew at me for saying she must remain in bed! That brought the old days back to me! Not that I mean to say that it was more than a spurt of temper, but it put me on my guard!”
“But didn’t you say that it was a sign she was on the mend?” asked Kate, raising her brows.
“Oh, yes, and so it is! Yesterday, when the fever was so high, she felt too ill to be cross, or obstinate: that caused me to feel considerable anxiety!” He cast an arch look at Kate. “I fancy I have no need to tell you, Miss Malvern, that she is very, very strong-willed! Once she is determined on a course, it is a hard task to turn her from it! I should have preferred her to remain in bed for another day, but if she is of the same mind tomorrow I shan’t attempt to argue with her, for I know it would do more harm than good. She is suffering from considerable irritation of the nerves, and must be kept as calm as possible, if she is not to have a relapse into another attack of colic. That might indeed be serious!”
He went on talking in this strain until the tea-tray was removed, and Kate felt she could excuse herself without incivility.
She passed a peaceful night, and woke with a sensation of well-being. Only one fence remained to be jumped, and although it was likely to be a rasper she had no doubt of clearing it: Sir Timothy’s blessing had removed her scruples, and beyond that last obstacle a happy future awaited her.
But she did wish that Lady Broome had not fallen, ill at just this moment. To remain at Staplewood while her aunt was ignorant of her engagement to Mr Philip Broome did not suit her sense of propriety. She felt it to be double-dealing, and was too honest to offer her conscience the sop of Sir Timothy’s request to her not to divulge her engagement until Lady Broome was sufficiently recovered to withstand what he plainly felt would be an unpleasant shock. Nor could she persuade herself that Lady Broome might not be so very angry after all: for the niece whom she had so generously befriended to fall in love with the man she most hated and mistrusted would be seen by her as an unpardonable piece of disloyalty—if she did not see it as treachery, which she was very likely to do, thought Kate ruefully, wishing that the ordeal were behind her. It had not needed Dr Delabole’s reference to Lady Broome’s girlish furies to convince her that under her iron calm Lady Broome concealed a temper, and she wondered, quaking a little, just how violent it would be if her a
unt allowed it to overcome her, and what effect it might have upon her health. It would be a shocking thing to make her seriously ill: infinitely worse than to keep from her, when she was barely convalescent, news that would certainly upset her. Philip had said that she owed her aunt nothing, because it had been to serve her own ends that Lady Broome had been kind to her; but however selfish her motive had been, the fact remained that she had been kind, and had continued to be kind when Kate had told her that under no circumstances would she marry Torquil. She had certainly hoped that Kate would change her mind, but she had put no pressure on her. Her only unkindness had been to try to sever the link that tied her niece to Sarah Nidd. That had been unscrupulous, but Kate was inclined to believe that she had not supposed herself to be inflicting more than a passing sadness. It would be incomprehensible to Lady Broome, whose exaggerated notion of her own consequence Kate had long thought to be one of her least amiable faults, that her niece could hold her nurse in more than mild affection. If she had known that Kate actually loved Sarah, she would have deplored such a sad want of particularity, and might even have considered it a kindness to wean her from her predilection for what she herself called Low Company.
Philip, of course, would say that she did not care a straw how much pain she inflicted when scheming to achieve her own ends; but Philip disliked her too much to do her justice. It was strange that so level-headed a man could be so deeply prejudiced. Kate could understand dislike, but not a prejudice so bitter that it led him to believe that her aunt, knowing Torquil to be mentally deranged, meant to entrap her into marrying him. That shocked her, for it seemed to be a discordant note in his nature, making him, for a disquieting moment, almost a stranger to her, an intolerant man, without pity or understanding. But she knew that he had both. His affection for his uncle had not blinded him to the weakness in Sir Timothy’s character, but he understood, far better than she did, the circumstances which had worn his uncle down, and would never, she knew, abate one jot of his sympathetic tenderness. He had said that though he could no longer respect Sir Timothy he could never cease to love him, and these were not the words of an intolerant man. The thought that he was kind only to those whom he held in affection occurred only to be dismissed. He did not hold Torquil in affection, but that he pitied him was shown in his treatment of him. A man who could let his prejudice govern him might have been expected to have extended his hatred of Lady Broome to her son, “but this, plainly, Philip had never done. He must always, Kate thought, remembering Torquil’s joyful greeting when he had arrived at Staplewood a week ago, have been kind to Torquil, even when he was a schoolboy, and had probably wished a tiresome small boy at Jericho. Torquil had told her, in one of his melodramatic moods, that Philip had made three attempts to murder him. How much of that lurid tale had been due to a fantasy in his brain, and how much to his undeniable love of play-acting, she could not know, but she suspected that someone had put the idea into his head that his cousin was his enemy. It was not difficult to guess who had done it, for only one person at Staplewood had a motive for attempting to turn Torquil against Philip: Lady Broome, who hated Philip as much as he hated her, and made no secret of the fact that his visits were unwelcome. Philip believed that she was trying to keep him away because she feared that if he saw too much of Torquil he would discover what she knew to be the truth about him; to Kate’s mind, it went to prove that she did not know the truth. For Lady Broome to have sown poison in what she believed to be a sane mind was bad enough; to have done so, knowing that Torquil’s hold on sanity was precarious, and that when in the grip of mania he was homicidal, would have been unpardonable.
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