“Now, that’s quite enough!” said Sarah, in a scolding tone. “You can’t know what he thought, nor what her ladyship said to him, and you never will, so there’s not a bit of good to be gained by dwelling on it! If he suffered, it wasn’t for very long—not if Mr Philip was speaking the truth when he said that he looked happy. Didn’t you think he looked happy, Miss Kate?”
Kate nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes. He’s smiling—as though he had at last found something he had been trying to find for a long, long time.”
“Well, that’s all you’ve got to remember, love. There, you stay quiet till it’s time I made you tidy for dinner! You’re worn out, and no wonder.”
Kate sighed, and closed her eyes again. But presently she opened them, and said, rather drearily: “We shall have to live here, you know. We can’t leave Sir Timothy alone in this dreadful house. And when he dies, it will be Philip’s, and he doesn’t want it, Sarah! And I don’t want it either! It has never been home to me, and now it has become horrible! And everyone will think I married Philip because I was determined to become Lady Broome!”
“I shouldn’t wonder at it if you find you’re wrong,” said Sarah. “I was talking to Mr Pennymore last night, and by what he said it seems her ladyship wasn’t at all well-liked by Sir Timothy’s old friends. Well, it stands to reason they wouldn’t like her, when she kept them away from him! She said it was on account of his always being so poorly, but Mr Pennymore says that it’s his belief—and Tenby’s too!—that it would do Sir Timothy good to see a few people. Just dropping in to have a crack with him, not waiting to be invited to a party! And what’s more he told me that Staplewood hasn’t been a home to him ever since her ladyship made it into a show-place. It’ll be your task, Miss Kate, to make it a home again, and to make visitors welcome, what’s more! As for its being horrible to you, it’s only to be expected you should think so at first, but you can take it from me, dearie, that you’ll get over that. Well, goodness, if everyone felt they couldn’t bear to live in their houses, because something tragic had happened in them, half the big houses in the country would be standing empty!”
Kate smiled, and got up. “What should I do without you, Sarah?” she said. “You have so much sense! I beg your pardon for flying into alt: I’ll try not to be so stupid again. I think the—the things that have happened today have been rather too much for me. I shall be better tomorrow!”
Sarah gave her a resounding kiss. “That’s my good girl!” she said. She was interrupted by a knock at the door, and said: “If that’s Ellen, I’ll send her away!” She went to the door and opened it, saying as she did so: “I’ll attend to Miss—Oh, it’s you, sir! Yes, you can come in!”
“Philip?” Kate cried eagerly. “Come in, come in! How is Sir Timothy? Did you tell him what had happened?”
“I wasn’t obliged to tell him that Minerva was dead. He had guessed it. As soon as I went into his room, he asked me if she was dead, and when I said yes, he sighed, and said that he had feared she must be. Then he said: “Poor soul!” as though she had been a mere acquaintance. But when I told him that there was worse news for him to hear, I saw him brace himself. There was a painful look of anxiety in his eyes, and he lifted his hand, as if to silence me. Then he let it fall, and spoke just oneword—Torquil?”
Kate caught her breath. “Philip, you don’t mean—Good God, did he know that Torquil was mad?”
“Suspected it. He told me that he had asked Delabole for the truth more than a year ago. Delabole reassured him, just as he tried to reassure me. Delabole is very plausible, you know. I think my uncle wanted to believe him, perhaps because he felt helpless, perhaps because the thought that his only son was not of sound mind was so repugnant that he couldn’t bring himself to face it.” He stopped, and said, after a moment: “You know how it is with him—I told you once! His nature is too gentle—too yielding! He can never have been a match for Minerva, and after his health broke down he only wished to be left in peace.”
“I know, I know!” Kate said quickly. “And, indeed, Philip, it is hard to see what he could have done for Torquil, when his health is so precarious, and my aunt was determined that she, and she only, should rule the roast here!”
He smiled gratefully at her, and said: “You do understand, and I needn’t beg you not to think harshly of him.”
“No, that you need not! I couldn’t think harshly of him! But go on! Did he guess that Torquil had murdered his mother? Or had what Tenby told him prepared his mind for the shock?”
“No, I don’t think so. If that had been so, he must have known that Torquil had strangled her, and he didn’t know that. When I told him that Torquil had strangled her, in a fit of mania, he changed colour—looked so ghastly that I obliged him to swallow some of his cordial. He was greatly distressed—far more than by the news that Minerva was dead! He said—oh, in an aching voice!—“Poor boy! poor, unhappy boy!” Then, when he had a little recovered, he asked me if I realized what it must mean: that Torquil would have to be put away in some asylum. That was what upset him more than all the rest. When I told him that Torquil was dead, too, he was merely thankful. He said, very frankly, that he had never been able to care for Torquil, as he had cared for little Julian, but that to have been obliged to condemn him to spend the rest of his life in a lunatic asylum would have left him with nothing more to do than to have put a period to his own life. Then, after a little while, he asked me if you were still here, and when I told him, yes, and that you had refused to leave Staplewood, he instantly became more cheerful, and said that you were the silver lining to a very black cloud, and that he need no longer be afraid that he wouldn’t see you again. When I left him, he was quite happily making plans for our wedding! He seems to have set his heart on leading you to the altar, and bestowing your hand on me himself—here, in the Church, as soon after the funerals as may be possible. I told him that I couldn’t answer for you, and if you dislike the idea you mustn’t hesitate to tell me so. It would be a private ceremony, of course: just ourselves, my uncle, Mrs Nidd to support you, and, if I can lure him back from his London dissipations, Gurney Templecombe to support me. Would you like it, or would you prefer to be married in London?”
“Oh, I should much, much prefer to be married here!” she exclaimed, flushing with pleasure. “And for Sir Timothy to give me away! How kind, how very kind of him!”
He turned his head to look at Sarah, a question in his eyes.
“The decision must rest with you, Mrs Nidd. It won’t do for Kate to remain at Staplewood without you to lend her countenance: I know the sort of scandal-broth that all the tattle-boxes brew! Can you stay with us until you’ve seen us buckled, or am I asking too much of you? I know you have your own home to manage, and perhaps your husband might object to it, if you were to extend your stay? Not to mention your father-in-law!”
“Joe knows Miss Kate must come first,” responded Sarah. “And as for Father, I don’t doubt he’ll cut up stiff, and make a great grievance out of it, but you don’t need to worry about him, sir! He don’t mean all he says: he’s just naturally full of crotchets! I’ll write a letter to Joe, explaining how it is.”
“Thank you!” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m very much obliged to you! Kate, my uncle wishes us both to dine with him, in his own room: may I tell him that we’ll do so?”
“Yes, indeed, you may!” Kate answered. I—I was dreading having to sit down to dinner in that huge, sombre room, trying to be civil to Dr Delabole! It is so much cosier in Sir Timothy’s room!”
“Dr Delabole,” he said, “will be eating his dinner in the breakfast-parlour! But you are very right: the dining-room was never used, in my aunt’s day, except for large parties. If we find ourselves obliged to take up our quarters here, I shall ask my uncle if we may revert to the old custom of dining in the Red saloon when we are alone.”
“In the meantime, Mr Philip,” interpolated Sarah, edging him towards the door, “I’ll thank you to go away! If Sir Timothy wishe
s Miss Kate to dine with him, she must change her dress! And if you’ll pardon me for venturing to give you the word with no bark on it, I’ll prefer your room to your company, sir!”
He laughed, but said: “Must she change her dress? She looks very becoming to me!”
“Well, if you think she looks very becoming, with her hair in a tangle, and her dress all creased and rumpled, you must be nutty on her!” retorted Sarah acidly. “She looks like a hoyden, and let her go down to your uncle like that I will not—not if you was to ask me on your bended knees! Get along with you, do, Mr Philip!”
She then thrust him out of the room, firmly shutting the door on him, and uttered, in accents of loathing: “Men!” However, she added grudgingly, as she passed Kate’s wardrobe under rapid review: “Not but what it looks to me as though Sir Timothy knows a point more than the devil, as the saying goes. That’s a very shrewd notion of his, Miss Kate! Once it gets to be known that it was him gave you to Mr Philip, in Church—and it will get to be known, make no mistake about that!—you’ll have everybody that is anybody coming to pay you morning visits. And as long as you don’t get to thinking yourself first in consequence, and setting people’s bristles up by condescending to them, which Mr Pennymore has told me your aunt was used to do, you needn’t fear they won’t like you. So just you sit down there, Miss Kate, while I brush your hair for you, and see if you can’t pluck up a bit!”
“I’ll try,” Kate said, sighing. “But—oh, Sarah, it seems so fantastic that you should be dressing me for dinner when my aunt and Torquil are—are lying dead! It—it is almost indecent to wish to swallow a mouthful!”
“And when, miss, according to your calculations, will it be decent for you to eat your dinner again, like a Christian?” demanded Sarah somewhat tartly.
That made Kate laugh, and did much to lighten the oppression that weighed down her spirits. When she went down the Grand Stairway, she found Pennymore hovering in the hall, with the very evident intention of conducting her into Sir Timothy’s room. He smiled benignly upon her, saying that, if she would not think it presumptuous of him, he would venture to make so bold as to say that the sight of her would do Sir Timothy all the good in the world. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen him take such a fancy to anyone as he has to you, miss, and Tenby says the same. If you’ll come this way, you’ll find him and Mr Philip waiting for you.”
He preceded her to Sir Timothy’s room, but although he opened the door for her, and bowed her in, a discernment which she recognized as being extremely nice made him forbear to announce her. She went in unheralded, smiled shyly at Philip, who had risen quickly, and had taken two steps forward to meet her, but went past him, to bend over Sir Timothy, softly kissing his cheek.
He took her hand, and patted it. “Well, my pretty!” he said fondly. “So here you are! Pour her out a glass of Madeira, Philip! Sit down beside me, my dear! I’m afraid you have had a very uncomfortable day.”
She could not help feeling, as she recalled the events of the day, that this was a masterpiece of understatement, and she replied, rather faintly: “Yes, sir. It—it has been a little uncomfortable !”
He went on patting her hand. “Pennymore has been telling me that he doesn’t know what we could have done without you. Thank you, my dear! Your nurse, too! You must bring her to see me tomorrow: she sounds to be a most excellent woman, and I should wish to express my gratitude to her. That’s right, Philip! Pull up that little table, and set the glass on it! He and I have been discussing the future, Kate, and although it would make me very happy if you were to make Staplewood your home, you mustn’t do so if you feel the least disinclination! I shall go on very well, and I daresay you will come to visit me, so that I shall have that to look forward to.” He glanced across at Philip, with a melancholy smile. “I know you prefer the house your father built, my boy. Perhaps you will sell Staplewood, when it is yours: I shall be dead, so I shan’t know.”
“No, sir: I shan’t do that,” Philip said.
“Well, I can’t deny that I shall like to think that when I’ve cocked up my toes there will still be a Broome at Staplewood,” said Sir Timothy, more cheerfully. “You will have to decide both of you, whether you will come to live here immediately, or wait until I’m dead. I shan’t last for many more years, and I no longer have the health or the strength to manage my estates. You could do it, and I think it would be wise of you not to put off what I feel sure you think of as the evil day! However, I don’t mean to press you, and we won’t talk of it any more tonight.” He smiled at Kate. “Drink up your wine, my pretty! I think we won’t discuss anything that has happened today. We shall eat our dinner, and after that I shall challenge you to a rubber of piquet…’
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Cousin Kate Page 35