“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.”