“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.”
“But this is a Greek tragedy, with Pennymore the Chorus!” said Philip.
Pennymore said arctically: “If you will permit me to say so, Master Philip, it is hardly a laughing matter!”
Recognizing that by using this form of address Pennymore was trying to reduce him to schoolboy status, Mr Philip Broome grinned, but obligingly begged pardon.
“But—but why does the chef wish to leave?” asked Kate.
“On account of the Prophecy, miss. I’m sure Mrs Thorne has a perfect right to dream of Horrors, if she so wishes, but I do not consider it advisable to describe her dreams to the household. In fact, far otherwise, for it has a very upsetting effect on the female staff, not to mention the chef—but that was to be expected, him being a Foreigner. Mrs Thorne, miss, makes quite a habit of dreaming of Disaster. The first time she did so, the second footman tripped on the back stairs the very next day, and fell to the bottom.”
“Good gracious!” said Kate. “Was he badly injured? You don’t mean, surely, that he broke his neck?”
“Oh, no, miss! It was worse than that,” said Pennymore. “He broke three of the Sevres cups, thus ruining the Set.”
“Not worse, Pennymore!” protested Kate.
“He could have been better spared, miss, I assure you,” replied Pennymore darkly. “A very unsatisfactory young man, and easily replaceable, which the Sevres china was not. However, what with that, and Mrs Thorne’s dreaming she saw Staplewood being burnt to the ground a couple of nights before the kitchen-chimmey caught fire, so that rock salt had to be thrown on the range, which set dinner back an hour, she’s only got to dream she saw lions and tigers in the garden for none of the young maids to stir out of the house for a sennight.”
“What’s her latest dream?” asked Philip.
“Well, sir, it is Extremely Unpleasant, and not at all the sort of thing one would expect of a respectable female, however given to what I will call Odd Humours. She says that she dreamed there was a coffin in the Blue saloon, with blood streaming from it. Yes, miss, most distasteful, and, I venture to say, highly unlikely. Unfortunately, one of the maids informed Miss Sidlaw, and she was so much provoked that she took it upon herself to give Mrs Thorne a scold, quite as if she thought she was standing in my lady’s shoes.”
“Oh, that will never do!” Kate said quickly.
“No, miss, nor it hasn’t. There has been a Quarrel between them,” replied Pennymore. “And,” he said, coming to his grand climax, “Mrs Thorne is now laid down upon her bed with Spasms. I thought you would wish to know, miss.”
This rider incensed Mr Philip Broome into saying acidly: “Oh, indeed? And what made you think so?”
Kate, more accustomed than her betrothed to this time-honoured phrase, intervened hastily. “You did very right to tell me, Pennymore. I’ll try what I can do to reconcile Sidlaw and Mrs Thorne.”
“I’ll deal with the chef,” offered Philip. “You needn’t look at me so despitefully, Pennymore! Do you think I can’t do it?”
“I was merely thinking, Master Philip, that being as Miss Kate has lived in Foreign Parts, it might be better if she was to speak to the chef—in his own tongue,” said Pennymore coldly.
“No doubt it would be, if he were a Spaniard, but I daresay I am quite as fluent in French as she is, even though I haven’t lived in foreign parts! And don’t imagine you can come it over me by calling me Master Philip, you old bangster, because you can’t!”
“Now you’ve offended him!” said Kate reproachfully, when Pennymore had bowed himself out of the room.
“Not I! Didn’t you see his mouth twitching? Pennymore and I are old friends—which won’t deter him from combing my hair presently for using cant terms in front of a lady! Kate, you don’t mean to embroil yourself in this cat fight, do you?”
“Yes, of course I do! That is to say, I hope I may be able to smooth things over: it’s the least I can do for my aunt! I must go: where is my reticule?”
“It’s here,” he said, picking it up from the table. “Good God, what do you carry in it? It weighs a ton!”
“Oh, it’s my door key! I put it in my reticule because I couldn’t think of a secure hiding-place for it. I can’t stay to explain it to you now, but I will presently!”