“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 alclass="underline" 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 aunt allowed it to overcome her, and what effect it might have upon her health. It would be a shocking thing to make her seriously ilclass="underline" 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.