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.
It seemed to Kate, bearing in mind her aunt’s domineering disposition, that Lady Broome saw in Philip a threat to her absolute authority over Torquil; perhaps feared that he would support Torquil in his burning wish to break away from her rule. That he had given her no reason to suspect him of any such subversive ambition probably weighed with her not at alclass="underline" he could not do right in her eyes.
She said that she deprecated his influence: the truth was, Kate thought, that she was jealous of Torquil’s affection for his cousin, for what little influence Philip possessed over him was good; and bitterly resented Philip’s tacit refusal to allow her to reduce him to the position of a mere guest at Staplewood, dependent on formal invitations for his visits. He came when he chose: it could never be too often for Sir Timothy. Pennymore had told Kate that Sir Timothy became quite like his old self when Mr Philip was at Staplewood; and this, she guessed, was another cause of Lady Broome’s resentment. She could perceive how galling it must be for her aunt to see Sir Timothy’s eyes brighten when Philip came into the room; to know, as she surely must, that Philip was much dearer to him than was his son; and to be powerless to bring about an alienation between them. That, Kate thought, was at the root of the trouble: Lady Broome wanted always to be in command of every person at Staplewood, and of every situation that might arise; but she had not been able to command that situation. Nor had she been able to kill Torquil’s affection for Philip: he had only to come face to face with him to see in him, not an enemy, but the indulgent big cousin of his childhood. And Philip she could not command at all, having neither power nor influence over him. He was quite civil to her, never seeking to interfere with her arrangements, but he went his own way, perfectly at home at Staplewood. This might have been expected to have made his visits more acceptable to her, for she was not obliged to entertain him, and he made no demands on her. In fact, it was an added offence: she called it “behaving as though Staplewood belonged to him’. Really, Kate thought, when it came to imputing evil there wasn’t a penny to choose between them: neither could see good in the other.
Her reflections were interrupted at this point by the timid tap on the door which heralded Ellen’s entrance, and they were not resumed, Ellen bringing messages which banished all but domestic matters from her mind. The chef wished to know when it would be convenient to her to issue her orders for the day; and Mrs Thorne would be glad if she could spare a moment to have a word with her.
Entering the breakfast-parlour half an hour later, she was surprised to find only Philip there, lingering over his coffee, and reading an article in the Monthly Magazine. He cast this aside when she came in, and got up, advancing towards her with his hands held out. “Good morning, my sweet!” he said lovingly. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He possessed himself of her hands, and kissed them. “I wish you will tell me how you contrive to look more beautiful every time I see you?”
She blushed, raising shyly smiling eyes to his face. “Oh, Philip, you—you palaverer! I don’t!”
“But you do! I think myself pretty ill-used, I can tell you: very unkind of you, when you know I daren’t kiss you!” He moved to the table, to pull her chair out. “Come and sit down!” He pushed the chair in again as she did so, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head, at which precise moment Pennymore came in, bearing a teapot, and a dish of hot scones.
Not by so much as a blink of the eyelids did he betray that he had observed Mr Philip Broome’s improper conduct, but Kate was almost overcome by confusion, and, as soon as Pennymore had withdrawn, took her betrothed severely to task.
He had gone back to his own seat, on the other side of the table, but he was quite impenitent. “Bless you, my pretty widgeon, we’ve nothing to fear from old Pennymore!” he said.
“What if it hadn’t been Pennymore, but James, or William?” she demanded. “Or the doctor? Or Torquil? A pretty scrape we should have been in!”
“Stop scolding, archwife! Delabole was finishing his breakfast when I started to eat mine; and Torquil—having, according to Delabole’s account, passed a disturbed night finds himself very languid this morning. I imagine that Delabole laced his lemonade, last night, with whatever drug it is that he uses to keep him quiet. He became drowsy, after drinking it; yawning, and complaining that he couldn’t keep his eyes open—for which, I assure you, I was profoundly thankful! I had the devil of a time with him, you know. I think the full moon excites him: he was quite determined to go down to the lake. The only thing to do was to try whether I could tire him out.”
She asked in quick alarm: “Was he violent? I thought he was in—in one of his distempered freaks, before he went down to dinner, but then he seemed to recover, and I did hope—But when Dr Delabole came into the drawing-room, I saw his eyes change—you know how they do?”