Cousin Kate

“Well, give it to me!” said Torquil. “I must shoot that heron!”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Kate impulsively.

“Indeed no!” said Lady Broome. “My son, you know I have the greatest horror of guns! I do beg you won’t start shooting things! What I endured when your father was used to have shooting-parties! I was for ever on the jump, because I cannot accustom myself to sudden bangs, and I have the greatest dread that there will be a fatal accident!”

“Oh, gammon!” said Torquil rudely. He turned his head, as his cousin came into the room, and demanded: “Philip! Is there any danger of a fatal accident, if one goes out shooting?”

Mr Philip Broome, after collectively greeting the assembled company, replied: “Danger to what?”

“People, of course!”

“Well, that depends on the man who is handling the gun. Coffee, if you please, Minerva!”

“Exactly so!” said the doctor. “None at all if that man were Sir Timothy, or yourself, but every danger if that man were a novice!” ,

Torquil reddened angrily. “Is that meant for me? Whose fault is it that I’m a novice?”

“Not mine, my dear boy!”

“No! My mother’s!”

“I am afraid that is true,” confessed Lady Broome. “By the time you were old enough for your father to teach you how to handle a gun, he had been obliged to abandon his shooting. I own I was thankful that I was spared any more shocks to my nerves!”

“That won’t fadge! There was Philip, or any of the keepers!”

“But I don’t recall that you ever, until today, expressed a wish to be taught how to shoot!” she said mildly.

“What if I didn’t? I ought to have been taught!” He sat glowering, and suddenly said: “And, what’s more, I ought to have the key to the gun room! I think Papa is a regular dog-in-the-manger! He can’t shoot himself now, but—”

“You will be silent, Torquil!”

“I won’t! Philip, will you teach me how to shoot?”

“No, certainly not! I once tried to teach you how to carry a gun, without waving it about, and pointing it at anything rather than the ground, and I failed miserably.”

“That was when I was twelve!”

“You will have to hold me excused. Fight it out with your mother!”

“She says she can’t bear the noise! Did you ever hear such balderdash? As though she would be startled by a shot fired down by the lake! I’ve seen a heron there!”

“Have you? What of it?”

“Good God, Philip, unless it’s shot it will have every fish in the water!”

“It’s welcome to them,” said Philip, unmoved. “Nothing but roach and sticklebacks. Your father was never fond of fishing, so he didn’t stock the lake. When I was a youngster I was used to waste hours hopefully casting a line on to it, until my uncle gently broke it to me that there were no trout in it. A severe blow!”

“Then I do trust that the heron’s life may be spared!” said Kate. “I’ve never seen one—only pictures—and I would like to!”

“Well, you will have to get up very early in the morning,” Philip warned her.

“If I can’t shoot it, I can trap it!” said Torquil, his eyes brightening.

“No! Oh, no, no, no!” cried Kate sharply.

“You will do no such thing, Torquil,” said Lady Broome. “I will have no trapping at Staplewood, and I wish to hear no more talk of killing. I trust, Philip, that you spent an agreeable evening, and had a tolerable dinner? You said that Mr Templecombe had invited you to take pot-luck with him, and in my experience that means cold mutton, or hash!”

“True, but I knew I was safe in Gurney’s hands, ma’am. Most of the rooms were under holland covers, and I rather fancy we were waited on by the pantry-boy, but the dinner was excellent. Gurney allowed Lady Templecombe to take the upper servants to London, but when she tried to wrest his cook from him she drew blank.”

“How very selfish of him!”

“Not at all. He gave her leave to engage an expensive French chef for the Season, so she was well satisfied.”

Torquil, who had been sitting in brooding silence, got up abruptly, and left the room. Kate saw her aunt look quickly at the doctor, who said: “I too must beg to be excused, my lady,” and followed Torquil.

“May I know who holds the key to the gun room, Minerva?”

“I do.”

Philip nodded, and began to carve some cold beef. When he had finished breakfast, he went away to visit Sir Timothy, and remained with him for an hour. Meanwhile, Kate tried to continue her discussion with Lady Broome, but found her evasive, and disinclined to take her seriously. When Kate said, in desperation, that under no circumstances would she marry Torquil, she laughed, and replied: “Well, you have told me that twice already, my love!”

“I think you don’t believe me, ma’am. But I am perfectly sincere!”

“Oh, yes, I believe that! You may change your mind.”

“I promise you I shall not. I—I don’t wish to leave you, but don’t you think I had better do so, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t, you foolish child! What a piece of work you do make of it! I begin to regret that I ever mentioned the matter to you: I did so only because I wished to assure you that I shouldn’t oppose the match. Now I must go and talk to Chatburn: you haven’t met him, have you? He is Sir Timothy’s bailiff, and a very worthy man, but aptly named, so you must not be surprised if you don’t see me again this morning!”

Kate was left feeling that she had been annihilated. Lady Broome had made her realize that to flee from Staplewood would be as ungrateful as it would be theatrical, and she was passionately determined to show her aunt that she was neither. She would be obliged to remain at Staplewood until the end of the summer, but she was uneasy. She knew that Torquil liked her; she knew that he was beginning to fancy himself in love with her; but while she had no doubt that he would abandon his suit to her the instant more attractive metal came within his range she doubted her ability to cast a damper on his pretensions without exciting his precarious temper, or causing him to fall into one of his fits of dejection. It was only twenty-four hours since he had announced that he would like to marry her, and she had snubbed him. He had Sung away in a fury, and, although no evil consequences seemed to have resulted, she knew that the effects of his rages on his constitution were dreaded by his mother, and his doctor. She foresaw that it would be difficult to hold him at arm’s length without provoking or wounding him, and tried, quite unavailingly, to think how it could be done.

When Lady Broome had left her, she went out on to the terrace, but a gusty wind soon drove her to the shrubbery, where she walked up and down for some time, before sitting down on one of the benches which had been placed there for Sir Timothy’s convenience. She sat there for twenty minutes, her brain occupied with the problems confronting her, and her fingers plaiting and unplaiting the fringe of her shawl. There was a furrow between her brows, and although her eyes were fixed on her busy hands it was plain that her thoughts were abstracted.

“What troubles you, Cousin Kate?”

She looked up quickly, startled, for she had not heard Mr Philip Broome’s approach. He was standing a little way away, and she had the feeling that he had been there for several minutes, watching her. She exclaimed, with a tolerable assumption of liveliness: “Good God, sir, how you did make me jump! I didn’t hear you.”

He came forward unhurriedly, and sat down on the bench beside her. “I know you didn’t: you were too intent on your work!”

“On my work?” she echoed, bewildered. Her eyes followed the direction of his levelled quizzing-glass, and she flushed, and said, in some confusion: “Oh, my fringe! How absurd! It is one of my bad habits to make plaits, or knots, or pleats when I’m—when my mind is otherwhere!”

“Yes?” he said. “And where was your mind?”

“Oh, in a dozen places at least!” she said lightly.

He was silent for a minute, and began to unplait her fringe. Since he was looking down at it, Kate had the