by Fiona Hill
“O, I am so relieved!” said she. An instant later, she added, “But did we have an opinion at all, dear Prue? My memory is not what it once was, you know.”
“No, dearest; I don’t believe we did.”
Mercy was much comforted, and smiled tranquilly. “I hoped you would say so, dear Prue, for I made sure I could not recall one. I shall tell Honoria as much, shall I?”
“Yes, of course, dear; do.”
“Honoria, your Aunt Prudence and I have formed no opinion at all whether you should marry Mr. Kemp or not. We do not care one way or the other,” she elaborated, pleased to be able to inform her niece of so much. “I think you might say we were indifferent on the point. Mightn’t you, Prudence?”
“Certainly,” the elder corroborated briefly.
“There, you see?” Mercy went on placidly. “This entire investigation has been to no end whatever.” And, satisfied that she had reached a judicious conclusion, she bent her head to the cat in her lap and nuzzled its soft cheek against her own.
Honoria, fairly reassured that Claude Kemp’s assessment of her as a burden to her guardians was mistaken, mused for a few minutes longer. For a while no sound was heard in the little parlour except the ticking of the grandmother clock (which never told the correct time—unless, as Mercy once pointed out, one cared particularly to know the time in Moscow) and the purring of the cats. Then Honor rose and trimmed the lamps, excusing herself for a moment while she went to fetch a book—a book that had recently arrived from a shop in Tunbridge Wells, and that concerned itself largely with the travels of a certain Mrs. Penstoke in the regions of the Nile. Reading books on foreign lands was Honoria’s chief passion or at least her most intimate delight, for she was very fond of music, but everyone knew that. In her heart she cherished a secret longing to make journeys herself, to visit exotic places, and to explore the wonderful monuments to be found abroad. It was this desire that had made her sigh when Mr. Kemp chanced to mention travel; had he expatiated longer on the subject, she might have been greatly tempted to accept him merely in order to be able to see the Continent. Fortunately, he had not divined this. Honoria spoke to no one of this wish to venture forth from Pittering Village except now and then to one of the cats, not even to Emily Blackwood. Emily was her bosom bow, and though they kept no secrets from one another, Honoria said nothing about this, for the simple reason that she could not think how to tell anyone without conveying the impression that she wished to leave Pittering Village. And that was not true, that was most certainly not true; Honor had no complaint to make against Fate, and if her aunts had seen fit to dwell all their lives in Pittering, why then it was a beautiful village, and most positively the very place she should have chosen to live in herself. To that she would gladly have sworn, and she never doubted it … but to go away! To be abroad and see new things all the time! Even to see London would be more than she expected—or had reason to expect, she reminded herself severely, and redoubled her determination never to say anything to anyone, not even to Emily.
Reading books about distant places was the only indulgence she permitted herself, and she went off to fetch this particular volume with a feeling of agreeable anticipation. Her aunts merely nodded when she excused herself from the parlour, but as she returned down the narrow corridor she heard their voices murmuring in conversation. Ordinarily she would simply have reentered, with no thought for what they might have been discussing, nor fear that they might wish to be private. Mr. Kemp’s impassioned discourse, however, on their impoverished circumstances caused her on this occasion to do something she had never done before, and which was against her nature utterly. Hoping the ragged carpet would deaden the noise of her footsteps, she slowed a little as she approached the parlour door and stood in silence outside it. Ears straining, she listened to her aunts and what she heard, though it was indistinct, altered the course of her life considerably.
“It simply is not enough,” Aunt Prudence was saying firmly. “It isn’t enough at all, and it never will be.”
“Not if we scrimp just a little more?” Mercy suggested in timid tones. “Just a little? I could easily do without my gifts this year, dear, truly I could.”
Honoria’s lips parted slightly as she heard this, an involuntary action that signified a startled disbelief. Christmastide was approaching, and it was an open secret that Aunt Mercy was to receive a new tea set—a set of no great value, indeed, but one she had had her eye on all year, and which would replace the cracked and faded set now in use. She had dropped hints about it for weeks during October, and Honoria knew she now anticipated its arrival with the most delicious sensations imaginable.
“Now, Mercy, you are kind to give it up,” Prudence replied, “but I should not for anything allow you to do so. Besides,” she added, sighing audibly, “it would make no difference, really. I’m sorry dearest; I know you thought it would help.”
“Yes, I did hope it would,” came the answer. Deep in her heart, Mercy was terribly relieved to know she need not make such a sacrifice. “Well, then, what if we let a room to a boarder? Surely that—”
“Boarders! Impossible. Anyway, the extra money would hardly be sufficient.”
“Dear Prue, it does cost a great deal then, doesn’t it?” said Mercy, in tones of wonder. “I had no idea!”
In the corridor, Honoria silently seconded these words, a sinking feeling invading her chest.
“What if we turned off Mary?” Mercy continued, referring to the one servant employed by the Deverells. “We could get a boy to carry the wood, and that sort of thing, and I shouldn’t mind cooking at all, really I shouldn’t,” she insisted pleadingly.
“My dear Mercy, I’m afraid you really have no notion what sort of expense we are up against,” Prudence said, almost despairingly. “Even if we got rid …” and then her voice sank so low that Honor could no longer hear it, try though she would. When it rose again it was on a note of feeble resolution, and Honor only caught the final phrases: “… with Kemp. Yes, with Kemp to help us we could surely do it, but I see no other way. Rather a pity, after all, about Honoria, but … You know Proctor Kemp simply dotes on his son; I’ve always said it was shameful. But what’s done is done. I don’t expect he’ll ask again. Tonight made three times—or was it four?”
“I think … O, yes, I think it was three,” said Mercy, trying to be helpful. “Of course, it may have been four,” she amended, wanting to be just.
“Well, three or four, it makes no matter.” There followed a number of remarks that Honor could not catch, not only because they were spoke softly, but also because her mind was racing so quickly she could hardly listen. Mercy’s sweet tones were clearer.
“Prudence, you do know best, of course, and I’ve no doubt this is a silly question—but did you ask him? Perhaps it will do just to ask him! He may be well-disposed enough towards us to do it. Goodness knows it is his duty as squire to concern himself with the needy … and as magistrate too, in all conscience.”
Honor could almost see her Aunt Prue smiling indulgently as she answered, “Mercy, you have such faith in the goodness of men. I don’t know where you get it, my dear, but in Squire Kemp it is misplaced. In fact, I did once hint at the topic with him, but it was clear he did not wish to understand me. And I’ve known Proctor Kemp since before you were born, my love, and when his mind is set heaven and earth can’t move him.” She paused for a while and sighed again. “No, my dear, the most obstinate man alive, I’m sure. I think Claude’s inherited it,” she added. “Perhaps it’s as well Honoria didn’t marry him, after all.”
“If you say so,” Mercy returned dispiritedly. “Prue, I know I am not much of a thinker, but I will try to puzzle this out, I promise. Who knows? Perhaps I shall come up with something.”
Prudence, though she thought this extremely unlikely, patted her sister’s hand and thanked her very much. At this juncture Honoria felt she must enter, or her aunts would wonder what kept her. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing a little
quick still, but her aunts were both near-sighted and she trusted they would not see the traces of tears on her cheeks.
They were tears of remorse, of keen self-reproach, and of pity. Claude had been right, O, so very right! She thought again and again. Apparently, the Deverells were indeed in dire straits; it seemed, in fact, that they even thought of applying to Squire Kemp for aid! Honoria could not bear it. How distressed they must be—and how blind she had been! Her young heart ached with a host of unhappy sensations, and as the evening passed she was obliged to rally her spirits repeatedly so that she would not burst out into tears. Nothing must be said until she had thought things out alone, nothing decided until she spoke to Emily. Evidently, her aunts did not wish her to know what grave difficulties beset them; if it was their desire that she be ignorant, then ignorant was what she would appear. On this she was resolved already, and the brave front they presented to her touched her all the more because she could say nothing to them about it.
After what seemed like ages, Aunt Prudence arose and announced that it was Mercy’s bed-time. She sent her younger sister up the stairs and went off herself to the little kitchen, to see about Mercy’s hot milk. Honoria rose too and declared her intention to go up to bed, and she kissed both her guardians good night. She always kissed them good night, but tonight she did so with a tenderness and gratitude unknown to her before. The change in her manner was in fact so pronounced that Mercy noticed it, and whispered to Prudence (after Honor had gone, of course) that something appeared to be troubling the dear child. “Perhaps she is sorry about Claude, after all,” she added.
“O no, I don’t think so,” Prudence responded. “Your imagination, dear; no doubt this business of the hospital has set your nerves on edge.”
“That may be so,” Mercy assented. “It is so dismaying, to think of all these sweet dogs and cats with no home to go to after we’ve passed away!”
“Yes, it is,” said Prudence, her tone almost grim. “But we have set our minds to it, after all, and if Kemp won’t help us establish one, then we shall simply be obliged to found it privately. We will find a way, I promise you, dearest. We always have.” She patted her sister gently on the arm and then nudged her again towards the staircase. “Now, on up to bed,” she said briskly. “I shall be there with your milk in the twinkling of an eye.”
Chapter II
Miss Honoria Newcombe, arriving afoot at Sweet’s Folly, was immediately recognized and admitted by the butler, who bid her good morning and continued, “Shall I send for Miss Emily, ma’am?”
“If you please, Jepston,” Honor agreed, allowing him to remove her cloak and advancing some way into the marble-paved entrance hall. Sweet’s Folly, the residence of Dr. Charles and Mrs. Corinna Blackwood, and their children Alexander and Emily, was so called on account of a Mr. Archibald Sweet, who had once owned the property. Mr. Sweet had thought to convert what was then a pleasant country home into a palatial estate, and had engaged architects and labourers to that end. Stone foundations had already been laid when Mr. Sweet’s son suddenly disclosed to him a sheaf of gambling debts amounting to a staggering sum; the workers were immediately turned off, and when Dr. Charles Blackwood bought the house from Sweet, the new walls had risen no farther than six inches from the ground. And there, to this day, they had remained, for though Dr. Blackwood might have liked to own a true manor, his conservatism in matters of finance restrained him. Yet, he did very well, indeed, being the most respected and best-loved physician in the parish, and having moreover increased his fortune considerably by means of shrewd and timely investments on ’Change. His chief goal was to make of his son a gentleman, for Dr. Blackwood had been the son of a green-grocer, and had scraped his way up into gentility with the most strenuous efforts; he was determined that his son should surpass himself in this wise, and should live the life of a true gentleman—which is to say, should not be obliged to work.
This ambition on his father’s part suited the son quite well. Alexander was an intelligent young man of a serious turn of mind. His overriding passion appeared to be geometry, to which study he had devoted his years at Cambridge and his days now at Sweet’s Folly. The usual activities of a country gentleman—riding, hunting, and fishing—did not seem to appeal to him: he spent all his afternoons shut up in his study, poring over formulae and diagrams, and seeking Absolute Truths. Though Dr. Blackwood teased his son for his remarkably sedentary way of life, he was yet secretly pleased with him, and felt that such arcane pursuits were exactly what befitted a young man in his position. Furthermore, Alexander was preparing a scholarly monograph—something to do with the intersection of planes—and this concrete evidence of his offspring’s ability evoked a sensation of satisfaction in his father’s breast that was not very different from pride.
About his daughter Emily’s creations he was less certain. Emily, at the age of eighteen, had already begun to exhibit a dedication to art that was clearly more intense than the amateur’s fancy. In fact, her only recreation (other than a little riding) was her painting and drawing. Moreover, her devotion to this work was equalled by—perhaps even excelled by—her facility for it. At fourteen she had produced portraits of her parents, her brother, and herself that were so undeniably just that the four of them had been hung prominently in the drawing-room. And these were not mere sketches; they were finished oils. At the time, Dr. Blackwood had been simply delighted with Emily’s talent; now he was a little alarmed. A clever girl’s happy success with her brush was one thing; a young woman who asked for nothing but paints and canvas at Christmas was quite another. Had she no fondness for gowns, and ribbons, and bonnets? he demanded of her mother. Had she no interest in meeting, and perhaps marrying, a young gentleman? Did she never inquire of her mother what new way she might dress her hair, or drape her shawl?
She didn’t. Poor Mrs. Blackwood could reply nothing to her husband’s irritable questions but No. No, Emily never showed the least bent for fashion; she had twice begged to be excused from dancing parties in the neighbourhood; it was all Mrs. Blackwood could do to persuade her to dress her hair at all. There was simply no way to pretend matters stood otherwise: Miss Emily cared as much for her art as her brother did for his geometry, and she showed no signs of changing.
Mrs. Blackwood frequently cursed the day she had engaged a drawing instructor for her daughter. However, she did so mildly and in her mind only, for Emily’s paintings were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, and she should not have liked to part with one of them. Besides, Emily was the dearest and sweetest of girls, and pretty enough to present an acceptable appearance without the fussing and primping other young ladies insisted upon; and at least, if she showed no partiality for any of the young men in the neighbourhood, she did have a decided and very wholesome partiality for Honoria Newcombe’s company, which was more than one could say for Alexander. Alexander appeared to have no interests whatever in society, and though he was certainly courteous and perhaps fond of his family, he had not a single friend of either sex. This was a great shame, for Mrs. Blackwood thought, quite wisely, that a young man ought to have friends, and surely that a young man as attractive as Alexander might very well have a tendre for some young lady as well. But Alexander, to her despair, showed as little predilection for fashion and frivolity as his sister, and could not be moved to change his ways.
All the Blackwood family were fond of Honoria. The fact that she was, for all the shabby gentility of her present surroundings, the daughter of a baronet weighed somewhat with Dr. Blackwood; his wife was pleased with her quiet, unaffected manners, and her kindness for Emily; Alexander … well, at least Alexander always remembered to bow when he met her, which was what he did not remember with any number of other persons; and Emily, of course, was her dearest friend. On the occasion of this particular visit, no one was downstairs but Jepston, and so no one saw Honoria when she came in. Jepston, however, took her cloak and begged her kindly to wait in the drawing-room while he went to fetch Miss Blackwood. Honor, gla
d to sit down after her walk—for Sweet’s Folly was at some distance from Pittering Village—proceeded in the direction he indicated and seated herself comfortably in the familiar room. Waiting for her friend, she looked, as she always did, at the wonderful portraits that hung near the mantel, and the skill with which they had been accomplished distracted her a little from the painful, unhappy thoughts that had absorbed her since the previous evening. The Blackwoods were a handsome family in general, all very regularly featured with clear, clean lines and strong constitutions. All were of middle height, fair and wide-browed, with rather broad shoulders and slender waists. Of course, the elder Blackwoods had greyed by the time the portraits were taken, and age pulled a little at Corinna Blackwood’s cheeks, but both were handsome still and glowed with a healthiness that spoke well for the doctor’s skill in his art. What was remarkable in the pictures was not so much that they retraced each family member’s traits precisely, but that in their expressions and their attitudes, Emily had exactly captured the essence of the character of each.
Her mother was shown with embroidery in her hands, a very domestic pose, seated in a cosy red armchair; her eyes, which met the viewer’s, radiated kindliness and warmth, and behind these pleasant qualities a subtle kind of weariness, almost a sadness, which indeed was discernible in her to anyone who knew Mrs. Blackwood well. The doctor’s eyes, on the other hand, had a singular piercing quality: shrewd, observant, and powerfully concentrated. His shoulders were set forward a little, not at all as if stooped, but rather as if to indicate how determinedly he had fought his way through the world, and that he still continued to do so. This quality of fixed resolve was reflected in each of his children’s pictures, too, but neither set of their blue eyes returned the viewer’s gaze. Instead they looked away, Alexander’s in a manner that signified mental absorption, Emily’s with a rather more dreamy quality. Yet, even with that hint of reverie, it was evident that she had inherited her father’s capacity for single-minded pursuit of a goal, and when she greeted Honoria—as she did now, interrupting her friend’s perusal of these artworks—she did so in a clear, strong voice and with a plain, direct address.