Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “I thought they were to stay in Pittering!” Mercy objected at once. “Prudence, I would never have lifted a finger to assist you if I had known you meant to send them to—to Secula-Secula, or whatever you said. Where is it? In the East Indies?”

  “No, my dear, I said, ‘in saecula saeculorum.’ It means for ages and ages—forever, that is. We want perpetual care for our friends, you see. In Pittering,” she stipulated.

  “Yes, quite,” said Mercy. She was sorry she had said so much, and retreated again into silence.

  “Now, when the squire arrives, let us be chatting with one of the doggies—”

  “Ragamuffin?” Mercy interrupted hopefully.

  “Ragamuffin, if you like. We will fetch him in here, among all the cats, and illustrate to Sir Proctor what a peaceable kingdom is here, and how worthy of preservation.” Miss Deverell went on to give a number of directives, regarding how Mercy must address the cats, and what to emphasize when speaking of their characters, and so forth and so forth until Mercy was fairly yawning. When a yelp and a persistent scuffle became distinct in the next room, she was glad for the opportunity to break in upon her sister.

  “One of the doggies is distressed,” she said, pointing a fragile finger towards the corridor. “Do you hear him? Excuse me, dear Prue, but I really must investigate this.” She stood and hurried to the door, stepping unerringly over and around the purring cats, and returned a moment later with Fido in tow—or rather, Mercy was in tow, and Fido leading her.

  “Well, what on earth—?” Prudence exclaimed, for Fido appeared quite overwrought.

  “I don’t know. He won’t say.”

  “Let him come to me; I’ll ask him,” Prudence replied. Mercy released the excited mongrel, but instead of trotting obediently to Prudence (his favourite), he leapt from the parlour in a mighty bound and scrambled towards the kitchen. Mary informed her mistresses, some moments later, that he had come tearing through the kitchen and had run pell-mell out the open door, for with the heat, she explained, she could not possibly sit by the fire to cook without opening that portal.

  It was the most extraordinary behaviour. In general, the dogs were aired twice a day; if they had any complaints with that schedule, Prudence observed, she was certain they had never mentioned it to her. Mercy agreed that it was curious, but she was sure Fido would return as soon as could be; after all, where else had he to go? Besides, the squire was due at any moment now, and they really ought to put on their best caps, at least.

  The ladies departed on this mission, and rejoined one another in the parlour presently, where they waited for their guest. The latter, however, did not come at the appointed hour, yet he was always punctual, Mercy reflected aloud; truly it was the most curious day. She was in the middle of observing this for the fourth time when a noise was heard in the corridor and Fido returned, panting with exertion, and still yelping for all he was worth.

  “Fido, hush,” Prudence enjoined him.

  The anxious barks continued.

  “Fido, my dear,” Mercy attempted.

  Nothing silenced him.

  “I think this doggie must go back to the dining-parlour,” Prudence declared. “A certain doggie in Bench Street is behaving very badly.” She took him firmly by the collar and began to drag him to the door, but when they had reached the corridor Fido took the lead and pulled the frail old lady towards the entrance-way.

  “Fido, NOI” Prudence shouted, but to no avail. The beast continued to scramble towards the street-door, whining and yelping, and scratching the carpet a good deal with his paws. “O, for Heaven’s sake,” Miss Deverell exclaimed. “What will Sir Proctor think of such a scene as this?”

  But hardly were her words got out before the dog erupted into such a yowl as had never been heard in Bench Street before; and a fair quantity of yowling had been heard there.

  “Fido, what is it? Is it Sir Proctor?”

  Thunderous barking answered this suggestion.

  “Sir Proctor is here?”

  A terrific growl issued from Fido; he ducked his head down low to the floor, and swung it back and forth.

  “Sir Proctor is not here?” Prudence offered. The mongrel barked.

  “Yes, but we knew that already,” said Mercy, who had been observing this conversation from the parlour door-way. “Prue, do you think he’s forgot today is Wednesday? It hardly seems likely, but—”

  She was interrupted by Fido, who seemed to have gone quite mad, and snarled at her menacingly.

  “Fido!” cried Prudence. “Do you know where Sir Proctor is? Sir Proctor—where is he? Is he coming? Take us to him!” Fido’s excitement had increased with each phrase; at the last, she opened the door and allowed him to spring outside. He did so, but looked back at her as if waiting for her to follow.

  “Excuse me, Mercy. Fido and I must go somewhere.”

  “You haven’t got a bonnet—” Mercy began, but Prudence was already out the door, and in an instant Mercy followed, too. The dog turned down Bench Street and headed away from the village, checking and turning ever and anon to see if his mistresses pursued him. They did, though not at the pace he recommended; clutching their skirts with one hand, and their caps with the other, both good ladies skipped along as swiftly as they could, calling to each other sporadically.

  “I hope he is not taking us to Colworth Park,” Mercy said breathlessly as she caught up to her sister.

  “I cannot imagine it,” the elder replied, and ran a little farther after Fido. They were out of the village by now, and had attained the road that led to Sweet’s Folly, and beyond that to Colworth. Here Fido trotted briskly, yelping encouragements and running back and forth impatiently while he awaited the Misses Deverell. They would run a hundred feet to where he pranced about and stop there to regain their breath while the animal covered another hundred feet; in this manner they proceeded for a quarter of an hour along the dusty road, when all at once Fido veered off and bounded into a field.

  “Fido, if this is some nonsense—” Prudence said threateningly as she reached the place where he had quitted the road. But she saw, as she stopped there gasping for air, that it was no nonsense at all, for there, by a small bridge spanning a rather desiccated stream, lay the squire himself, and his horse beside him.

  It would have been a fine spot for a pic-nic, but it was evident this was not what kept the horse and rider there. An accident, brought on by the imprudent racing of an over-heated horse, had obviously sent horse and rider tumbling. Sir Proctor lay sprawled in an awkward attitude, his right leg at what appeared to be a most inconvenient angle to his body. Thunder looked uncomfortable as well, for a horse does not lie down on his side in the middle of a field as a general rule. Fido ran immediately to Sir Proctor, nuzzling his hand and licking him, and looked up expectantly at his mistresses.

  “Fido!” was all Prudence could say.

  “Sir Proctor!” was all Mercy could say.

  “My good ladies,” the squire interrupted, “if it would not be too much trouble to you, I am in need of some assistance. I am afraid I may have broken my leg—not to mention my horse’s. I desired your friend here to fetch Dr. Blackwood, but he appears not to have understood me.” He spoke with obvious effort, but seemed determined to be courteous to the last. It would have been difficult to decide which was more painful to him: his leg, or the necessity of asking for aid. “I will trouble you, therefore, my dear ma’ams, to despatch someone on that errand.”

  “Sir Proctor!” cried Mercy again, and knelt by his side to comfort him, while Prudence set off in search of a messenger to notify the good doctor of the crisis.

  Epilogue

  Sir Proctor Kemp had indeed broke his leg, and though the Misses Deverell could not keep the invalid in their home, as he had kept Mercy at Colworth Park, they did all they could to nurse him while he remained abed, and fussed over him till he swore he would die of their steadfast solicitude. The accident, he told them, had occurred towards the close of a gallop along the high-
road: all would have been well had it not been for the sudden appearance of a heavily-burdened gig crawling at snail’s pace in the opposite direction. Thunder, probably a little dazed by the heat, had panicked at the sight of it and careered off towards the little bridge where the Deverells found them. The horse had missed the bridge, however, and endeavoured too late to jump across the stream. His hoof had struck a rock near the bank, and down he had come, Sir Proctor with him. The squire had not had time to see the driver of the gig; if he had, he promised he would have murdered him, for he never stopped to see what the fate of the galloping rider had been. No, it was Fido who had discovered him, and Fido who had saved him. Sir Proctor freely admitted it, and admitted too (rather handsomely) that his own folly had been the cause of the accident.

  The kindly sentiments towards animals that the Deverell sisters had for so long been trying to instill in him, were now fixed there by happenstance more powerfully than they ever could have hoped. Fido was a hero, and dogs in general a most estimable breed. It was not long before the squire agreed—after discreet intimations from Prudence—that the animal hospital was an institution badly in need of founding; a little more coaxing convinced him that he was the very man to do it. There was grumbling on his part, of course, but it subsided in time, and Mercy and he presently resumed their habit of playing chess each Wednesday with the greatest mutual pleasure. Prudence’s conscience was at peace now that their small friends had been provided for, though she continued every day to discover some cause or other for complaint and brisk directives. Fido and his colleagues, and their heirs, assigns, et cetera, naturally lived happily ever after.

  The squire’s son, when he finally came to assume his father’s responsibilities and privileges, arrived at that position with a far better character than might have been expected. His temper was never quite even; but he did learn, while in the army, to distinguish assistance from intrusion, and government from tyranny. He never married, though he did indulge for all his days in an abrasive flirtation with Lady Jane Sperling whenever she stopped in Pittering for a visit with the Blackwoods (which was frequently). Her ladyship never married either, but grew to be a formidable doyenne of the ton, and enjoyed herself always very well.

  Miss Emily Blackwood eventually completed her education in London, and returned to Sweet’s Folly, where she never ceased to paint. Her name may be found in foot-notes here and there, wherever English artists of that period are extensively discussed. Her name was not always Miss Blackwood, of course; it altered when she took a husband—but that is another story altogether.

  As for Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Blackwood, they set up very comfortably in Stonebur Cottage. The arrival of little Corinna did nothing but increase their content, though little Charles’s advent forced their removal into more spacious quarters—Sweet’s Folly, to be precise, for Dr. Blackwood passed away about that time, and his wife did not long survive him. The state and duties of motherhood enlarged Honoria’s self-confidence remarkably, even to the point where she was commonly known (in her middle years) for her fierceness regarding the protection of her family. Alexander continued to study, and occasionally to publish, till well into old age. In all, their home became a very placid one, the scene now and then of domestic disputes and domestic joys, and a bastion (if truth be told) of the most flagrant self-satisfaction.

  And since that is, after all, a chief purpose of marriage, who will begrudge it them?

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