Sweet's Folly

by Fiona Hill

  “What a pity you walked over today!” she said. “I was meaning to come to you, and should have had an easier time of it on High-Stepper.” She sat by Honor and took her cold hands in warm ones, chafing the frost out of them.

  “It was not so difficult,” said Honor. “It is hardly even winter yet, and I rather enjoyed the exertion.” Her pretty cheeks glowed like apples, as if to bear witness to this.

  “Honor dear, say you will sit for me some time again; I should like so much to do a sketch of you in charcoal. Will you?”

  Miss Newcombe agreed, but it was evident she was distracted. “Is anything the matter?” Emily resumed. “You seem quite distant.”

  “No—it is … may we go to your sitting-room to talk, please? I must speak with you, dearest, and I should hate to be interrupted.”

  Miss Blackwood, though curious to know what troubled her friend, delayed her questions prudently until they had reached the shelter of her own snug parlour upstairs. “What is it?” she then said. “You know you may tell me.”

  “O, Em, it is all so dreadful, I don’t know where to begin,” Honoria almost wailed. She gazed sadly at her friend for a moment and then went on, trying to smile, “I suppose I might begin by telling you there is a smudge on your cheek—just there, all the way to your chin,” she said, indicating it.

  Emily borrowed Honor’s handkerchief (she never had one about her) and rubbed off the offending mark. “There. Is it all better now?” she asked, and smiled.

  “O my dear, I know you cannot know this, but it is not an amusing matter at all,” Miss Newcombe replied. Slowly but with great accuracy, she poured out the whole story of last night—how Mr. Kemp had offered for her, and she had refused; how she guessed her aunts to be in hopeless straits; how brave they were about it and how desperately she desired to help them.

  “Are you quite sure?” Emily asked, when she had done. “It is not possible you misunderstood what you overheard, is it? A great deal of mischief can be done when one eavesdrops, and not only to the persons one listens to.”

  Honor shook her head firmly. “I could die of shame,” she said. “And when Aunt Prudence said, ‘Even if we got rid—’ I am almost absolutely certain she finished with my name! I must be a terrible burden to them.”

  “Is it not possible she meant to refer to the dogs and cats?” Emily suggested sensibly.

  “Out of the question,” said Honor; “because the next thing she was saying was about Squire Kemp, and Claude’s offers, and so it must have been me she was thinking of!”

  “But don’t you think your aunts would give up the animals before they’d think of parting with you?”

  Honoria shook her head miserably. “They are almost no expense, I know. Mr. Morley, the butcher, gives us all his scraps for nothing and the neighbours do too, and there is always more than enough; I know, because I feed them. It is I, Emily, I who has been the expense! I with my books and my dresses, the fire that is always lit in my room even when I do not want it, and of course they must light fires for themselves then to keep me from knowing that they do it only for me. Emily, I have been a beast, a wretched, selfish creature, and I will not let it go on any longer!” She spoke this last with marked resolution.

  “What can you do?” Emily asked doubtfully.

  “Well, I have been thinking and I believe—Emily dear, don’t laugh, please—but do you think I could become a governess?”

  But Emily laughed in spite of her request. “My dear, what on earth would you teach? Why you’ve had no proper training yourself. I mean, I know you can read and play and so forth, but no parent would entrust a child to a girl who had had no formal training at all.”

  “Not even a very young child, who only needed to know a very little?” Honoria returned dubiously.

  “I am afraid not,” came the gentle reply. “Besides, you are quite young, and your birth makes such a position almost unthinkable, anyway.”

  “I am seventeen,” Honoria said with dignity, “and I needn’t tell them about my birth—”

  “I’m sorry,” Emily repeated, shaking her head firmly. “But don’t despair, my dearest; I have a thought—” She broke off and sat silent for some moments, frowning with concentration. “Yes, I shall tell you,” she went on decisively. “I hadn’t meant to, but this is—this requires it, I think. Honor, I have been keeping a secret even from you. Don’t be angry; I felt I must, for it was too important.”

  Honoria waited breathlessly.

  “Honor, do you recall I told you once of an annual competition sponsored by an academy of painting in London?”

  “Yes, I believe so—”

  “Well, this year I entered it,” she said flatly.

  “Did you!” Honoria fairly gasped. Recovering herself in an instant she added, “I am certain you’ll win.”

  “Yes, I hope so,” Miss Blackwood replied, with neither false modesty nor undue pride. “Of course, you see it had to be a secret for my father is—well, you know his feelings regarding my interest in painting.”

  Honor nodded; this was a familiar problem, much discussed between them.

  “And then I could not use a picture they had seen, or they should miss it.”

  “No, of course not,” the younger girl agreed.

  “And so it had to be done in secret and concealed, and sending it off was no easy matter either.”

  “But what picture was it?” Honoria asked, fascinated with this news.

  Miss Blackwood replied now with a shyness, almost an embarrassment, that was very unlike her. “It was of you,” she confessed in a whisper. “That’s why I asked you to sit for me again: I should like to do another to keep for myself.”

  “But you only did sketches of me!” Honor objected. “I saw them myself—in fact, I have some at home.”

  “I painted it from the sketches,” Emily admitted, again with an air almost of shame.

  “O, Emily! I think you were abominable not to tell me,” Honoria cried, without conviction, “but how perfectly wonderful and clever of you. O, I am certain, certain, certain you will win,” she repeated.

  “Well, here is why I mention it,” the elder went on in tones more usual with her. “If I do win—and I shall know before April—if I do win, I shall give you the prize money and”—her cheeks went crimson at this—“see if they will not pay me the tuition money as well. One wins an education, you see; they pay a sort of scholarship to the academy.”

  Miss Newcombe sat in wide-eyed silence for some time. At last she answered: “Emily, you were meaning to go to London and study, were you not?”

  “I—well, my father would never permit it, of course, so—I shouldn’t say exactly, ‘I was meaning’—that is,” she paused in some confusion.

  “O, but you were, you were,” Honor asserted, almost angrily. “Why, you perfect—you perfect idiot of a friend! Emily,” she cried. “As if I should ever destroy your plans in such a way. Emily!”

  And all of a sudden, the two young women were embracing each other and weeping plentifully on one another’s shoulder, Honoria, because the magnanimity of her friend had touched her deeply; Emily, because her chagrin at having her sacrifice refused was exceeded only by her relief. In any case, there was Honor’s new plight still to be considered, and they shed many tears (and were much comforted by it) before the discussion continued. At length, however, Miss Newcombe dried her friend’s eyes with the charcoal-smudged handkerchief, and dabbed at her own. “I did think,” she said slowly, while both women took deep breaths to calm themselves again, “I did think of one other plan, which may perhaps succeed.”

  Miss Blackwood was all attention.

  “I am resolved—if we can think of nothing better—to accept the first offer of marriage I receive. No matter who it is.” She spoke these words with an unwilling pathos that was almost noble.

  “Honor! What if it is Claude again?”

  “No matter. I will marry him.”

  “You mustn’t. O, you must not,” the older
girl objected strongly. “No, you simply must not. Sooner take my prize money, Honor. Really, much sooner.” No hint of her former embarrassment now lingered in her voice, only energy and strong good sense. “If I win, it is still excessively unlikely that I shall contrive to attend, and the prize money itself is of no use to me. Even if I could go,” she continued, “I shall still have a long and happy life without it. But for you to marry a man you could not love—and for money—O, a lifetime of unhappiness, Honor! Really, do not speak so.”

  “My dear, you talk as if Claude were some sort of wild animal,” the other objected, with a little smile. “He has faults, of course, but at base he is—” she hesitated.

  “Base,” Emily interrupted, with the baldest cynicism. “You know and I know he is impossible to love—conceited, cocksure, always pressing in where he is not wanted. I do not like him at all, Honoria, I never have. There is something sinister about him. I have always said so.”

  “Well, please not to say so any longer,” said Honoria, on a note somewhere between anger and a pitiful pleading. “I may be obliged to become his wife.”

  “There is a better scheme somewhere, I am sure of it,” Emily muttered. “There must be a much better scheme. Let me ring for some tea and we shall think of it. But as for marrying Claude—out of the question. I should never speak to either of you again.”

  With this slightly exaggerated prophecy, Emily pulled the bell-cord and terminated their discussion for some while. They talked of minor matters and then lapsed awhile into silence, sipping their tea thoughtfully and hardly tasting their cakes. When at last they returned to the matter at hand, it was Miss Blackwood who spoke, and she did so in the slow and measured manner of one who presents a project of whose wisdom she is unsure.

  “My brother,” she said, looking out of the window onto the frosty landscape, “has always been fond of you, I think. How would you like to marry him, Honoria? Now, think of it carefully and tell me the truth. It won’t do to have you making sacrifices where none is needed.”

  “Alexander?” her friend responded, in a tone that made it clear the thought had never crossed her mind. “But, Emily, if he is fond of me it is certainly not—that is, we have been acquainted so long! It is difficult to think of him—not but what he is very kind, of course—but it is difficult to think of him as—” Her voice faded and she sat thinking quietly. “I should be very glad to marry him,” she resumed at last, “were he ever to offer for me.”

  “You are positive?” Miss Blackwood asked.

  A moment passed. “Quite positive,” she said, without smiling.

  “Then he will offer for you.”

  “My dear Emily, don’t you think such a promise will prove—a trifle difficult to ensure?”

  “I see no reason why,” said the older girl.

  “But—well, setting aside Alexander himself, there are your father’s feelings to consider—”

  “My father will be delighted,” Miss Blackwood broke in. “I have long been aware he encourages your visits partly in hopes that you might indeed become Alex’s wife.”

  Miss Newcombe was surprised, and could not conceal a small smile of pleasure. “Does he know I am without a dowry?” she inquired.

  “I am sure he guesses as much. It is not money that interests him here; he can provide that. It is your position that attracts him, Honor. Very frankly, he might perhaps have preferred to see my brother marry a woman with both rank and resources, but Alex has been rather backward socially—”

  “To say the least of it,” Honoria agreed.

  “—and I expect my father will be very glad to see him wed you.”

  Honoria took in this information and mused over it awhile. “That is all very well,” she said at last, “but it still leaves Alexander to be dealt with. Are you quite certain he will be—amenable?”

  Emily took her friend’s hand again, and spoke gently. “Honor, of all things I should like least to offend you; you understand that. But we must be sensible and honest with one another. I think I know my brother better than anyone else in the world knows him, and so you may depend pretty much on my opinion. Alexander is a very good sort of man, very kind-hearted and well-meaning, and glad to help anyone in need. He is intelligent, perhaps brilliant, in his field. Emotionally, however—promise you will never repeat these words—”

  “I promise.”

  “Emotionally, my dear, Alexander is a child. Except for his love of mathematics, my brother is entirely unacquainted with any passion. I do not mean to say he is unfeeling, only that his feelings have never come to him with any force or intensity.” She sighed a little. “I seem to have inherited all the sentiment in the family. But Alex—to Alex, concepts such as loyalty, or courage, or love, or desire, are—are just that: merely concepts. He talks to whoever addresses him, eats what is set in front of him, wears what his valet lays out for him, sleeps when he is tucked into bed. If we set you in front of him, Honor, and tell him to marry you, and make it simple for him to do so, he will marry you, my dear, and it would be far from the worst thing for him. That is why you must decide now, my dear, before he comes to ask you. If you hesitate when he offers it will only confuse him, and make it difficult to get him to ask again.”

  Miss Newcombe heard this at first with disbelief, but as Emily continued she became increasingly persuaded. The older girl spoke with a kind of unwilling conviction, as if these were truths she had once refused to accept, but had had to resign herself to. By the end of the little speech she had been quite convinced of the possibility of Alex’s offering for her; now other considerations presented themselves.

  “If what you say is true,” she answered, “—if Alexander is such a child as all that, then is it not wrong, perhaps, to manipulate him so? He will find himself married to me before he knows what has happened. Suppose he learns to regret it?”

  Miss Blackwood merely smiled. “I see you do not know Alex so well as I do. Honor, imagine to yourself, if you can, a young lady of birth and connection being told to marry my brother. I am speaking of a stranger, who has never met him yet. Imagine her dismay! She is presented with a young man who can hardly look her in the eye, who shrugs as he makes his proposal, who declares his love for her in a few phrases obviously prepared for him by someone else, and only memorized by him, who forgets to kiss her hand when she accepts. Imagine her inevitable distress! He is attractive enough, but untidy; he says what he is supposed to say, but in so absent a manner as to make it all meaningless—my dear! You at least have a partiality for him, and know his good points. At least he has learned to recognize you! Besides,” she continued, in calmer accents, “if Alex could be made to understand your position, I know he would be only too happy to help. It is utterly indifferent to him whom he marries, if he marries at all. He would consent to it as you or I might consent to walk east, though we had thought vaguely of walking west. Now what is it?” she asked, as Honoria appeared to have some further objection.

  “I think that—if you are so certain he will comply, I wish you will indeed explain things to him. Could you? Could you make the circumstances clear, and show him how he can help?”

  “My dear, I understand your scruples, but I assure you it is not necessary—”

  “If you understand my scruples, then say you will try, at least. I should feel dreadful if I thought I had—entrapped him, as it were. Will you try to tell him?”

  Miss Blackwood smiled again. “I will try,” she promised, squeezing her friend’s hand. “And only think how nice! We shall be sisters!”

  “That will be pleasant,” Honor agreed sincerely, “though I am sure I have always loved you as a sister.” After a few more remarks of this kind were exchanged, Honor rose to return to the house in Bench Street. “Emily, don’t be hurt, please,” she said as the two girls descended the staircase, “but I still feel I must accept whatever offer comes first. If Claude Kemp comes to see me again, I shall say yes.”

  Miss Blackwood was about to reply angrily, but Honor
forestalled her.

  “I must, dear. But you needn’t worry overmuch. I believe he means to stop with friends in Wiltshire during the holidays, and then to go back to London again, so he will be gone from the neighbourhood presently, and won’t return for a while. Besides, I refused him so clearly, even he is not likely to speak again.”

  “You underestimate him,” said Emily, in the rather grim tone she reserved for discussions of Claude Kemp. Jepston was summoned; he restored Miss Newcombe’s cloak to her and arranged to have John Coachman drive her back to Pittering Village. The two women embraced and parted. Emily went directly to her brother.

  Colworth Park, which was situated off the same road Miss Newcombe now travelled, but several miles farther along, was at this moment the scene of a different parting. Mr. Claude Kemp, Esquire, having grown suddenly weary of his ancestral home and the society of his venerable father, was about to leave for Wiltshire, where his town friends—a rather foolhardy set of well-heeled bucks—were to gather during Christmastide at the home of one of their number. Young Kemp had been meaning to join them at a somewhat later date, but he had changed his plans unexpectedly on the previous evening and now entered his father’s study to bid him good-by.

  “Refused you again, did she?” the baronet snapped unpleasantly. Sir Proctor Kemp, Bart., was the most powerful man of his district, and had been for some forty-odd years. At sixty-nine he had a full head of white hair, an alarmingly bushy mustache, and a craggy face rutted with deep, severe lines. His body had grown somewhat frail and emaciated, but he still stood a good six feet, and was yet the most fearfully respected man in the area surrounding Pittering. Politically, no one with hopes of advancement dared to cross him; personally, though he was disliked generally, he was on all occasions deferred to. His son was the only man who stood up to him at all, and he only out of conceit, not courage.