by Fiona Hill
“You don’t think—” she said worriedly after he had done so, “you don’t think my father will actually prevent me from turning this opportunity to good account?”
Alexander reflected briefly on his father’s character, a thing he had seldom done before. “I haven’t any idea,” he answered finally.
“O, he could not,” Honoria protested.
“I shouldn’t say that,” Alex returned, looking not quite at her but more through her. “I should think he could very easily.”
“But would he?” Emily insisted.
“Impossible to say,” Alex objected, and then corrected himself immediately, “No, not quite impossible. Certainly he would. Emily, my father has no great interest in your success as an artist, has he? Has he—he has not encouraged you much, has he?”
Emily replied no through compressed lips.
“In that case, you must put the question to him in order to know its answer.” On these words Alexander rose, as if about to quit the parlour.
“Wait!” both Emily and Honor commanded simultaneously.
“Alexander, I must speak with you,” Honoria continued.
“Alex, you must assist me,” Emily said.
“What is this?” asked the party so applied to, raising his eyebrows and opening wide his green eyes. Something out of the common gleamed in these eyes as he added, “I am at your service, of course, ladies, but I know not how I may serve you.”
“Well, you are a thinker,” Emily flung at him. “Think!”
He seated himself again and inclined his head obligingly towards her. “Very well,” he said politely.
“No, Emily, pray do not insist quite so imperiously just now,” Honor remonstrated. “My husband has his work to do today, and oughtn’t to be distracted in this wise. Perhaps the best thing to do will be to sleep on the question. Say nothing to your father this evening; I will discuss the matter with Alexander and call on you tomorrow.”
“Say nothing … O, very well,” Emily said in a disappointed voice. “But I must send my acceptance very soon; the committee expects to hear from me before the end of the week.”
“Yes, yes, you shall know what to say by then,” Honoria assured her, standing and walking to where Emily had tossed her cloak. She returned with it to her friend and bundled her into its folds. “Should you like the carriage to take you back to Sweet’s Folly?” she enquired.
“Am I leaving?” said the other, much surprised.
“Yes, my dear,” Honoria said firmly. “I am afraid you must.” She knew Emily would have liked to stop longer and debate her situation with the only people acquainted with it, but Alexander’s unusual manner made her feel she had more pressing things to attend to. Emily, perceiving that her presence was no longer wanted, tucked her hair into her bonnet and accepted the use of the carriage. In a few moments she was gone.
“My dear Alexander, the scene upon which you happened today—” Honoria began when they were alone.
“Madam, I beg you will not refer to that—that unfortunate accident. I assure you, I understand entirely.”
“But you cannot understand!” Honor cried.
“Entirely,” he repeated. “And really, it does not disturb me in the least.”
“Not disturb you—! But—”
“Madam, ours was a marriage of convenience. Your convenience, and mine too perhaps. In any case I do not choose, and have never chosen, to assert any prerogative that our marriage contract may give me to scrutinise your sentiments, judge your actions, or—or anything,” he ended with a slight flush, for he was thinking of the bed-chamber below them.
“But, my dear Alex, we cannot continue in this fashion,” she protested. She was about to speak again, but he interrupted her.
“Do you find it too uncomfortable already?”
She gazed at him, evidently puzzled. “I am not certain I follow your meaning,” she said.
“It is very simple, really. I ask if our present circumstances are too unpleasant for you to bear. I fully comprehend that my residence in this house may be too—too cumbersome and awkward for you to support. If that is the case, or when it is, you must inform me of it so that some more suitable arrangement may be made.”
“But, Alex, I love you!” she cried in the utmost dismay. “You think you understand me, but you do not understand at all.”
Alexander stood and addressed her more sternly than she had ever seen him do. His face had gone quite white and he held himself rigidly. “Madam, it is utterly unnecessary to go to such lengths to conciliate me. Utterly unnecessary, I tell you! You do not please me at all with such hypocrisy. Our marriage was made without pretence of love, and so it shall remain. To add lies and deceit to it all is too painful to me. Do we understand one another?” he demanded savagely.
Honoria had never heard him speak so, had never seen him look so, had never guessed at all that he was capable of such oratory. Entirely shaken, she responded in the weakest of whispers, “Yes, sir. We understand one another, I think.”
His rage apparently somewhat diminished, he bowed curtly and said, “Very good, then. I shall go to my library now, where you may find me should any household matter require my attention.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“And I think it will be better if we keep separate bed-chambers,” he added deliberately, as he drew near the door. His tone grew less vigorous as he added, “It will be more comfortable for both of us.”
“But where will you sleep?” she asked. Tears spilled from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks while she regarded him.
“There is a couch in the library,” he said quietly. “It will answer for a while at least.”
Honoria had not thought matters could get any worse than they had been on the previous evening, but she was compelled as her husband bowed again and shut the door behind him to conclude that she had erred. The gap between herself and her husband, which last night had been merely a lack of closeness, was now a definite rift, created and confirmed by words between them that could never be retracted. Positive damage had been done to their relationship that seemed to her to be past remedy, past reparation. In all her young life she had not felt so desolately alone, and as she sobbed into her pillow that night—freely, for Alexander was too far from her to hear her—she almost wished to be back in Bench Street, and longed for the comforting nonsense of her dear, dear aunts.
Chapter VIII
The morrow brought no answers. Emily, greeting her sister in the front hall at Sweet’s Folly, looked anxiously at her to discover if Honoria had brought the solution to her dilemma. She saw at once that she had not.
“Nothing at all?” she whispered into her ear as they mounted the staircase to Miss Blackwood’s sitting-room.
“Nothing,” poor Honor confirmed.
“But you did talk it over with Alexander? He had no suggestions?”
“No,” said Honor, and left it at that.
“Then I must simply tell them,” Emily concluded flatly. “I thought as much last night.” As Honoria said nothing, she continued with an offer of tea.
“Please, my dear.” When the soothing liquid had been brought and drunk, and some of Honoria’s calm restored, she was able to address her friend more sympathetically.
“Dear Em,” she began, “I know you must be frightened now. I should not like to be obliged to inform your father of news of so—so explosive a nature.”
“Yes. I am a little frightened,” Emily confessed. “It is very odd, Honor, but do you know, I never felt frightened before? Never once, in my whole life?”
“Never at all?” gasped she, who spent half her days in fear of one thing or another.
“Not since I was a little, little girl. It is a—a terribly distressing sentiment, is it not?”
“O yes,” Honor agreed fervently.
“I don’t—Honor, I do not know what to do!” Emily cried all at once, and instantly began weeping as well. Honoria had seen her friend weep for joy, she had observed
tears of sympathy in her, or of pity, but never had she heard these long-drawn, racking sobs, this dry, desperate, piteous moan! “My poor dear,” she exclaimed, and threw her arms round Emily’s crumpled figure.
“I am terrified,” said Emily, when she could speak at all.
Honor soothed and comforted her as best she could. “This is the worst of it, believe me,” she assured her, speaking from long experience. “The anticipation torments—much more than the actuality.” But on these words the thought of her own situation recurred to her. Suddenly she doubted of what she had said, and began to weep as well.
“Look at the pair of us!” Emily said, with half a smile.
“Ridiculous,” Honor agreed, sniffling. “Come, come, handkerchiefs, please. We must do better than this,” she said resolutely.
“I haven’t got one,” Emily said, laughing in a strangled sort of fashion.
“Never mind, dear; I have.” The young Mrs. Blackwood was forcing herself to be calm. She was more familiar with fear than poor Emily; therefore, she must take the lead now in setting matters straight.
“Now, I promise you,” she said warmly, while wiping the tears from her sister’s cheeks, “you cannot but feel better once it is all over. You will go to your father and tell him outright what it is you have done, and what you wish to do. It is the only thing to do, and believe me, you will feel relieved instantly. No matter what he says,” she added, hoping devoutly this was true.
“Very well. Yes, of course, you are quite in the right of it,” Emily agreed. She paused to blow her nose. “I am dreadfully ashamed of myself,” she continued when she had done so. “Bawling like a brat, that’s what it is. Serves absolutely no purpose.”
“No, naturally it does not. But it is quite understandable,” Honoria assured her. “You needn’t feel ashamed. Only follow the course we have settled upon.”
The interview concluded with many expressions of gratitude on Miss Blackwood’s part, and a comparable number of shrugs from Honoria’s shoulders. Emily was resolved to address her father as soon as he should return from his professional calls. Honoria, though she might have liked to remain at Sweet’s Folly and support her friend through that scene, decided she preferred for her own comfort to visit her aunts in Bench Street. She had not seen them since before their quitting Colworth Park, and missed them now sadly.
Her arrival at their little house interrupted a conference that, like so many others lately, had been something of a trial to Mercy. Prudence would not be quiet about the shelter for their small friends; at breakfast, dinner, tea-time, supper—at every opportunity, and there were many—she insisted on debating and discussing strategy. Just previous to Honor’s knock on the door, the following discussion had taken place.
“Resolved,” Prudence had said, pacing the room as best she could, for so many cats intruded in her path that the exercise could hardly be relaxing, “that the best way to win Squire Kemp’s support is to excite and cultivate in him a fondness for our small friends.”
Mercy, who was trying to ignore the aimless gyrations of her sister as she wandered through the room, and instead turn her attention to her embroidery, said yes.
“Further resolved, that in order to do so, we must bring said squire together with said small friends.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mercy.
“Concluded, that we must invite the squire to Bench Street, where the greatest number of said friends may be seen most easily and in the best light.”
“Is that true?” Mercy inquired wonderingly.
“Yes, yes, it is true,” said Prudence irritably. She was always irritable these days.
“Of course, if you say it is true, I know it must be true,” Mercy said amicably, “though I am certain I should never have—what did you say?—concluded it myself. You are so logical, and I such a chop-logic! I often wonder we should have been born to the same parents. And yet we were; that much is undeniable, is not it?”
“Certainly undeniable.”
“Undeniable and resolved,” said Mercy, with satisfaction. She enjoyed utilising herself what she imagined to be the language of logic her sister had introduced.
“Yes, resolved, my dear,” Prudence said, at last smiling upon her. Mercy’s foolishness had annoyed her more of late than was usual, but she did still love her, for all that. “So let us send a note round to the squire, shall we?”
“Resolved!” Mercy cried enthusiastically.
“And invite him to dine and to play chess with you here.”
“Resolved and concluded!” exclaimed the other, who had begun to like playing chess. “But when, precisely?”
“This afternoon is as good as any other,” said the elder. “I do not imagine our dear squire has many other engagements to prevent his coming.”
“Don’t you?” Mercy enquired, adding stoutly, “Then I shan’t imagine so either.”
“But there is more,” Prudence continued. She smiled rather mysteriously and waited to be asked what she referred to. Mercy continued her embroidery. “There is yet the coup de grâce,” Prudence said, still waiting for the eager inquiry she expected.
“What does coup de grâce signify?”
“It signifies—it signifies the finishing touch,” said Miss Deverell. “It is French.”
“Ah!” cried she, apparently satisfied with this explanation. She returned her concentration to her needle-work.
“Don’t you wish to know what it is?” said Prudence, despairing a little of this attempt to arouse her sister’s curiosity.
“Wish to know what it is?” Mercy repeated blankly. “But I do know. It is a French finishing touch. You just said so yourself, Prue,” she added reproachfully. “My dear, I do believe you may be growing just as forgetful as I told the squire you were.”
“No, no, you don’t see. I mean there is one more stroke in our scheme that you do not know about. A brilliant stroke.”
“Then why do you not tell me?” Mercy asked, feeling a bit hurt at being excluded from her sister’s confidence.
“Well, I will tell you then!” Prudence exclaimed in exasperation.
“There is no need to shout,” Mercy admonished mildly.
“O dear, never mind. It is this. In order to establish the closest of all possible ties between the squire and our small friends, we shall conceal one of said friends—Fido, I think—in his carriage. Then it will appear to Sir Proctor that Fido so liked him that he ran off back to Colworth and hid himself expressly to be close to the squire. Since he will be coming to Bench Street anyhow, we shan’t have to do without Fido for long,” she concluded triumphantly. “What do you think?”
“I think—is Sir Proctor really so foolish as all that?” Mercy asked.
“So foolish as all what?”
“Prue dear, don’t become disagreeable—so foolish as to believe Fido would do such a thing.”
“It is not so difficult to believe.”
“I find it difficult. I am sure I should never conceal myself in Squire Kemp’s carriage merely to further my acquaintance with him. Why should Fido?”
“Because he is a dog!” the other cried, profoundly irritated.
“Prudence! I wish you will not say such things.”
“But it is true,” she insisted.
“Fido would be dreadfully hurt,” said Mercy, shaking her head sadly. “Hurt and offended. Dear Prudence, really you must not abuse him so.”
“But my dear sister, he is a dog.”
“He is a friend,” Mercy said loyally.
“He is a friend who is a dog.”
Mercy looked very sorrowful, indeed. “If you say so,” she answered in a small voice.
Miss Deverell was spared the necessity of replying by Honoria’s arrival, and the discussion was thus brought to a close. Honoria, who had hoped to find some solace in her aunts’ company, instead found them strangely distracted. She stopped but a short while, and returned afterwards to Stonebur Cottage, where she shut herself into the parlour to deliberat
e in solitude.
The result of this meditation was a note, received several hours later, by Mr. Claude Kemp, Esquire, Colworth Park. Boothby handed it in to the young master, and he turned it over thoughtfully before opening it. The hand was unknown to him, though distinctly feminine. Curious, he broke the seal and scanned the letter rapidly.
“Sir,” it read,
“Your yesterday’s call at Stonebur having been distressingly interrupted by so many untoward incidents, and having been curtailed so abruptly, I desire you will do me the honour to call upon me again at your earliest possible convenience. I assure you, dear sir, my conscience will give me no rest until I have had some opportunity of undisturbed discourse with you.
“I am, dear sir, your, etc.,
“H.B.”
Mr. Kemp folded up the letter again, a curious smile on his sharply modelled lips. He was beginning (alas for Honor!) to understand his quarry. Her affection was not to be won by courtesy, nor by a show of wit or talent, nor by humble protestations of esteem. Her regard, he saw at last, was best gained by inspiring in her a sense of guilt. Then she softened; then she was ardent to meet the offended party again! In future he would take care to make her feel at fault whenever he could. The odd smile on his lips broadened.
“Will there be any answer?” Boothby asked, who had stood waiting while the young master so reflected.
“No,” he said at first, for he planned to drive to Stonebur at once. Then, “Yes,” he amended, concluding it would be as well to allow Honoria’s sense of culpability to ferment just a bit longer. He went to a writing desk and scrawled a note saying he should be at Stonebur in several hours. As he was handing it to Boothby, however, he changed his mind one last time. “No,” he said, crumpling the note in his hand. “No. There is no answer.”
“As you like, sir.”
