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  “Well … but, my dear, if I make him fall in love with me, then I shall be obliged to marry him.”

  “Not at all. After he has founded the hospital, you may break his heart.”

  “Prudence, how unkind—” she said unhappily.

  “Don’t be silly. Breaking a man’s heart is in no wise the same as breaking a woman’s. They don’t feel things the way we do. It will probably spur him on to do something noble afterwards, like enlist in the army, or improve his land. Men are always doing noble things when their hearts are broke. This is no time to become missish, Mercy. I should do it myself, but you are much prettier than I, and know more of coquetry. I never could coquet.”

  “It’s been years since I have!” Mercy pointed out.

  “I have considered that, too. We shall have a few practise sessions here: you will attempt to flirt with me, and I will pretend I am Squire Kemp.”

  Mercy still felt rather uncertain of the wisdom of this plan, and even more so of her ability to carry it off, but her faith in her sister’s logic was overwhelming. If Prudence said it was necessary, then it positively must be necessary. “You could do it,” was all she said. “You are just as pretty as I, I’m sure.”

  “No, I really could not. Besides, once you begin visiting him and so forth, you will need a chaperon, and it is only logical that I should be the chaperon and you the lover, for I am older.”

  “Four years,” Mercy murmured weakly.

  “Older all the same,” she countered. “Well, are we decided? Will you do it? Or, will all our small friends be obliged to suffer for your scruples?”

  Prudence was really rather a bully, but that truth had never once occurred to her sister. She saw in her only an inspired leader, beneficent and brave, and impossible to doubt for long. “I shall,” she said finally. In a more resolved tone, she repeated, “I will.”

  And from that day forth, the house in Bench Street bristled with preparation. All Mercy’s gowns had to be altered, to make them more becoming: lace was added, ribbons looped more fully, necklines lowered, and sleeves shortened ever so slightly. A number of afternoons were devoted to discovering a more fetching coiffure for her long, silvered hair, and Prudence put her on a strict régime of rich foods, to plumpen her up. Every evening a full hour was passed in coquetry lessons, during which Mercy struggled valiantly to smile, simper, and tease as she had in her youth. Frequently she grew faint-hearted, and was once on the point of crying out that such behaviour was ridiculous in a woman of her years, but she realized that this protestation would be sure to hurt Prudence, who was, after all, even older than she. At the end of a fortnight Prudence gave her a final review, a full evening during which Mercy played the role of coquette to the hilt, and pronounced her ready to go into battle. The next step was to discover some means of throwing Kemp and Mercy together, preferably in a romantic setting. After some contemplation of this problem, Prudence (as always) arrived at a plan.

  It was known throughout the neighbourhood that at three o’clock daily, just before his dinner, no matter what the season or the weather, Squire Kemp mounted his horse and rode round the perimeter of Colworth Park. The dimensions of this park were such that part of his round took him right along the road that led to Pittering. It was decided that on a certain day, at exactly quarter past three, Miss Mercy Deverell would be found at the edge of this very road, in a situation of the utmost pathos and distress.

  “You will have been walking,” Prudence dictated, “and will have sprained your ankle most severely. Unable to proceed, yet at a loss for what else to do, you will have sat down to consider. When Kemp appears, you will be in the process of examining your ankle, which you will declare to be very bruised, and moaning O! O! O! in excessively audible tones. Can you do that?”

  “I suppose,” Mercy said dubiously.

  “Try it.”

  Mercy sat upon the ancient Confidante and held her ankle in her hands. “O! My ankle! O! O!” she wailed. A horde of mewing cats instantly rushed to her aid, and a mongrel in the dining parlour began baying.

  “A convincing performance, obviously,” Prudence approved, when some time had been spent reassuring the animals of their mistress’s comfortable health. “When you do it in the road, however, I wish you will remove your boot.”

  “Prudence!”

  “Remove it, and rub your ankle,” she continued firmly. “You have a very neat foot.”

  “Yes, but really, dear—”

  “For our small friends,” the elder stressed.

  “O,” said Mercy in a small, humbled voice. “Indeed.”

  The accident was scheduled for Wednesday of that week, which was two days off. “I really think we might make it Thursday,” Mercy said timidly, when given this news.

  “Why is that, dear?”

  “Thursday is—it is so much more likely a day for accidents,” Mercy replied. “I have always felt that if I were to have an accident, I should like it to fall on a Thursday.”

  “My dear sister, if I did not know you better I should say you were frightened.”

  “O no, Prue, it is not that, but—Wednesday, as you say. It will be Wednesday,” she agreed. Of course, she was in fact as frightened as could be, but it would not do to worry Prue with that.

  The young Blackwoods, meantime, were busy with schemes of their own—or rather, with schemes suggested and contrived for them by Dr. Charles Blackwood, who saw (though he might have preferred not to) that the business of being a husband held not the least interest for his son. He had been expecting Alexander to approach him with a request for money to set up his own household, but no such request had ever come. At about this time, consequently, he sent for the young man and broached the subject himself.

  “Neither your mother nor myself wishes, of course, to see less of you or Honoria,” he explained, in the flat, slightly pompous tones customary in him, “but we understand that a young couple requires more privacy than your apartments here in Sweet’s Folly afford. What you need, Alex, is your own establishment, so that you can learn to know one another properly.”

  He paused. Alex said yes.

  “I’ve been scouting about a little in the neighbourhood, and it seems Stonebur Cottage is available for lease now. Stonebur’s business obliges him to stop in Tunbridge Wells all year round these days, and of course Mrs. Stonebur is with him.”

  Again he paused. Alex said of course.

  “So what do you think, son, eh?” he asked heartily. “Stonebur is not far from here at all—walking distance, indeed; and it’s a snug little place. Not suitable for ever, naturally, but at least until you start a family. Eh? Tell me how it strikes you.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I say, tell me how it strikes you. You and Honor living in Stonebur Cottage for a bit. What do you think?”

  “I think—won’t the Stoneburs be terribly inconvenienced, Father? It’s an awfully small place.”

  “But I tell you they’ve put it up for lease; they don’t live there any more,” said the doctor, with more weariness than annoyance. The whole family had grown used to repeating things for Alexander’s benefit: he had always been absent-minded.

  “O! Well, in that case I’m sure it would be more than large enough for just two people. Mr. and Mrs. Stonebur lived there for years together, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, yes, they did. So shall I go ahead and lease it for you?”

  “Indeed, if you like, Father,” Alexander said amiably, “though I don’t know that you need put yourself to the trouble. I am very comfortable in my rooms here, and I shouldn’t think Honoria had any complaint. She never does; at least, she has not said anything to me—that I remember,” he added, for he himself knew how absent-minded he was.

  “Alexander,” his father began, in a voice rather sterner than before, “you really must try to concern yourself more with being a husband to your wife. The two of you never seem to be together now any more than you were before you married. Except at night, that i
s—though I don’t—er—” Despite his medical training, Dr. Blackwood shied from discussing such a topic with his son. “I don’t understand it,” he went on after a mighty “Harrumph.” “Why did you marry the girl in the first place?”

  “Because she—” Alexander began, and then checked himself suddenly. His father did not know that he had been asked to offer for her, and he had promised (though he knew not why it was necessary) not to tell him. “I like her,” he said, rather feebly.

  “So do I like her, too. And since you like her, you’ll be glad to establish yourself at Stonebur’s, eh?”

  “O yes, glad to. Did I not say so?” Alexander inquired innocently. “I’m sure I meant to.”

  “Yes, yes … well then, it’s settled. You tell Honoria, and your mother and I will begin seeing about furnishings, and servants and so forth.”

  “I tell her—?”

  “Yes, boy, yes!”

  Alexander agreed to do so, though he hardly understood why, and the interview between father and son was concluded. Honoria received the information with mingled emotions.

  “Naturally, it will be pleasant to be mistress of one’s own household,” she told her friend Emily later, “and yet I can’t but think the prospect makes Alexander uncomfortable.”

  “Well, my dear,” Emily replied, “he will be obliged to reconcile himself to being married sooner or later. Hold still an instant,” she added. She was engaged in painting Honoria again, this time an oil that would hang next to the other family portraits in the drawing-room. Mrs. Blackwood had felt it would be appropriate, and had asked her daughter to execute it. “You may speak now,” she said, after a moment.

  “It seems unfair to hurry him, though,” Honor pointed out. “It was not his idea to be married in the first place, remember.”

  “But he is married, and as I told you before, it will do him no harm to learn a bit more about humankind. Frankly, I find his treatment of you most disconcerting as it is; he really could do much better, if he applied himself a little.”

  “He’s very kind to me.”

  “When he remembers you at all,” his sister said severely.

  “Well …” She felt it improper to censure her husband, but it was undeniable. “I suppose so. But one can’t expect Alex to behave—like any other—that is—”

  “To behave like a gentleman, you mean. Why not? Honor, please stop hedging with me. I know you are trying to play the good wife, but it is too exasperating under the circumstances. You have not been candid with me since you were married, and that does no one any good.”

  As she often did, Emily had perceived the truth precisely. Honor considered her words for a moment and was obliged to agree.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “But one cannot expect him to behave like a gentleman because he is—he is not a gentleman. He is—he is a geometrician, that’s what he is.”

  “But he is a man, too.”

  Honor did not appear to be persuaded.

  “Isn’t he?” Emily asked, setting her brush down for a moment. “Honor, he does—well, he is interested in—he kisses you and that sort of thing, does not he?”

  Though she knew it was best to be frank, it was difficult for Honoria to answer this question. She coloured a little and spoke in a very low voice. “He—not precisely.”

  “Precisely, then—?” Emily pursued relentlessly.

  “Precisely, he—well, he kissed me precisely once,” she confessed. “I mean, except for on the hand or cheek, as he would kiss anyone.”

  “Honor!”

  “Well, what on earth could one expect of him?” she demanded. “We knew this was no love-match! It does not trouble me,” she went on proudly. “I know it means nothing—that is, I know it is not a slight, or some such thing.”

  “Yes, but really!” said Emily, whose passionate nature would have made such circumstances intolerable for herself. “O, something must be done about this. I wonder if I ought to speak to Father?”

  Honor cried in horror, “O, do not! Please, I beg you will say nothing to anyone. This is in strictest confidence between us, Emily—pray!”

  “Well—yes, if you insist. But we cannot let things go on so. Perhaps when you are alone in Stonebur Cottage—”

  “But that is just what I am afraid of,” Honor explained. “It will make it so clear that we ought to—it will be dreadfully embarrassing—”

  “I wish I had made you accept my prize money,” Emily said bitterly. “I am absolutely ashamed of my brother.”

  “I wish you will not be. I am really very fond of him,” Honoria insisted. “He is always gentle with me; I know he means no harm. I am sure he would even like to be a good husband, if he knew …” Her voice trailed off into silence.

  “I think you must seduce him,” Emily said flatly.

  “But perhaps he does not care for me! In that way, I mean. I am no great beauty, you know, and only think—!”

  “I am thinking, Honor, which is more than I can say for you. Shouldn’t you like to have babies?”

  “Well, some time, perhaps. Not directly, but—Emily, shall I tell you what I really should like, more than anything?”

  “Please,” she said cordially.

  “What I should really like most of all”—she drew a deep breath—“is to travel a little. At least to go to London!” she said, with a strong rush of emotion, for this secret had never been confided before, and it was a great pleasure to say it at last.

  “Should you?” Emily replied, apparently not the least bit overset, though Honor had expected she would be. “Then, why do not you suggest it to Alex? You ought to have a honeymoon, anyway—perhaps while the cottage is being prepared.”

  “But it would take him away from his work,” Honor sighed. “He would not like it.”

  “We are not consulting his wishes just now, but yours.”

  “Surely his wishes have something to do with it, however.”

  “Something—Honor, my dear, we must simply change his wishes, that is all. Or, could you not beg him to take you away? He will never refuse you, if he sees you truly desire it, and I am certain he will enjoy it once you are abroad.”

  Honoria shook her head stubbornly. “I will not take advantage of him in such a way. If he is to remain partial to me, I must certainly not demand that he do things that seem unpleasant to him. I have thought this out before.”

  Unwillingly, Emily deferred to her new sister’s wishes. “Very well, then—but we are by no means defeated. Now, you be quiet for a bit while I paint your chin, and I will think. I promise you, dearest, we will find a way to make Alexander appreciate you, cherish you, and wish to be alone with you—and especially, a way to induce him to take you abroad. I promise absolutely!”

  Chapter IV

  Wednesday dawned drizzly and overcast. “Just the perfect sort of day,” Prudence remarked bracingly, “to slip and turn one’s ankle.”

  “If you really think so,” her sister murmured doubtfully, “though I hardly see what is romantic in muddied skirts and boots.”

  “You needn’t muddy your skirts,” Prudence objected.

  “I must if I am to sit down and nurse my ankle,” Mercy returned. Her tone was a trifle peevish: she was unused to heroic sacrifices, and did not find them as much to her liking as she had expected. The two old ladies were engaged in taking breakfast together, which they did as always in the tiny breakfast room at the back of the house in Bench Street. “Might I have another cup of tea, please?” she continued, in the same irritable tone. “This toast is terribly dry.”

  Prudence obliged her sister and set about trying to soothe her by summoning up vivid images of the snugness of the future animal haven, and the gratitude of certain small friends to their valiant benefactress. Unhappily, Mercy proved inconsolable, and persisted in whining and hinting darkly at all manner of disaster throughout the morning. She passed well over an hour whispering wounded confidences to her favourite dog, a mongrel named Ragamuffin, and only consented to le
ave Bench Street that afternoon with the deepest expressions of misgiving. “He won’t like it,” she pouted, setting a tiny foot into the carriage that was to convey the ladies down the road towards Colworth Park. The carriage had been borrowed from Mrs. Fielding, who often provided such small services to her eccentric neighbours. “He is too old,” Mercy continued plaintively, “and so am I.”

  “Our small friends,” Prudence reminded her for the hundredth time that week.

  “Yes, yes, our small friends. Well, drive on, Mr. Coachman,” she returned, and the carriage, with a small lurch, began to move. Half an hour later they had arrived at a thicket some three hundred yards from the gates of Colworth, and Prudence gave the command to stop.

  “Mercy dear,” she said, kissing her sister, “you know what to do. You must make all shifts to stop as long as you may with Squire Kemp, and never falter. You are advance guard in our campaign, remember.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mercy’s humour had changed from resentment to wretchedness as the fatal hour approached. “Prue,” she wailed suddenly, her eyes filling with tears, “are you certain you wish me to do this?”

  “Poor Mercy,” her sister said, patting her hand. “But yes, I am afraid so.” The sisters exchanged a few further phrases, relating to how much Mercy should be missed in Bench Street, and how noble her actions were, until at last there was nothing more to say and the younger Miss Deverell was set down on the road. The sight of her trudging off sadly towards Colworth brought tears even to Prudence’s eyes, and she was loth to turn round and go home. Still, it would not do for Kemp to see the carriage, so turn round she did. Mercy, meanwhile, plodded through the thickening mud, reflecting moodily that it would not be difficult to turn one’s ankle today at all.

  “I shan’t look pretty!” she sniffed to herself as a fat raindrop slid from her bonnet-brim to her nose, and continued sliding. “No one could, in all this wet. Squire Kemp must be a fool to ride out in this weather, and a greater fool to believe I’ve any business being here.” A small rock, shiny with rain and mire, appeared in the road before her. Pettishly, she kicked it out of the way, and proceeded to kick every other stone she could find, so that she weaved her way from side to side along the road quite erratically. With each little kick she gave a small, rebellious “Humph,” feeling very put upon and sorry for herself, to the point where she positively enjoyed getting as muddy as possible, and almost hoped she would take a chill besides. When a considerable shower began to fall, she welcomed it. “Prudence should have guessed I could not do this,” she thought, booting a pebble neatly to the roadside. “I told her to make it Thursday; I begged her! She will be well served if I come home in a fever,” she reflected, and this prospect so satisfied her that, perceiving rather a large rock lodged in the mud, she raised her foot with extraordinary energy and kicked it for all she was worth.