Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (15 page)
Read Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Online
Authors: Meredith Allady
Poor Mr. Lenox was shortly to discover, that in restoring Kitty, he had done himself a grave disservice. He perceived the danger soon enough, and attempted to ward it off with a pose of gracious indifference, meeting their gratitude with a smile that tolerated the extravagant anxieties of parents, and echoing, as if from mere civility, his brother’s eager inquiries about Kitty’s health. He had not control enough, however, to conceal from them his relief at the good report; and to his further undoing, upon hearing a brief account of how she came to be on the street, his indignation betrayed itself in the flash of an eye, and a darkening of his expression. It was gone the next instant, but the Parrys had seen it, and later efforts to retrieve his slip availed little: he was already confirmed in their minds as a kind, trustworthy man, who felt about things as he ought, and there’s an end on ’t.
Julia must have proved the greatest disappointment to him, for after having been at such pains to persuade her of his unpleasantness, with only a handful of words and a short carriage ride for her sister, all his careful work had come to nothing. That minute pocket of resentment which had resisted both the encomiums of Sir Warrington, and the rather dubious claims of gratitude, was now completely shattered by his act of reluctant knight-errantry. As one of Kitty’s rescuers he had excuses of every description tripping to his defense, and Julia was ready to receive them all, quite unasked. She could not quite deny that his response to her upon their introduction, had been ill-calculated to increase his brother’s delight, had been less than cordial; but as for the motive, to which she had attributed his “reticence”, there was nothing in it at all, and she was ashamed of having given credence to a charge so openly circumstantial. She was only too thankful that her folly in this respect, was known only to Ann.
Ann, however, though trusting that she was no less thankful for Kitty’s recovery, was certainly less willing to thus dismiss all the evidence of her critical faculties. She demurred at the pale toothlessness of “reticence,” and suggested “antagonism” instead: but no, this was considered too strong. Julia had desired a word, signifying a modest departure from courtesy, and she was quite pleased with the one she had chosen: it relegated his moment of ungraciousness to its place of proper insignificance, and rendered all her fanciful deductions from it, “the ridiculous over-bubblings of an outraged conceit.”
Ann’s part in these deductions, of having been the one to propose them in the first place, was forgotten; as was his conversation with her, in which he had to a great degree admitted the motive so unfairly ascribed to him, and without the least trace of shame. When reminded of these circumstances, Julia was rather confused, but then, pushing such disorderly facts aside, she expressed her assurances, one, that dear Ann, in an attempt to cheer her friends, would say anything, without the slightest intent of being taken seriously (which was true); and two, that speech was a medium sadly open to misconstruction, and Mr. Lenox might have meant something entirely different from what they had assumed. Then, lest she be challenged to actually provide an alternate construction, she hurriedly advanced the notion, which had just come to her, of his manner at being introduced to herself arising from shyness; arguing, from Kitty’s example, that an excessive anxiety to please, and a fear of not being able to do so, could manifest itself in an unnatural constraint. “You know what dear Cowper says of those who suffer from bashfulness:
“‘Our sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.’”
At this, Ann merely laughed, and said, that if Julia would claim that for Mr. Lenox, no improbability was beneath her; and she was not going to stay, and watch her friend dismantle a perfectly good intellect, in her desperation to find excuses, for a man who did not even want them.
One thing he might have done, which would have done much toward restoring her unfavorable opinion of him: he might have responded to Kitty’s thanks, as he had to those of her parents. If, when she ventured to come to him, with trembling hand and blushing cheek, and eyes kept raised to his face by only the sternest effort of will, to present her gratitude and her apologies (for the Kitties of this world must always be apologizing for something) in an inextricably tangled murmur--if, I say, he had hardened himself to indifference
then
, and belittled all the torments she had undergone with an indulgently dismissive smile--then might he have retired, complacent in the knowledge that he was established in Julia’s blackbooks forever. There was no one to instruct him in these finer points, however; he was unacquainted with the Robinsons, and no other family was so well-equipped to show him the best way to go about blackening his name to the Parrys; and the result was as anyone might have foreseen. He took Kitty’s hand with all gentleness, and deepened her gratitude immeasurably by accepting it simply and at once, instead of attempting to brush it away as unnecessary, thus forcing her to repeat and urge, what had cost her some struggle even to articulate the first time. In vain, after that, did he excuse himself from their invitations; in vain did he summon up tepid smiles and meager bows, and cultivate an air of having-somewhere-else-to-be. As Ann could have told him, the favor of the Parrys, once bestowed, was not easily dismissed; and Mr. Lenox had neither the disposition, nor the fortitude, to sustain that level of objectionable behavior which would have been necessary to repulse it.
Sir Warrington, of course, never made the slightest difficulty over accepting the hospitality of the Parrys. He was delighted to have earned their gratitude, and at once began carving out his own path on the steps of Merrion House. He joined Lady Frances in grieving that his brother could not be persuaded to come as well, and promised to bend all his energies toward that end. One presumes he did so, and that the combination of Sir Warrington’s superior weight against him on one side, and the Parrys reaching out cordial hands, with a flattering eagerness for his company on the other, was too much for Mr. Lenox. He began to give ground. He came to dinner, and daunted everyone by the dispassionate perfection of his manners, and his likeness to Lady Lenox, until Clive made him laugh over some piece of foolery, and allowed them a reassuring glimpse of the reality that lived and moved and had its being beneath that impeccable demeanor.
Sir Warrington, let it be said for a testimony to the sweetness of his disposition, seemed honestly gratified at having procured his brother’s attendance, and beamed away the whole evening as if he had just been made a duke, or been promised a puppet show. This was the more astonishing, in that it was to be seen that, while Mr. Lenox employed none of the methods by which her ladyship so efficiently checked the enthusiasms of her eldest son, nevertheless he exercised a distinctly dampening influence on Sir Warrington. Not sufficient to snuff him out entirely, just enough to prevent his naturally high-spirits from dominating every conversation around him.
It must be admitted that this discovery caused Ann to look on Mr. Lenox with greater approval. Not that she wished to see Sir Warrington oppressed; but she did wish that his happiness did not so often display the loud, boisterous quality of an indulged child at a nursery tea, who finds hilarity in trifles that his elders find merely tedious, and is continually demanding the attention of every one in the room by his excitable behavior: which, when left to himself, the baronet was rather inclined to do. Upon the advent of his brother, however, Sir Warrington became content just to eat and drink, and talk in moderate tones with his neighbors. In truth, Ann could not determine quite how Mr. Lenox accomplished this, for he never reproved his brother, certainly never finished sentences for him, and the manner in which he addressed him, was as civil as to anyone else. She scrutinized the glances that passed between them, searching for traces of anxiety on the one hand, or warning on the other, but found nothing save those occasional, swift, unspoken messages, which mean so much to those who exchange them, and so little to anyone else. The only obvious signs of their disaffection lay in Sir Warrington’s slight but noticeable hesitancy whenever he addressed his brother by his Christian name (as if he were still unaccustomed to such familiarity, and half expected to be rebuked for it), and in his awkward attempts to please him, by puffing off his accomplishments with as much eagerness and far less subtlety than their mother had done. The cause of fraternal harmony was not noticeably furthered by these attempts, as the only occasions on which Mr. Lenox stirred himself to enter into the baronet’s earnest prattle, were those when he sought to divert him from yet another recital of Scholastic Firsts, and Notable Friends, and Records Triumphantly Broken.
“My brother,” said Mr. Lenox dryly, on one such occasion, “has, I fear, the dangerous habit of believing everything he is told. I have endeavored to break him of it, but, as you may perceive, despite my consummate physical strength, my towering spiritual discernment, and the unsurpassed brilliance of my mind, my efforts have, unaccountably, met with complete failure.”
“Nay!” Sir Warrington protested, not really understanding this, “Oi hav it a’ fra’ Mither!”
“A source,” conceded the other, “of unassailable bias.”
A remark which caused Sir Warrington to look innocently reassured, Clive to ‘cough’ vigorously into his napkin, and Julia to close the evening by urging Ann to agree, that “dearest Edmund” really had much to recommend him.
**
Dearest Edmund made no haste to return the compliment. Incomprehensible as it was to Ann, that first evening spent with the Parrys did not mark his complete surrender to the charm of their society; rather, he continued to bear the marks of a man, who, having survived his first taste of sulfur waters, determines to finished the glass, on the understanding that, however vile, it will do him some obscure good.
Not that he ever openly expressed his distaste for the dose. On the contrary, he downed it with manful fortitude; and if he could not always suppress all traces of discomfort as he did so, these traces were subtle enough, to pass unnoticed by any one not previously aware of his objections. But Ann perceived that though he might keep the distance of the room between them, he could not disguise the way his gaze continually turned toward Sir Warrington, whenever that gentleman obtained the notice of Miss Parry. Kitty might talk with the baronet all she pleased; it was only Julia who aroused in his breast such an apprehension of danger, that he could not dissemble it.
Happy for his brother’s nerves, was the hour when Sir Warrington discovered in Kitty the listener for whom he had all his life been searching. It is a sad fact, that most human creatures, once they reach the age of about five or six, cease to find much gratification in hearing the same thing repeated over and over again. They tend to think, that two, or at the most three, repetitions should suffice, and then a thing is thoroughly known, and the talk should be allowed to pass on to other subjects. Sir Warrington’s mind had retained all the vigor of his youth, and consequently his reputation as a conversationalist had suffered at the hands of those whose mental tenacity had not survived the passage of years. It cannot be said that Kitty was his equal in this respect; but she made up for any lack thereof, with an abundant store of sympathetic patience, which no one had ever yet been able to exhaust. Sir Warrington did not even begin to do so, as his chosen theme happened to be one as near and dear to her heart, as it could possibly have been to his own. He could rhapsodize as long as he liked over Julia, the Lovely, the Delightful, and never doubt of Kitty’s eager attendance on his every word, whether she could distinguish its exact meaning or not. And whenever he paused (as even Sir Warringtons must, on occasion), she was never at a loss, but straightway primed him anew, by relating some act, or speech, or preference of Julia’s, until he could have passed an Examination on the subject with ease.
Of course, even these two, zealots as they were, could not always, every moment be speaking of Julia; sometimes Sir Warrington would refresh himself, by praising his brother for an interval. On these occasions Kitty would smile, and nod, and agree, and privately be very glad, that she had Clive instead. Mr. Lenox was all very well, and she could find no fault with his behavior to herself, but she did not consider that he gave Julia her due measure of admiration.
Ann pointed out, that, as a single gentleman, any attentions he might have paid in that quarter, would instantly have provoked Kitty to disquiet, and that she should, rather, be grateful for his forbearance. Kitty replied, that indeed she was; but at the same time, the marked absence of these worrisome attentions indicated a heart and mind, to all intents and purposes, quite moribund. She could not think so very ill of anyone for long, however, and eventually resolved the matter, by endowing him with a long-standing attachment to an amiable Irish girl. When Ann inquired, why, with this fair colleen a mere packet away, he should be kicking his heels around London, she replied, that as Sir Warrington had insisted on coming to England to find a wife, Mr. Lenox had of course to come and look after him.
Ann had not expected such a sensible reply, and she was silent before its truth--though a truth, not quite of Kitty's intending. Kitty took silence for disbelief, however, and began earnestly to elaborate on her claim. “Sir Warrington,” said she, “has told me, that though he knows very well the kind of young lady he admires, he finds, that when he thinks a thing is good, he is very often wrong, and his brother has to correct him. Once, you see, not long after he was returned to his family, he went to a fair and bought a horse for a great deal of money, and when Mr. Lenox found out about it he was excessively displeased, and showed him all its bad points, and why he had paid too much for it, and made the dealer take it back. Sir Warrington said that although at first the man was angry, and argued, after Mr. Lenox spoke to him he grew quiet and said that he was very sorry for the mistake, and offered to sell it to Sir Warrington for much less than it was worth because of it; but his brother would not let him take it at any price. At first he was upset about this, because it was a such a handsome animal, and he could not see that it was so very bad; but then Mr. Lenox took him to a different part of the fair, to a man he knew, and they chose another horse, just as pretty as the first, and much nicer to ride.”
“And is this,” inquired Ann, “the pattern of how he expects to go about finding a wife? Bringing each young lady to his brother for approval, and then meekly sending her back if she does not receive it?”
Kitty gazed at her in surprise. “If it is, why should you dislike it? Sir Warrington obviously has the highest regard for his brother’s judgement; and one must give Mr. Lenox credit for his readiness to help. It is not easy, you know, always to be having to give the deciding opinion on every issue.”
“But in this case, very convenient,” said Ann to herself; and instead gave Sir Warrington all the credit, of discerning Julia’s worth enough, as to be, for once, willing to go against the pronouncements of his household oracle.
“Your brother is very proud of you, Mr. Lenox,” said she, one evening, having recently passed within hearing of where Kitty and the baronet sat, extolling their siblings, in a corner.
She was thinking of Kitty’s explanations as she spoke, and her feelings may have betrayed themselves in some way, for he said, “Yes, I know,” and then, accepting a cup from her, met her look for a moment, before advising, “You need not refine too much upon it. My brother has a warm and impulsive nature; his affections are easily engaged. In some instances, the commonest acts of courtesy are enough to win his devotion.”
This was said, in a tone so equivocal, that Ann could not discern whether it was a commendation, or a condemnation, or merely a statement; and she was looking after him with a discontent, which caused Julia, coming up, to ask what he had said to her. “From your expression,” said she, “it cannot have been a compliment on your deft manner of pouring coffee.”
Ann told her, adding, “I never speak to Mr. Lenox, except I regret it. I always gain the impression, that he is thinking much more than he is saying, and that were I privy to the things left unsaid, I should not care for them at all.”
“It is the same with me. But I begin to think that he means nothing by it, and it is just his manner.” She ended on a sigh: for having, with what difficulty, persuaded herself that he held the fate of his inheritance in the noblest indifference, it was surely disobliging of him, to maintain a formality, a coolness, toward herself, above that which he maintained toward the rest of the family, and which appeared to be habitual with him. The distinction was a fine one; had she not been watching him closely, Ann did not think she would even have marked it, and she was surprised to discover that Clive had done so as well--until she recalled, that he had always been very quick to note, when one of his sisters was not accorded the careful regard by others, that he had been taught to take himself. His speech was often flippant, his schemes for their protection, too often mismanaged, and wanting in subtlety; but his care was nonetheless real for all that.
He confessed to Ann, that Mr. Lenox puzzled him; and he frowned as he said it, for Clive had no opinion of puzzles. When he was quite small, his uncle Thomas had given him a toy, a brightly painted thing of wood and metal, and his own contrivance. The object of it was very simple--to get it apart. Adults had praised its ingenuity, and Julia and Ann had knelt down beside Clive, and endeavored to show him the best way to go about figuring out how to work it. He had stared at it fixedly whilst they explained and demonstrated, and when they had done, he had picked it up with an air of great determination, and given it a vigorous shaking. When this measure failed to persuade it of the wisdom of becoming less enigmatic, he evidently decided, that it was utterly incorrigible, and immediately lost all interest in it. The next day he carried his clever new toy out to the fish pond in front of the house, and dropped it in under the horrified eyes of his nursemaid.
But one could not very well resolve Mr. Lenox in this fashion.
Ann suppressed a smile at the very thought, and inquired of Clive his reasons for bafflement.
“You cannot have missed his singular habit of looking, very politely, at every body and every thing in a room, other than Julia. What I wish to know is, why does he do it?”
“Perhaps, for the same reason a man generally declines to look at something: because the sight does not please him.”
“And perhaps we are not speaking of Julia, but of some other person entirely.”
At this Ann did smile; and seeing that he was set to worry the matter with tenacity, she thought it better to tell him something of her own conclusions, rather than risk his losing all patience, and “shaking the puzzle” by bluntly demanding an explanation of Mr. Lenox. Though she would have given much to see that gentleman put to the blush, she could not feel that such a course would meet with Julia’s approval, or help matters in the least. She was careful to present her suspicions as beginning and ending with herself, and to present them in the best light possible.
Clive was at first incredulous, then scornful, then indignant; but gradually she was able to persuade him, of its being a tolerably happy explanation, since, had Mr. Lenox’s manner toward Julia sprung, not from concern over his inheritance, but from mere inclination, they could not help but think the worse of him for it. In keeping a jealous eye on the disposal of estates one had been raised to believe one’s own, a man might be thought to have some excuse; in disliking Julia, he could have none at all.
**