Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (18 page)

Ann could not help reflecting, that it was entirely too bad of him, to be presenting himself as estimable, when he had manifestly no desire to be esteemed. But the next moment she absolved him of this, from the recollection that all his care had been indirect in nature; that he had done his best to be misunderstood, and paint himself in opprobrious colors; and that he owed his present good standing entirely to Clive’s unsolicited defense. Indeed, he could scarcely have shown more ingenuity in framing his words and deeds for misconstruction, had he been a dramatist intent on seeing the complexity of his plot preserved until the last scene.

It was at this point that Ann was visited by a revulsion of feeling against Mr. Lenox; or at least, against his behavior. It had been gradually increasing as she listened, though with but half an ear, to her friends’ flow of praise; now, abruptly, it culminated in an almost violent resolution, that his nonsensical, apprehension-driven, bush-or-bear resentment must come to an end. If he did not wish to be in the company of the Parrys, he need not; but it was no longer permissible that he should find fault with Julia for acting with simple kindness toward a young man, who had done nothing worse than give her his whole heart and devotion.

Having made her resolve, it did not take Ann long to decide that she herself must be the one to confront Mr. Lenox with the unacceptable nature of his conduct. She could scarcely expect a meeting of this sort to be undertaken by one of the Parrys, who, apart from feeling themselves under obligation to him, were ill-suited to prosecute his crimes against them, from never having acknowledged themselves injured in the first place. And Ann was the readier to brave the gentleman’s displeasure (a thing which, when not emboldened by feelings of vexation, she rather dreaded doing), from the hope that by working to improve matters between him and the Parrys, she might in some measure atone for all the trouble she had brought upon her friends, through one means or another.

**

Ann saw her path mapped out before her very clearly. She would, for once, follow the ways and precepts of her mother: she would be the essence of tact. Subtlety would be bound for a sign on her hand, and a frontlet between her eyes. She would refuse to become embroiled in digressions and excuses. Nothing, nothing at all, should betray her into indignation and hasty speech. She would make her point wittily, discreetly, but allowing him no doubt as to the petty light in which his motives and actions stood revealed; and afterward immediately turning the conversation, as if unaware of having said anything capable of giving offense, she would leave him with no recourse but to mask his anger with civility, until such time as he would have leisure to examine her words in private. Then, of course, he would see their truth, and either be struck to the heart and mend his ways out of genuine contrition, or else his pride, writhing at the imputation of meanness, would dictate a swift adjustment in his behavior. The third alternative, that he might be so gravely offended, as to depart in wrath swearing never again to darken the door of Merrion House, of course presented itself punctually, but finding that Ann would not admit it even for a moment, it soon took itself off. Of the two eligible options, she naturally gave preference to the former, but either was acceptable. She had it all arranged in her head. The very next day was to mark the downfall of his unwarranted reserve, the exposure of his irrational folly.

And so it might have, had they not awakened to a sky the color of ashes, and a rain determined to soak every inch of London until its edges blurred, and every thing became unpleasantly formless, like a grimy sponge left forgotten in the bathwater. All that day this untimely deluge continued, and the next afternoon bringing a slight lightening of the gloom, the Parrys sallied forth between the puddles in search of sunshine, and a bookseller’s. Ann, whose hip had displayed a distinct antipathy for damp weather since her fall, chose to remain at Merrion House, and thus was there to be found in the drawing-room, wound in shawls before a fire, when Mr. Lenox came to call.

Her first impulse, when apprised of his coming, was to use the absence of the Parrys as a justification, and excuse herself, for she was comfortably situated, and really did not wish for company--or at least, not such a troublesome form of it; her second was, that this was an opportunity to speak with him privately, a mollia tempora which she was not likely to meet with again, and it would be foolish of her indeed to dismiss it. Thus torn between the urgings of comfort and duty, she gave herself no time to listen to either, but hastily instructed the servant to show him in, before comfort could manage to set up such a howl against duty, as to quite drown its voice. She was then thrown into a frenzy of preparation, and tried at one and the same time to collect the papers and magazines strewn about her, and unwind her person from the accumulated shawls, with the result, that she accomplished neither very well, and hearing steps at the door, sprang up from the sofa, to discover that she was still a good deal more entangled than she had thought. Being a trifle stiff from sitting so long, she overbalanced at once, and with a small shriek, was about to stretch her length on the carpet, when Mr. Lenox entered the room.

“I seem destined to catch the ladies of this household,” said he, righting her; and with the assistance of the servant, soon had her unswaddled without further outrage to her dignity.

The shawls having been borne away in disgrace, she resumed her seat with face aflame, and her wits tossed in all directions; but remembering her determination to let nothing deflect her from her purpose, she put away all thought of postponement, and whilst affecting to listen to his reason for calling--which was, to deliver, on behalf of his mother, a request for the Parrys and herself to dine with them the next evening--she was instead using the time, to straighten up her thoughts into some sort of order, that she might select just the right note, on which to begin her admonitions. She did not strike it at once, but took the time to thank him for the invitation, and explain that she was sure the Parrys would be delighted to accept, obligations always permitting
etc.
etc., in a manner she flattered herself was quite calm and unhurried, and gave no indication of the fright she had just sustained, at the discovery that she had no idea just when the Parrys had left, or when they were expected back. She thought they had not been gone long--and never, within memory, had Mr. Parry been extracted from a bookseller’s in under an hour--but still, she could not be sure; and so it was with a slightly feverish third eye on the clock, that she began to nudge the conversation around to the dialogue she had prepared. She was helped by the fact that Mr. Lenox, having dispensed his message, seemed in no urgency to depart, but having learned of the Parrys’ expedition, sat talking, mainly of books, thus enabling her to bring the conversation about to the desired point quite naturally.

She had settled in favor of example rather than more direct reproof, and had therefore selected a number of episodes, from fiction and from life, illustrative of the foolishness of unreasonable behavior, with particular attention to that form of it, which sees nothing wrong in visiting resentment upon those, innocent and even ignorant of the offense, to which they owe their drubbing. To this end, she had decided to reference (as well as Hamlet, Manfred and suchlike) the history, which had come to her knowledge, of a young man of good family, who, upon being refused by the lady of his choice, became so peevish with all the world, that his servants grew reluctant to perform their ordinary duties, from the habit he had acquired, of suddenly taking it into his head to rail at them for merely doing those things he had beforehand instructed them to do, and hurling things at them in a manner injurious to mental tranquility. This shocking behavior happily came to an end, upon his valet’s breaking his leg through one of these fits of temper; and having been forced to tie his own cravats, and squeeze into his coats and boots with only the awkward assistance of a hastily acquired and understandably skittish replacement for several weeks, he at last came to the conclusion, that pretty girls were as common as field mice, but the goodwill of a competent valet was not to be trifled with. Upon which realization he went and earnestly begged the man’s pardon, vowing to double his wages, and never behave in such a silly, violent manner again, if only the man would return to his service; and as far as I know, he has remained faithful to his vow, and lives peacefully, though singly, as a respected magistrate in _____shire.

Ann a little lost sight of her design in relating this last example, which she found herself doing, it must be confessed, more with the intent to amuse, than to enlighten; for, though perfectly true, it could not be denied that the account contained elements more farcical than didactic. She had any number of arrows to loose off, however, and far from being concerned at one or two going astray, looked upon these first as mere practice shots. Of the resistance of her target, she had no doubt, armored as he was in his own conceit; and she had taken the trouble of amassing such a quiverful, precisely because she confided in the sheer volume of missiles, to discover that one effectual chink which must bring down his self-assurance. She was hastily preparing her bow for the next assault, when her mark, who had been smiling rather quizzically over her Fieldingesque tale, deliberately caught her eye, and said,

“Miss Northcott, pardon me if I err, but I cannot escape the suspicion that there is a ‘thou art the man’ lurking for me somewhere in your speech. God knows I do not pretend to perfection, but I solemnly swear to you that I have never, even under the influence of unrequited love, kicked my valet down a staircase.”

Miss Northcott’s blush, which had been quietly fading away under the ministrations of time and distraction, flared to bonfire dimensions once again, as she stared in consternation at her caller, while her thoughts ran in indignant, exclamatory phrases: “This was not at all what she had arranged! She had made no provision for a reprisal of this sort! She might have known, that he could not bear ever to do or say what was expected of him! And how dared he take note of her slender,
subtle
darts, as if they had been so many brickbats flung at his head?”

“Yes,” retorted she, aloud, having worked herself up to a pitch of heated resentment in remarkably short order, and hardly knowing what she said, “I mean, no--but you do the Parrys! At least, you do not kick them downstairs, precisely, but you treat them as that man did his servants, by being vexed with them for what they cannot help!”

He was silent, no doubt from surprise at this attack from one who had been speaking to him in anecdotes mere moments before; but thinking she discerned in his expression, some instantaneous denial or dismissal of her words, she rushed on before he could speak his repudiation:

“You do! You do! You are angry with Julia for being kind to your brother, and she cannot help it--indeed she cannot! And why should she? She is kind--the kindest person I know--except perhaps for Kitty, or Lady Frances--but that is beside the point--and you behave to her as if she had done something wicked in smiling at him, and letting him trample all over her with his big, stupid feet! I have seen her poor toes quite bruised and painful from it next morning, and she would not say a word against him, or deny him next time he asked, though she had lords of every description waiting for her dances, and all he really wished to do was stand and talk about you the whole time, in that indigestible hash-up he thinks is English, so that all one can do is catch hold of every tenth word and try to piece together the meaning before a response is required! I know it is disagreeable to you that he is in love with her, but, Mr. Lenox, you are not your brother’s keeper! He is his own master, however poor, and a man’s heart is at the disposal of no one but himself: how, then, can you expect that he should consult your preferences before doing so? And how can you justify your resentment that he did not? Julia did not ask for his heart--she does not
want
it--but having been given it, she is handling it as carefully as she can. I suppose you would not have her toss it aside with open disdain, like a spoiled child with a gift it has no use for?--Or perhaps you would; perhaps that is what you mean by your stand-off, stiff-faced ways, taking offense at her smiles, and condemning her with your looks. But it is you--it is you--who are--wicked--to do it.” She ended on a gasp, having run short of breath, words and temerity at roughly the same moment.

Mr. Lenox listened to this tirade, with a countenance which had inspired Ann to use the term “stiff-faced,” when casting around for an appropriate epithet to bestow on him. Of his other reactions she could not be sure, from her own agitation; she thought he might be rather pale; he certainly had not
gained
any color, which she would have judged a hopeful sign, as arising from shame; she wondered if he might be livid with fury, and was rather expecting every second to have demonstrated on her the fierce tone, the condemnatory phrases that had so shaken Clive that day in the park. Nothing of the sort, however, took place; he continued immobile. Waiting in dreadful suspense, she was struck by the notion, that someone, coming in, would think no more, than that he was considering a matter very thoroughly, before giving an answer, which she was politely awaiting.

At length--perhaps it was two minutes, perhaps two hours, or two millennia later--he took an audible breath, and raised his eyes. Though Ann had just been thinking to herself that any speech would be preferable to his silence, she at once changed her mind, and frantically cued a number of articles, verbs and adjectives which, being unprepared, tumbled forth in considerable disorder, faltered, tripped, and came to rest in an unintelligible heap between them. He paused, and gave her space for an effort at revival; but wisdom had belatedly come to Ann, and she refused to have any more to do with her inglorious attempt to alleviate his wrath; seeing which, he dismissed it with a quick motion of his hand, and said,

“Forgive me. To confront someone with fault is a hard thing, and I have made it no easier for you. May it be your comfort, that the endless seconds of my apparent dullness were spent grasping, and then acknowledging the truth of your charge. Miss Parry is everything that you have said; and in blaming her, and more, in letting her see that I did, I have been guilty of so many offenses against both charity and courtesy, that I am at a loss as to why this rebuke has been left so long--and to yourself. Mr. Parry should have ear-led me to the library the first week of our acquaintance; I cannot think why he did not.” Eye and brow made inquiry of Ann, but his every word was so contrary to her expectations, that her thoughts were in utter confusion, and she did not dare essay even the most veteran, hackneyed sentence by way of reply.

After a moment, perhaps mistaking her silence for anger, he continued, “My sole excuse--and I offer it not out of any sense of my deserts, but because self-vindication bows only to self-preservation as the most fundamental instinct of mankind--is that I have been so occupied with the--difficulties of my own situation, that I did not appreciate--Ah, but why should I offer as an excuse, what is after all nothing more than a confession of further egotism? I did not trouble to consider Miss Parry, in any other light than as she affected my own concerns; and there the matter ends.”

Still, Ann did not trust herself to speak; his gaze grew a trifle puzzled, but almost at once he hit upon what must have seemed to him a likely explanation, and asked, “Do you feel that I am making my apologies to the wrong person? But from your vehemence just now it is plain that my folly has caused you no little distress of mind; and I can hardly beg Miss Parry’s forgiveness until she returns. You have said you do not expect them home for several hours. Perhaps tomorrow night--”