Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (23 page)

Any hope Ann might have entertained, of Sir Warrington’s indisposition being of the inconsequential nature implied by Lord Merivale, was at once laid aside by the demeanor of the rest of the gentlemen. When they at last arrived, the Earl wore the half-ashamed, half-cross look of a boy whose “harmless teasing” has gone too far and resulted in his discomfiture, leaving him chiefly annoyed with the one whom he has harmed; St. Bees, Lord N______ and Mr. J_____ looked gravely uncomfortable; and Colonel Nichols, as if he did not know
where
to look. Major Merrion’s features, which nature had cast in rather daunting angles to begin with, were now so marked by anger, that Mrs. J_____ nervously quitted her chair, upon his only coming to stand in the same quarter of the room. Of a Parry, or a Lenox, there was no sign.

The ladies around Lord Merivale were not, perhaps, as pleased as Ann to have their chitter-chatter disturbed. Having put all thought of unpleasantness behind them so successfully, they were not at all happy to see it catching up to them, as it were, with the entrance of those more closely acquainted with it. There was no question that Sir Warrington was to be pitied, but they had done that, generously so: and now, having commended him to the care of his brother, and even released Lady Frances to assist him, they ought surely to be allowed to forget him and his (really, rather tedious) afflictions. As most of the gentlemen were only too pleased to take up this view of the matter, the drawing-room soon presented the appearance of any polite company drinking tea, despite the ill-grace of one or two, who showed a shocking tendency to allow the baronet’s troubles to affect their spirits for longer than it took them to affix a sympathetic adjective to his name.

Ann, as one of these difficult persons, was not long in seeking out Major Merrion, who was the other. He had taken himself and a cup of coffee off to a corner, where he was attempting to recover his temper, without discernible success. His scowl, as Ann advanced, was truly fearsome.

“Dear sir,” said she, “do not frown at me so blackly! It will do you no good, for I am too much consumed with curiosity to be frightened into leaving before you have told me what I wish to know. Moreover, if you will but tell me the cause of your ire, I promise I will think precisely as you do on every point, and gladly join in denigrating the motives and intellect of whomever you care to name.”

“A noble offer!” said he, his expression lightening. “Greater loyalty hath no woman, than to loathe those who irritate her friends.”

Despite these words, he was not easily persuaded to give her an opportunity of demonstrating her loyalty, saying that he could see no profit in repeating a scene, that should never have taken place the first time. But he did not speak with any of his former grimness of manner, or with any great finality, and Ann therefore felt free to tease him as much as she liked on the subject, in the hope that his purpose might come to an end before his patience.

“Very well,” said she. “It shall be as you please. Perhaps you are right, and it is better so. I am now at liberty to imagine every one horridly and completely at fault--Lord Meravon surpassing himself in quarrelsomeness, Mr. Lenox giving way to uncontrolled temper, and Sir Warrington a shuttlecock between them, with yourself and the other gentleman sitting as so many blocks, not lifting a hand to prevent them; whereas, had you told me the truth, I should probably then have had to think well of at least
one
of the parties involved.” Then, as he only smiled in response to this, a closed smile that said he was not to be drawn, she added, “But I
should
like to know (and it is such a little thing, surely you need not scruple to answer it) the subject, over which they at last came to blows.”

“They did not come to blows.”

“No, no, of course they did not. What I meant to say, to ask, was by what means Lord Meravon succeeded in angering Mr. Lenox? He went through such a variety of subjects before we retired, that I cannot think of any one he missed, that might have proved more effectual in provoking a quarrel: unless he can have begun to question the character of the gentleman’s mother? Perhaps he claimed to have once heard the expression ‘I’m fair pitch-kettled’ escape her lips?”

Major Merrion shook his head, tucking down his mouth at the corners in an effort to appear serious.

“No? I thought it could not have been that,” said Ann. “But perhaps, then, he spoke slightingly of Mr. Lenox’s particular young lady?”

“I was not aware that such a person existed.”

“Neither was I, but need our ignorance dictate reality? Kitty, you know, is quite convinced that she does, from his inexplicably declining to fall violently in love with Julia. But if it was not that, I think I must have it--it was a horse that did it, was it not? I daresay someone may have told Lord Meravon of the worthless Curran, and there is nothing that offends a gentleman more than the imputation of his being a poor judge of horseflesh. Come, tell me I am right. Your father began to twit him on Curran’s obvious deficiencies--Mr. Lenox, being unable to deny the charge, sought to establish his argument by ‘noise and command’--and
that
is what has upset Sir Warrington.”

At this Major Merrion began to laugh, and said, “This is too sad. What will you propose next? If you must know, after fruitlessly beating any number of bushes, Father seemed suddenly to recollect that the man was from Ireland, and might conceivably be possessed of strong feelings, one way or the other, concerning the rebellion. Now, what have I said? You look amazed.”

“I am amazed,” she replied; “for I had collected that Mr. Lenox was at University during the whole of it. Nor has he ever seemed to me, to be particularly attached to the land of his birth; and indeed, why should he be, with such a mother to see that he was kept from it as much as possible, from his earliest years? And without a doubt she did away with any homesick thoughts he might have been so foolish as to harbor, by writing long, peevish accounts of all the inconveniences and trials he was being spared by her forethought in sending him away. Oh, but wait! Perhaps his father was killed in it; I seem to recollect some talk of that nature from Lady Thomasin. Certainly, if a man’s father is murdered by peasants during a revolt, he may be excused for a display of feeling at mention of it.”

“The sentiment does you credit. However, the fate of his father, tragic or otherwise, played no role in the conversation.”

Ann, waiting for him to continue, perceived, after a few moments, that he had no intention of doing so, and exclaimed, aghast, “My dear Major, you cannot stop there!”

Major Merrion considered it, and not being a cruel man, saw that he really could not; and with a look that said he was not at all deceived by her artless expression, at last allowed himself to be inveigled into satisfying her curiosity.

No doubt he intended to make his report in a brief and soldierly fashion, but as Ann, by her eagerness and her questions, succeeded in expanding it into a narrative of tolerable length and detail, I will defer it to the next chapter.

**

He began by quizzing Ann concerning her general knowledge of the uprising, and when, after a small hesitation, she brought forth the fatal arrest of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and the anatomical ignorance of the luckless Mr. Tone, he shook his head, and chided her for being little different than the majority of her countrymen, who “take considerably less interest in the affairs of modern Ireland, than those of ancient Egypt.” He then delivered a short lecture on the causes and catalysts of the rebellion, which, as this is not a history in that sense of the word, and also because Ann, having, in fact, no great interest in such a topic, could not have repeated his chief points if requested three days later, I will not attempt to include here, but will go at once to the summation of his lecture, which ran thus, “This was its origin; its continuance was no better. Indeed, it was a grievously ill-conducted business from beginning to end, and one must credit it solely to the kindness of Providence, that General Humbert did not arrive with a good many more ships than he did, to find all of Catholic
Erin
ready to take him up on his offer of assistance in ‘throwing off the English yoke.’ The Castle was indecisive; the landowners hysterical and bloodthirsty by turns; the army untrained, and, if given its head, which it often was, more of a danger to itself and the innocent than the foe; and the rebels themselves by and large a confused, resentful, desperate mob, whom one could easily have pitied, had the viciousness of their conduct not made it impossible. There were exceptions, of course; but you can see that Father had for once found a topic, where he might legitimately deplore nearly every aspect of it, without being accused of mere contentiousness.”

Lenox (he continued) was sensible enough to say nothing, or, when he could not escape doing so, only uttered some mild phrase of agreement. Nor could Major Merrion perceive in him any emotion, other than distaste for the subject, a distaste that was shared by most of those at the table. Lord Meravon, in great disappointment, was losing interest in his latest gambit, when unhappily he chose to end it, with a final denunciation of General Lake.

It was Major Merrion’s opinion, that Colonel Nichols had become rather too intimate with the bottle at his elbow. In any event, whether previously silent from respect for Lord Meravon, or whatever reason, at this he could no longer hold his tongue, and crashed in to reveal, first, that General Lake had been something of a patron to him, and then, that he had had the privilege of implementing that glorious man’s policies in Kildare and Wicklow. A spirited defense of these policies followed, accompanied by animadversions against Sir Ralph Abercromby and General Moore, for their part in “prolonging the rebellion by their soft and delicate treatment of the rebels.”

At this point Major Merrion broke off his account, with an expression of countenance that told Ann he was struggling anew with his indignation, and perhaps devising how he could continue without giving voice to it; upon which suspicion she asked him, wonderingly, what Colonel Nichols could have meant by such accusations? The question proved an admirable lever; she was at once warmly advised that what the colonel had
meant
was to defame honorable men, but that what he had
done
was merely to confirm himself a fool. Major Merrion then went on to declare that this alleged “soft and delicate” treatment had consisted of allowing ignorant, deceived people to return to their homes once they confessed and surrendered their arms; of
not
approving the indiscriminate burning of houses; of--but here he again checked himself, and this time would not continue, except to say that “all Lake had accomplished by his ‘severe examples’ was to make the people so terrified of the government he represented, that they felt they had no choice but to join the rebellion against it, thus extending and spreading the insurrection over at least three more counties, and as many months.” As Major Merrion had briefly served under Sir Ralph’s brother in India, and was also much attached to his present commander, his vehemence on the subject was understandable, and Ann listened attentively to all he wished to say on the matter; after which, having unburdened himself of what he had obviously refrained from saying at the table, for fear of exacerbating the situation, he returned more calmly to his narration:

“Nichols was permitted to spew his opinions about on us for a good deal too long--I believe we all thought that it was Father’s place to stop him, and Father did not--but upon his beginning, in his fervor, to mention rather too particularly the instances in which Lake’s methods had proved effective, Lenox was at last compelled to request of him, that the conversation might be turned, saying that ‘such a subject cannot help but be distressing to anyone who has personally experienced the results of those methods.’ His warning was quite civil, and generally given, but his glance indicated his brother, whom I, and I suspect most others, had completely forgotten. The poor fellow wore a distinctly unhealthy hue, and a face of misery. Nichols cast them both a look of contempt, and said, ‘he was sure he was very sorry, and perhaps the gentleman was of a taste that preferred pitch-caps to triangles’; meaning, it seems (though the division was hardly that arbitrary), that any one who did not relish a report of Lake’s atrocities must have been in sympathy with the rebels. One doubts if Sir Warrington understood this, but the reference was enough to turn him even paler, whereupon Lenox said again, and more sharply, that he would be greatly obliged if some other topic could be introduced.

“’I suppose, sir,’ said Nichols, ignoring this, ‘that even you had rather see a rebel flogged into surrendering his pike, than carrying your head about on it.’

“’Yes,’ replied Lenox; ‘but I should like to be assured that he had not had the thing forged in the first place, just so he might have something to surrender to your inquisitors. But enough of this; I forget myself. Mr. St. Bees, I beg your pardon, but I begin to think it would be wise if I were to see my brother home.’ He then asked that their carriage might be sent for, and began to say polite things about the dinner, and send compliments to Lady Thomasin.

“This was too much like being dismissed, for Nichols to be able to support it, and he broke in to declare loudly, that General Lake had used nothing but ‘approved methods of suppressing rebellion,’ and that he greatly resented any implication to the contrary.

“Lenox would not even look at him, but kept his eyes fixed on poor Uncle St. Bees, who was ringing for a servant with something approaching urgency, and striving to meet the occasion with a few verbal scraps such as ’quite understand,’ ‘deeply regret,’ and ‘only too happy.’ But the colonel is not the man to permit himself to be thus ignored, and after glaring for several minutes to no effect, he finally jumped up, leaned across the table, pounded his fist, and shouted at Lenox, with a total disregard for the accurate apportioning of rank, that ‘if it had not been for General Lake, all you da--ah--doomed Croppie-loving potato baronets would have long since been eaten by pigs in the streets of Dublin.’

“Nichols was so entirely the choleric officer of farce that it should have been amusing--but it was not. Lenox merely gazed at the man as might a
Brahmen
offered the drinking cup of a
Chandala
, but Sir Warrington burst into tears, and rising, knocked back his chair, and ran from the room.”

Once again Major Merrion paused, obviously examining the memory with renewed vexation, though for which aspect of it, Ann was uncertain. She respected his preoccupation for as long as seemed reasonable--that is, about nine or ten seconds--and then wished to know, did he mean to say that Sir Warrington’s chair had been quite overturned? For they had heard nothing of it in the drawing-room, and she would have imagined that such a heavy, solid article, would have made a most tremendous crash.

This query restored his attention to her, and he explained that there had been no crash to hear, as Mr. Lenox, rising at the same instant, had been at hand to catch the chair before it fell--Ann reflected that intercepting objects before they reached the ground seemed to be a habit of his--saying, as he replaced it, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my brother. He helped to cart away the dead after the debacle at New Ross, and I fear it has permanently affected his taste for pork.” Then, turning to Nichols, he had continued, “Pray accept my congratulations. I had never thought to meet an Englishman in these days, to whom the burning of a hospital full of wounded was an ‘approved method of suppressing rebellion.’ I had before supposed that approving the massacre of defenseless men was confined to large-minded conquerors such as Buonaparte, but you, Colonel, have reassured me the English are behind
Le Grande Nation
in nothing.”

“It was a good speech,” added Major Merrion; “I wish I had made it. It left Nichols with precisely nothing to say, and while he was still saying it, Lenox had gone out in search of his brother, shortly followed by Mr. Parry, while Merivale came in here to fetch Fanny. The rest of us remained behind and concentrated on reducing Nichols to appropriate Flimnapian dimensions.”

“He did appear somewhat--shrunken--when he came in.”

“He should have been peeking over the buckle of his shoe. My father, as you may have noted, is not without skill in the art of belittling. To engage a guest in heated argument is one thing; to curse at him or drive him from the room in tears, is quite another. Though I daresay he is vexed with Sir Warrington as well, and thinks he should have stood his ground, and not made every body uncomfortable.”

“--and with Mr. Lenox,” added Ann, “for
not
losing his temper.”

“But he did lose it,” replied Major Merrion, surprised at her suggestion. “I do not say Father was precisely gratified by its display or direction, but if he cares to tally such things, certainly he may mark that through his efforts, aided and abetted by the worthy Nichols, he did at last succeed in enraging Mr. P. E. Lenox, younger son of Sir Sylvan Lenox, of Burndall in Country Antrim.”

“He did not
sound
enraged,” said Ann, still doubtingly. “Sarcastic and displeased, yes; but that is not
rage
.”

“It is my manner of delivery that is at fault. Plainly, I would not have been in great demand as a travelling bard. There is something ironic in the fact that I, of all men, should have such apparent difficulty in conveying that particular emotion. Well, he did not shout, or glare, of thump the table, but I was seated next to Nichols but one, and you have my solemn assurance, that Lenox was very, very angry.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Ann, “and I had thought, from what you said, that it was all a cup-storm business, and Sir Warrington had only to be ‘there-there’d’ and offered some sugar-plums, to make it right. But if Mr. Lenox is angry and offended, there is no telling, with his disposition,
how
long it may take him to forgive us all, and Julia will be completely miserable until he does! Oh heavens! I wish we had never come to this dinner! Why,
why
did Lord Merivale allow himself to be persuaded into staying here?”

“Because he thought he ought to, of course. Really, I think you exaggerate the case. Let us examine the matter in a calm and orderly fashion. One, Lenox is not such a stupid fellow, that he cannot perceive the difference between the actions of his friends, and the actions of some misbegotten
wanderow
who happens to be seated at the same table with them.”

‘No, I suppose not. But--“

“This court does not recognize suspended conjunctions. Two, even if this were true of
Lenox
, Julia is not such a ninny, that she would suffer the tantrums of such a fellow to govern her peace of mind. She would be far more likely to regard him with shocked disapproval, and think, that it was a pity he was not back in the nursery, where appropriate measures could be applied, until he came to realize the advantages of behaving in a civilized manner. I have heard her speak in just this fashion, of young men who had wrapped up the undisciplined egotism of childhood in a fancy cravat, and brought it down with them into the drawing-room.”

“With
most
young men, yes; but the Lenoxes rescued Kitty, you see. She feels such an obligation to them, as must excuse them in everything else.”

“Has a sense of obligation muddled her intellect? I have observed no symptoms of it. A person does not commonly beat one’s pillow over the piques of those to whom one is merely under an obligation--unless, of course, the obligation is a monetary one, and the pique takes the form of demanding an early payment. But that is not the case here. To resume, then: three, even if he were such a fellow, and she such a ninny, her interpretation of ‘complete misery’ appears to me to be so very mild, that I think even you may be able to bear with it in tolerable comfort, for however long it may last.”

As he said this, he looked so meaningly across the room, that Ann was moved to turn and look across as well, and beheld Julia seated on a sofa, talking with her cousin, and smiling--yes, actually smiling--and the next moment, even laughing.

Ann stared. She was shocked, first of all, that Julia could have returned to the room, a return which she had of course been anxiously awaiting, without being observed by herself; and then, that Julia should have returned in such spirits. Ann supposed that her interest in Major Merrion’s narrative could account for the first, but for the second, she knew not what to think. She realized, that she ought to be feeling joy and relief, that the distress she had apprehended showed no evidence of being; but for the moment she was so confused, that she could feel nothing except her confusion.

“My niece is a most remarkable girl,” Major Merrion was commenting. “I know Fanny has always prized and instructed her children in self-command, but Julia has gone beyond any mere composure of feature. That laugh, for instance--I would not be capable of such a light-hearted sound in the depths of despair. Not, that is, that I would particularly
wish
to utter a sound quite like that, even in moments of hilarity, for I cannot help but think, that it would do nothing for my efforts to convince affrighted matrons of my benign respectability, were that exact pitch of merriment to issue from this kim-kam face of mine--”