Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (25 page)

Approaching the assembly in this uncertain humor, it is perhaps not to be wondered at, that the sight of Lord Merivale, standing up with Julia, dressed in an extremely well-cut coat, should have enraged Ann beyond measure.

It was one thing, thought she, for him to dine with his cousins dressed in that fashion; but to attend an assembly, and deliberately lay aside the only apparel in which he had any hope of appearing to advantage against the bulk of the other young men, and which he had a perfect right to wear, in favor of that sober-hued nothing, was an act of monstrous imprudence! Green was not scarlet, but it was a great deal better than gray, or drab, or whatever one wished to call that undistinguished shade. And was it not the unluckiest thing, that Julia should have been wearing her hair in a style that made her appear particularly tall, so that her partner, going down the middle with her, was made to look smaller and slighter than ever? Why on earth could he not have taken his lead from his uncle, who, however little he might stand in need of its resplendence, wore his red coat at all times, and in all seasons?

As if knowing her thoughts, and presenting himself for the comparison, the next moment Major Merrion had come to sit beside her, and was inquiring, which of the industrious couples on the floor had incurred her displeasure?

Ann impulsively confided the truth, deploring Lord Merivale’s coat, with a warmth and emphasis, which weariness prevented her from perceiving the full silliness of; and her passion received its due reward, in the mockery of her confidant. He lightly defended his nephew’s choice of raiment, by saying, that it was the mark of a good soldier, to make himself comfortable while he could, as once a campaign began he was not likely to meet with many opportunities to do so; and when Ann directed a significant glance at his own uniform, he responded, that from long usage he scarcely felt dressed without it; but Merivale being, for the same reason, more comfortable in colored clothes, why should he not wear them whenever he might?

The explicit answer, that his inches, his figure, made it inadvisable--that her personal schemes for his future made it undesirable--that his
amour propre
should in any case have forbid it--could not, of course, be uttered. “It is a well-known fact,” said she, instead, “probably responsible for any number of militia recruitments, that all young ladies adore gentlemen in military garb. I suppose, being female, I must share this susceptibility, and it grieves me that a perfectly good uniform should be languishing in a trunk somewhere, with no one to admire it.”

“Nonsense!” said he, turning suddenly to fix his eyes on her face. He had been talking in a careless fashion, glancing now at her, now across the room at his sister, his nephew, his niece, his brother-in-law, as if the sight of so many members of his family, so near and so pleasantly occupied, was one he could not too often enjoy; but something in Ann’s last remark had arrested his attention, and caused him to look down at her, as if reviewing in his head, every sentence that had gone before it. After a moment he said “Nonsense” again, and then, “What is behind this? For all your perspicuity, in general you take no more notice of Merivale than you do the fire-irons. What has he done, or not done, to provoke this impassioned criticism?”

“Why, nothing!” denied Ann; but discomfited by his keen look, and her conscience, and, it must be admitted, more than a little gratified by the knowledge that he thought she possessed perspicuity (however much he might be impugning it in the present instance), she could not prevent a heated blush overspreading her face. The immediate consciousness of how this must appear, the inferences which might be drawn from such an ill-timed color, increased both it and her confusion to such an extent, that she was for some moments incapable of thinking in anything but exclamation points, and without the power to vocalize even these. If he should think---! But, he could not help but think--! And she could not explain without revealing all her conjectures and suspicions, and with them things she had no right to reveal! And how foolish and intricate it must sound if she did! Of all the stupid, missish things, to blush at such a moment! It was inexcusable! She raged at herself for an irremediable nidget, and trembled for the predicament her complexion had created.

She sensed, rather than saw, that he checked; that he withdrew his gaze from her, as if to give her time to recover, and replaced it on the dancers. Her spirits sank further at this thoughtful gesture, so unnecessary, at least for the reasons he must suppose. For several minutes they sat thus, with the opportunity for casual explanations receding further and further from Ann, until she could see nothing but the inevitability of tact covering a multitude of misconceptions. She could say nothing, and he
would
say nothing, to the purpose. Her agitation was to be passed over as if it did not exist, that her feelings might now be spared, at the cost of no more than a few months’ or years’ misunderstanding between them. She wondered despairingly, whether, the first awkwardness of the supposed “discovery” being over, his genius would prompt him to sly teasing, or to compassionate looks, whenever a conversation took a turn which he might suppose to be painful to one suffering from a secret, unrequited
tendre
. From her knowledge of his character, she rather thought that he would tease.

She waited in dread for him to speak, hopelessly prepared to support her end of whatever innocuous topic he chose to introduce.

“No,” said he, at length, turning again to her and shaking his head slowly. “It cannot be helped; I am my father’s son. I have no delicacy, and cannot pretend that I do. This does not fit. I do not believe it. I am sorry to embarrass you, but you must explain to me that enormous blush, if you please. If you have
that
sort of feeling for Merivale, I will sell out tomorrow, for one whose judgement is so greatly impaired, has no business directing men in battle. I shall delight my father by taking a seat in the Lower House instead, where it will not signify whether I have the least comprehension of any matter put before me.”

Ann was so relieved at this speech, at being given a last opportunity to reclaim the witless silence of the preceding minutes, that very little guardedness was left to her, as she sought to explain, as swiftly and simply as possible, her sudden interest in his nephew’s appearance. However, she retained enough discretion to speak of Julia’s attachment as being a
possible
rather than a certain misfortune.

It had been her experience, that gentlemen commonly responded with an air of superior amusement, to any intelligence of the matchmaking schemes of their female acquaintances and relations, as long as they themselves were not personally affected by them. But Major Merrion was not in the least amused; he was nettled. “Why is it,” said he, “that people insist on looking upon Merivale as some sort of beneficial draught, to be taken in times of need? Yes,” at her protest, “you do. You have prescribed him for Julia, as an alternative to a worse fate: the purge for the disease. He is not, to you, the happiest alternative, he is merely the most expedient. At least Kitty, in selecting him for her sister, has done so from affection; but you have assigned him like a tin of powders.”

“That is not true!” said Ann, stifling the reprehensible voice in her head, that suggested otherwise. It was hardly her fault that Lord Merivale had not a more brilliant personality; she would have been happy if he had. But she had sense enough to know that this argument would find no favor with Major Merrion, and substituted for it a retort, entirely unrelated to any objection he had made. “I should have thought that you, at least, would agree as to the undesirability of any connection with--with anyone of Mr. Lenox’s descent. After all, was it not you who described to me the disgraceful part, played by nearly every class of person in that last horrid rebellion?”

“Whereas, of course, those of us on the mainland have never handled our civil differences with any thing but sweet reasonableness and handshakes across the table--‘An Englishman and Irishman are clean different things!’ But what does any of this have to say to the matter? We are not considering his family heritage, but your intention to prevent Julia from joining it; and whether or not she marries Lenox, or Merivale, or becomes headmistress of a select seminary for fan-painting idlers, has really nothing to do with you. You speak as if you have only her interests at heart, but I wonder, if it is not really your own loss that you are thinking of. You laugh at Kitty for her openly declared fears of losing Julia, but if Lenox is a man of good character, approved by her parents and loved by herself, you have no right or business to lift one finger, utter one syllable, or spend one minute plotting how best their union might be frustrated. Look well to your own heart, Miss Northcott, and then decide if you should have any part in directing your friend’s.”

He then rose abruptly and left her, and Ann was too crushed, too surprised, to say a word in her own vindication. The brevity of her night, the tedium of her day, had left her no power of resisting the tears that rose to her eyes at this rebuke, and she was for some time occupied in disguising them. When she looked up at last, it was to see that he had joined the forming set with a pretty dark-haired girl, perhaps in an effort to recover his own equanimity. If such was the case, he was more successful at this endeavor than Ann, for he was smiling, and saying something to his partner, that caused her to glance up at him swiftly through her lashes, in a most charming fashion.

Somehow the sight of this, of his ability to dismiss with such apparent ease a scene still so painful to her own feelings, caused the injustice of his closing accusations to come upon Ann with renewed force, and she sat in misery and indignation, reminding herself that he did not know the whole, the marks against Mr. Lenox’s character, which even
he,
Major Merrion, self-righteous and censorious as he was, must admit disqualified that gentleman from being a desirable match. Not to mention, that
he
had never met Lady Lenox! But such was the folly of speaking before one was in possession of all the facts, of making judgements when one knew only half the story: one made ridiculous assumptions and pronouncements, and was later shown to be quite wrong. But by then, of course, it was usually too late, and the damage had been done.

**

Into Ann’s furious self-defense came the quiet, good-humored tones of Lord Merivale, asking if he might fetch her a glass of something; he added a few words about the heat of the room. Ann had not been aware of it, but she was indeed rather warm--but whether due to the temperature of her surroundings, or of her thoughts, she could not be sure. Although a drink would indeed have been welcome, she declined his offer, from the knowledge, that if he fetched it he would probably then feel obliged, or entitled, to sit down and talk with her while she drank it. In the event, she might as well have made her throat comfortable, for he accepted her denial, but seated himself anyway, after a hesitant murmur of inquiry, which she could scarcely deny. It then struck her, that he was not where he was supposed to be; that he was here, with her, instead of standing up with Julia; and a quick glance discovered, that in quitting the floor, he had handed over his partner, to none other than his rival: if such a term can be used, when gentlemen have yet to display any marked partiality for the young lady in question, or any hint of jealousy toward each another.

The whole evening was become a nightmare to Ann. She had inadvertently provoked Major Merrion’s anger and contempt, Merivale was proving the veriest Egyptian reed, and now that the opportunity to study her friend’s behavior to Mr. Lenox had come, she could not even do so properly, from having his--rival--at her side. She eyed the dancers with increasing gloom, and could think of nothing she wished to say, that would not have afterward required an apology.

“Julia looks well this evening, does she not?” said her companion, after waiting a moment for her to speak.

This observation should have gratified Ann, or at least encouraged her, but she could not help thinking that as a commendation, it lacked both warmth and precision. Other young ladies “looked well” (Ann herself could do so, when she had taken some pains): Julia looked beautiful--lovely--perfect. In short, instead of appeasing, his comment only irritated her further, and she agreed with him briefly, barely able to refrain from including an impatient “of course” in her reply. Despite her restraint, she was aware of having sounded ungracious, and added, “Particularly so, I think. I daresay it is due to the presence of yourself and Major Merrion. She always appears in the greatest looks, when she is the most happy; and she is never happier, you know, than when surrounded by her family.”

Lord Merivale smiled, as if her remark pleased him; but having continued to observe the radiant gracefulness of his cousin, after a few moments he suggested that, “it might also be due in part to the fact that she was dancing with Mr. Lenox.”

Almost Ann gasped. To hear her most ruthlessly-denied suspicion uttered in Lord Merivale’s sedate voice was most disquieting. “I do not see that that can have anything to do with it,” she said at once. “She has looked delightfully all evening. The identity of her partner, is irrelevant. That is, I assure you, she looked just the same, when she was standing up with you.”

She strove to speak in a moderate fashion, but vehemence won through despite her efforts, and she was not surprised to hear her companion begging her pardon. He was understandably unsure of the precise nature of his offense, and sought a general amnesty, on the grounds that she must have misapprehended his words: all he had meant, was that perhaps his cousin appeared to the most advantage, when she was partnered by someone whose dancing was as good as her own. Had Ann not noted the lamentable awkwardness of the gentleman who preceded himself? How all Julia’s enjoyment of the dance had been spoiled by the necessity she was under to disguise and avoid the consequences his blunders? “He gave me courage to solicit her next dance myself, for I did not see, how I could possibly perform worse. But in Mr. Lenox she has at last found someone skilled enough in his own steps, to leave her free to attend to her own.”

This speech ought to have been of considerable comfort to Ann, but there were too many aspects of it, that she could not like. The tone of friendly admiration with which Lord Merivale spoke of his “rival” was one; and the other--

“Yes,” said she, stiffly, “I suppose their skill in dancing, is pretty evenly matched. Indeed, I never saw a pair in more apparent harmony. What a contrast is this to their first meeting!”

She did not know what Lord Merivale may have been told of the Lenoxes’ history, but the half-startled inquiry of the gaze he fixed on her face in reply, informed her that he could have received no very complete account. For a moment she deliberated, and then calmly, concisely, and with painstaking fairness, set about providing him with a more balanced view of Mr. Lenox’s character.

She had expected that he would be shocked and distressed, and indeed he was. The smile left his face, and was replaced by a look of such seriousness, that she grew a little anxious lest Lady Frances, catching sight of him across the room, should come to see if he had been taken ill. She brought her comments to a close a trifle hurriedly, ending with a natural reference to Julia’s many excellencies, which had confirmed Sir Warrington in his pursuit of her, despite every impediment devised by his mother and his brother.

Her words had not fallen on barren ground; Lord Merivale was now gazing at his cousin’s partner with quite a different expression than before. No doubt his faith in the credibility of outward appearances had been shaken. Looking beyond the dancers, he caught sight of Sir Warrington, talking, with expansive gesticulation, to Mrs. Spenhope, and his countenance grew even more pensive. “Poor fellow,” said he, his brows faintly knit. “It is indeed a difficult situation in which he is placed. And yet, he makes no display. I would never have dreamed of the least conflict between them, had you not told me of it.”

“No; it is as Julia says: he has the sweetest temper she has ever met with in a man. He must, or he could hardly endure living in the same household with his fond relations.” It then occurred to her that as her companion had never met Lady Lenox, he could not fully appreciate the justice of this last assessment; but he surprised her by a prompt agreement.

“Oh, yes! And he must bear the whole of it, encumbered by the gypsy tale as well. A child who has had his youth snatched away by gypsies, can be forgiven anything as a man: he is forever an object of compassion; while the deprivations of those who have suffered less dramatically go unremarked.”

Ann began to suspect that she and Lord Merivale had each mistaken the pronouns of the other. “I am not certain that I understand you,” said she, after a pause, being rather afraid that she did. “If, as I collect, you are speaking of Mr. Lenox, I cannot see that any ‘deprivations’ he may have suffered deserve the same degree of sympathy as those of his brother.”

Lord Merivale smiled. “Whether he deserves it or not, he shall not receive it. Lawful disinheritance is not romantic. But to relinquish an estate one has loved, and thought one had a right to love, into the hands of another, whose good judgement one has every reason to suspect--that is a hard thing.”

“Oh; yes, of course,” said Ann, who just then was not interested in feeling any degree of sympathy for Mr. Lenox. She regretted having pursued such a subject with one who, after all, could not be expected to take an impartial view of any circumstance that touched upon the dispossession of a formerly legitimate heir. Decidedly, the conversation ought to be turned; but Lord Merivale, she found, was not done.

“And then, there is this determination of his brother to seek an English wife--it must be very troubling for him, with the example of their own mother before him. A homesick bride, even one who does not despise her husband’s homeland from the very beginning, is no pattern cut for happiness. Sir Sylvan, it would appear, resisted the claims of England; but a discontented wife would be certain to prevail with Sir Warrington. It is a thing to worry any man, who has seen the bitter consequences of absentee landlording.”

This was a new thought for Ann. Despite her years with the Parrys, she was not accustomed to consider inheritances chiefly in terms of the welfare of tenants and the management of land: she was her mother’s daughter still, and all her thoughts of Mr. Lenox’s loss, had been of rank and rent. This placed him in a new and uncomfortable light, for, if true, she could no longer cite his “selfish resentment” as the first and best reason why he should not marry Julia.

She started, perceiving suddenly where she had been led by the involuntary candor of her thoughts. The first and best objection against the match, in some danger of being dismissed! Julia’s preference vindicated, her prospects of happiness, brought that much nearer! Should this not be a matter for rejoicing? Why, then, this rebellion, this dismay at the thought? Had she, indeed, been looking for reasons against the match, and not disliking it for those reasons themselves? Could Major Merrion have been correct in his scathing appraisal of her motives? It was a mortifying thought; she would not think on it; she would not allow it to be in the least credible!

But unwelcome reflections are always the most persistent in their attentions, and she had no sooner refused the thought, than it returned, in a slightly different guise, to press her once again to consider its claims. Nor could Ann rise from her chair and flee from such importunities, to find at least a temporary refuge and distraction in a dance, a game of cards, or a conversation. This last, indeed, she might have had, were it not for the dullness of her companion, who sat in unchivalrous silence, whilst she struggled, all alone, to repulse the advances of a boorish, and wholly determined, conscience.

“I think very highly of Mr. Lenox,” she assured both Lord Merivale and her internal persecutor, endeavoring to placate the latter, yet without yielding to its demands. “Indeed, I have done so from the beginning, when even Julia would hear no excuses for his behavior to Sir Warrington.”

He smiled at her with approval. “That is like you, Ann. It is as my tutor used to say—‘Resentment is a rabid dog chained to a man’s soul. A true friend will help a man to slay his grudge; a false one, will help him feed it.’”

These gentle words of commendation were all that were required. Ann reeled back into the triumphant grasp of her conscience, to be immediately whirled into the dance of self-recrimination. Her past thoughts, intentions, and actions lined themselves in neat columns, and grinned at her as she was rushed down the middle, slipping aside their dominos to mock her with the ugly realities that hid behind them, finally and unmistakably revealed for the Pharisees they were. Merivale’s naïve approbation

‘…tore

The mask from faces never seen before;

He stripp’d the impostors in the noontide sun,

Show’d that they follow’d all they seem’d to shun.’