Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (26 page)

Ann was sincerely, firmly, entirely resolved to Think Well of Mr. Lenox, but she soon discovered that a habit of denigration, like most noxious weeds of the soul, is a hard thing to rid oneself of. She had uprooted prejudice and flung it aside; self-interest, though not entirely eradicated, had been so thoroughly savaged, that at least it could no longer be mistaken for anything worth cultivating; and yet critical thoughts continually crept up through the cracks in her resolve, whenever she left off vigilance.

Perhaps some slight extenuation may be permitted her: there can be few things as exasperating, as renouncing one’s own fervent wishes in deference to those of another, only to discover, after every bitter renunciatory twinge has already been borne and banished, that the person whose wishes have been given precedence at such cost to oneself, does not really care one way or another, and would probably have been just as satisfied, had one’s own inclinations won the day. Mr. Lenox, careless of having at last received the Blessing of Ann on his pursuit of her friend, continued unapologetically to differ with that friend over books and opinions; to display no more solicitude for her comfort than he did for her mother’s, or Miss Northcott’s; and even, on occasion, to voluntarily forsake her company for several hours of an evening, when Mr. Parry and he wished to discuss matters like the African Association, or the evasions of Villeneuve, without the accompaniment of Sir Warrington’s cascading tenor. In short, he behaved in such a tiresomely unloverlike manner, that Ann was in some danger of becoming as violently irritated against him as ever.

Although Major Merrion had returned to Kent the day following the assembly, his influence remained behind, and often she was only kept from entertaining disparaging reflections by the memory of his angry face. Often she wished him still in town, that she might explain to him the difficulty of Thinking Well of a gentleman who was capable of receiving the love of someone like Julia, and not returning it. From the first moment when Ann had realized her friend’s attachment, all her concern had been to prevent anything coming of it; but she had never once considered the gentleman’s own indifference, as being in any way a factor. How could it be? Once he became aware of Julia’s feelings (as was inevitable, for she was too honest to be totally adept at dissembling them), it followed that he must instantly cast everything he had to offer at her feet, ashamed of its miserable paucity, and stunned that she should even regard it kindly, let alone deign to accept it.

But instead of this, here was Mr. Lenox calmly accepting the many marks of favor Julia unconsciously bestowed on him, without incredulity, without wonder, and without casting down anything except, on occasion, the
Times
, when she teasingly requested of him that he cease frowning over the doubtful eloquence of Mr. Whitbread, or the deplorable state of the shipyards, and grant them the privilege of his conversation.

His insensibility was somehow made worse, to Ann, by her friend’s apparent contentment with it. If she was disappointed by the absence of any suitorial display, Ann could discern no trace of it. She wondered if perhaps Julia might yet be unaware of the extent of her own affections: she was so used to loving people, and so unused to loving any one--at least, any young man--more particularly than the rest, that Ann thought it not unreasonable to suppose, that her friend might believe herself only attached to Mr. Lenox by the cords of a deep esteem and friendship.

Both were so much in her thoughts, that it was natural for Ann’s gaze to be often turned in the same direction. This did not long escape the gentleman’s notice. How quickly he perceived it she did not know, but that he had taken note was made clear to her one day, as he and Clive were engaged in a game of chess. She was seated quite near, with her work, watching the progress of the match. This was a good deal more exciting than the generality of such things, for Clive being one of the players, it moved along at a steady pace, with no lengthy, thoughtful pauses to weary the observer. Chess, with Clive, never involved extensive deliberations; Clive, because he would not take thought, and his opponent, because there was no need to do so. To Ann’s knowledge, he had never won a match in his life, except against Kitty (who, Ann was certain, contrived to lose only with the greatest difficulty), but this in no way discouraged him, and it was always he who challenged any new acquaintance. Mr. Lenox had already trounced him on several occasions, and this time, in an effort to prolong the game beyond its usual length of four or five minutes, he implored Clive to pause and think about it before bringing out his queen. “Consider,” said he, “her frame. She is your monarch; more, she is a woman. Should she not rather be protected? The careless fashion in which you continually thrust her out into the thickest part of the battle--it is unseemly. Would you serve your mother or your sisters thus?”

“Of course not. But this is an Amazon Queen. She loves to fight; she lives for conquest. Nothing pleases her more than to send home a fat parcel of prisoners. Why else would she have reserved for herself the greatest mobility?” And so saying, he advanced his wooden Hippolyta upon a cringing pawn, and promptly lost her to a bishop. He remarked sadly that he would have expected better from a man of the cloth, and at once plunged his knight into certain disaster.

It was perhaps three checkmates later--or, some ten or fifteen minutes--that Clive commented, without removing his eyes from the board, that he did not believe he would count the preceding games toward the sum total of his losses, as it was unquestionably Ann’s fault that he had performed so badly. “She watches us so intently, and withal so critically, that I am constantly distracted with wondering what she is thinking. My nerves are shattered, my hands shake, and I am unable to concentrate on my strategy as I ought. No one could expect me to play with my accustomed brilliance under such circumstances.”

As he had raised his voice just a trifle in speaking, there was no doubt that this was meant for Ann. She smiled, and was just going to respond with some appropriate sally, when Mr. Lenox forestalled her by admonishing Clive, “You must not allow your nerves to be overset in this manner. It is not your foredoomed destruction that holds her attention, but my humble self. For many days now I have been the object of her unceasing regard. At first it caused me no little concern; but then I realized there could be no other explanation, than that she was wishing to take my likeness, and was studying how best to disguise the un-aquiline tendencies of my nose.”

Clive took this for mere foolery, but Ann, hearing in it the undertone of real perception, was horribly disconcerted, and thereafter took greater care not to let her thoughts dictate to her eyes.

But before this circumscription of her watchfulness, she had reached the conclusion, that it was not by any means the incredible thing she had first supposed, that the state of Julia’s affections should have remained partially or even entirely obscured from the two most immediately concerned. Whenever Mr. Lenox called at Merrion House, there was always a multitude of people or activities or ideas to engage his attention, and the same held true if he accompanied the Parrys on their excursions to those places in London, where it is possible to appear with family members under the age of fifteen, without provoking low-voiced, sarcastic allusions to Emile. Nor did he possess an open carriage, in which he might have taken Miss Parry driving in the park; and even if he had, it is questionable whether it would have occurred to him to do so without at least one of the smaller children being stuffed ecstatically somewhere about the equipage. And so the only occasions when they might fairly be assured of having some sort of private converse--during which it might perhaps occur to them that they took more delight in speaking to each other, than to anyone else in the world--was that infrequent half hour or so, when they stood up together, at an assembly, or at the home of some enterprising friend or family member. And while Ann had never suffered it herself, she understood from Julia, that a conversation in such a situation, is generally about as satisfying, as is to be expected from having two other couples within ten inches of one’s elbows, either chatting away in tones to drown out every one around them, or eschewing conversation themselves, and giving rise to the suspicion that they are taking rather too much interest in one’s own. And even if one was so blessed as to stand between those who neither dominated nor eavesdropped, one was certain to find, that as soon as one’s conversation became particularly interesting, a neighbor would break in to urge in an irate whisper, the unkindness of those who stand talking and holding up the dance, instead of paying strict attention.

Having given much thought to the matter, Ann had settled it that what her friend required, was a situation, in which, through no machination of her own, she would be provided with an opportunity to become better acquainted with Mr. Lenox, and he with her, without the distractions of family, friends, or inconsiderate couples. It was but a day or two later, that Lady Lenox put forward the suggestion, that the Parrys should join her in her box at the opera.

In the normal way, such an invitation would have inspired in Ann many of the same sensations as would a proposal that she go and witness a hanging: with this difference, that the condemned criminals were generally a good deal quieter and more dignified about their dying, than the characters in an opera. But on this occasion she heard of it with more grateful feelings, for the invitation being for a Saturday night, she knew nothing would persuade Lady Frances and Mr. Parry to attend. Not that she rejoiced in their absence for her own sake; indeed, their presence would have been her only means of escaping the boredom which must otherwise be hers for the entirety of the evening--for when the only respite from the scales of afflicted sopranos consisted of conversing with either Sir Warrington or his mother, boredom must inevitably be the pleasantest feeling she could hope to entertain. But as agreeable as the elder Parrys’ company always was to Ann, in this instance she gladly did without it, knowing, that they could not be a comfort to her, without also appropriating some part of Mr. Lenox’s attention, which she designed for the exclusive use of their daughter.

That Julia herself agreed to go, was due to the Bishop’s decree, which had then been in effect for some two or three weeks. The decree made no difference to Mr. Parry’s resolve, for he saw little prospect of returning home before midnight even if the performance itself came to a close at half past eleven. However, he was willing that Julia should attend if she wished, expressing his confidence in Mr. Lenox’s ability to regulate his actions according to his watch and his conscience, rather than the rise and descent of a theater-curtain.

Even then, Julia might yet have refused to go, had Ann not dwelt on the possibility of its being the last time they would be privileged to attend for many years, referencing, in a tone of mild surprise, the swift-drawing conclusion of their stay in town. Julia, who had been murmuring her indecision, fell silent, and a few minutes later announced her intention of after all accepting the invitation.

**

Ann and Julia were to discover that a necessary prelude to
La Clemenza di Scipione
was Lady Lenox’s eloquent rehearsal of the superiorities of London, of its conveniences and pleasures, and the unsurpassed elegance of its society. It was clearly not her first performance, nor likely to be her last. While listening to her precise, unfaltering tongue, and noting the smooth fashion in which she glided back and forth between praising her present situation, and lamenting her imminent removal from it, Ann could not but admire the respectful air with which Mr. Lenox attended to a presentation he must have witnessed many, many times before. The girls agreed with their hostess when it was possible, “hmm’d” ambiguously when it was not, and were exceedingly grateful when, in reply to particularly bitter complaints about the inn at Holyhead, and the condition of Welsh roads, Mr. Lenox conceded that neither were designed for a lady’s comfort, and added, “Indeed, ma’am, I know that in returning with us you will inevitably face many hardships. I do not doubt that it is a source of great pleasure for you to recall that Aunt Judith has urged you to join her establishment, if at any time you should find the burdens of your present situation intolerable.”

Whoever this aunt may have been, Ann was delighted to observe that this reference to her hospitable spirit served as the most complete damper on Lady Lenox, checking her laments as thoroughly, as if she feared that one more word on the subject might see the benevolent Judith descending Roc-like on the carriage, to snatch her away to the threatened establishment.

In the pause that resulted from her brief discomfiture, Julia and Ann essayed the introduction of a more general conversation, and accordingly began, with Mr. Lenox, to discuss the plot and characters of the performance they were about to see; a topic so unexceptionable, that even Sir Warrington was able to give an opinion on it, without sounding any more ridiculous than anybody else. (“Whenever I go to an opera,” wrote Lord Chesterfield, “I leave my sense and reason at the door with my half-guinea.”) This inclusion of her eldest son into the principal talk was enough to provoke Lady Lenox to further speech, and plying her fan in an agitated manner, she soon broke in with a pettish remark on the limited space available in the carriage, accompanied by a pointed look at the baronet, who really could not have contained his person in any smaller space without, perhaps, removing his feet and handing them up to the coachman. And having effectively suspended the conversation, she lost no time in improving the opportunity, but began to give them her opinion on weightier matters: “Far be it from her to quarrel with a Bishop, but she really could not see that it made any great degree of difference whether the opera ended precisely at midnight, or thirty minutes after; and certainly, she saw not the slightest reason why they must leave at such an absurdly early hour as eleven.”

As it was Mr. Lenox who had agreed with Mr. Parry on the wisdom of their party seeking its carriage at this unconscionable hour, this was not really the rhetorical complaint it appeared. Mr. Lenox hesitated a moment before replying that, “as they had already spoken on the subject, she knew why he must insist on seeing their guests home at eleven, but that she need not leave so early, if she did not wish it: he could very well return for her after taking Miss Parry and Miss Northcott back to Merrion House; she had only to command him.”

Though highly inconvenient to himself, he proffered this solution without impatience, and Lady Lenox of course responded to it with all the gratitude that really proficient grumblers usually accord to any reasonable effort made to alleviate their complaints: that is to say, she looked as if he had offered her some species of insult, and proceeded to find all manner of fault with the suggestion, demonstrating its utter impracticability in words which, had they not been addressed to dearest Edmund, would have cast grave doubts upon the intellectual competence of anyone capable of thinking even for a moment that such a solution might answer.

Mr. Lenox did not look as if a reception of this sort was any new occurrence in his life, and when her comprehensive rejection of his first suggestion came to its end, he at once ventured another: “It seemed to him quite likely, that as so many of her London acquaintances shared her taste for the opera, one of them could be found who would be delighted to have the opportunity of conveying her back to Berkeley Square after the ballet had ended, for the sake of her company.” The notion of having to solicit a ride in this fashion proved, however, completely repugnant to Lady Lenox’s feelings. When she had done expressing this, Mr. Lenox admitted the merit of everything she had said, and then, with the apparent intention of bringing the singularly fruitless exchange to a close, signified his regret over the inconvenience to which she was being subjected, and said that it was a pity she could not instead direct her grievances to either the manager, or the singers of the opera, who might then be persuaded to make a more concerted effort to bring the performance to a conclusion on the same day that it began.

“You cannot think they make it so long intentionally, I suppose!” she replied. “It is only the difficulty of getting in and out of all those costumes, and placing the scenery. Why, it stands to reason that they would end sooner if it were possible, at least on Saturday! What have they to gain by bringing down the curtain after the second act, and enraging their patrons?”

“What has a naughty child to gain, when he is made to retire at a sensible hour, and mutters and pouts and objects his way beneath the bedclothes? A paltry species of revenge; the satisfaction of knowing that, though he may have submitted to one his superior in power and authority, he has at least managed to do so without the smallest trace of grace or dignity.” The wry look that accompanied this speech seemed to indicate an acquaintance with the resolutions of a small naughty boy, by no means merely conjectural; and a half-smile invited his mother to remember, and admit the comparison.

No answering look was drawn from Lady Lenox--perhaps she could not countenance an implication that her youngest son’s behavior had ever been less than exemplary, even when made by himself--but this view of the matter silenced her for perhaps five minutes; then she sighed, and confided to Ann and Julia, that “she hoped she had not appeared to them to be in any way sacrilegious, but her son so seldom attended her to the opera, that she could not help feeling greatly disappointed, that they were not to be able to stay until its conclusion. But half a loaf, was, of course, better than no bread at all; and her life had been such, that she had learned to be content with whatever she was offered.”

And having made every one in the carriage wish they were elsewhere, she smiled a forgiving I-eat-these-crusts-for-your-sake-my-dearest-Edmund smile, and significantly removed the toes of her slippers another two inches away from Sir Warrington’s.

Ann was hopeful that having disseminated such universal discomfort, their hostess would be satisfied with her accomplishment, and say no more; but Julia having rashly attempted to palliate matters by remarking cheerfully that “though it was perhaps a trifle disappointing not to be able to see the entirety of the performance, she for one did not care for the ballet nearly as much as the singing, and would be glad to escape the usual crush of departure,” Lady Lenox could not remain silent. “The dancing was of all things her delight; the grace, the elegance of the
pas de deux
, she could not too highly commend. Had Julia been privileged to see the Deshayes’ performance before? No? Then she did not know of what she spoke, and it was doubly tragic that they were to miss it, and for the sake of mere minutes. She appealed yet again to dearest Edmund: surely it was not too much to ask that the delay of half an hour--a period to which even the Bishop could not object--be granted to her, and to these poor dear girls, who would otherwise be denied the glories of the
pas de deux
.”

One of the poor dear girls said, “Oh, no! That is, you needn’t--” in a faintly protesting voice; the other merely lifted her eyes toward the ceiling of the carriage, and prayed that some act of merciful Providence might relieve them of Lady Lenox once they reached the Theatre. A whirlwind was preferable, but failing that, an invitation to join a box full of royalty should suffice. Ann tried to remember if any of the royal Dukes were said to be particularly fond of the opera.

Mr. Lenox waited a moment to be certain that Julia had truly sentenced her verb to an objectless existence, and then begged his mother’s pardon: he thought he had already explained to her how matters stood, but obviously either his memory had played him false, or his explanation had been stupidly unclear. “If it were only a matter of escaping a crush, ma’am, there would be no difficulty about your request; but Mr. Parry and I had another, more pressing reason for our decision: our distrust of large assemblages of frustrated persons. It is true that for the past few weeks the audience has accepted its dismissal with comparative good-humor; but who can say that it will last? Tonight I may seem unreasonable, but tomorrow you may thank me for sparing you a display of vice, unhallowed by score and libretto.”

Lady Lenox was not noticeably amused by his attempt at lightness. She demanded stiffly what he could mean: “Almost he spoke as if those who attended an opera were to be compared with the vulgar crowds who frequented such things as prize-fights and bear-baitings.”

Once again he paused before replying, as if seeking words that would give least offense. At last he said, “No; but the English are not a submissive people; nor are they a people of such great piety, that any consideration of the claims of the Sabbath will long divert them from the fact that they have paid for a certain measure of amusement, and have not received it.”

Lady Lenox was not pleased; it is possible that angry, reproachful words formed in her mind questioning the judgement of dearest Edmund; conceivable that she might, in another minute, even have voiced them. But at this juncture Sir Warrington, who had obviously been turning the beginning of this exchange over in his head, was now visited by a most alarming idea, which caused him to ask, in a tone of great disquiet, if his brother thought there might be a
riot
?

Lady Lenox turned on him at once, and in a tone that rang with opprobrious epithets left uttered, ridiculed his use of the word, saying that even
he
might have been expected to know the difference between an audience composed of English ladies and gentlemen, and a mob of Irish peasants.

Sir Warrington ducked his head; Mr. Lenox, as if he had not heard his mother’s outburst, replied to his brother that no, he had no expectation of anything as energetic as a riot. He did not say anything else on the subject, but the manner in which he did not say it, was enough not only to silence the already-flattened baronet, but also to cause Lady Lenox to perceive the wisdom of suppressing further animadversions on that, or any other, head.

Shortly after this the King’s Theatre was blessedly espied, and they made their way to the box with no more than half a dozen stops for Lady Lenox, who appeared entirely restored to her former Edolatrous ways, to greet this or that acquaintance, and make Mr. Lenox known to them. From the triumph of her manner in doing so, and the polite wariness with which his identity was received, Ann collected, that though he might seldom accompany his mother into those circles of society which she preferred, she had in all likelihood borrowed a page from Sir Warrington’s book, and expounded on dearest Edmund’s talents and opinions during his absence to such a degree, as to make his actual appearance generally dreaded. She presented her other son as well, but with so much the air of submitting to a condition, that Ann was irresistibly moved to picture a scene, in which Mr. Lenox pointed out the impossibility of his acknowledging her introductions of himself, unless his brother also received due notice. Under her dismissive eye, Sir Warrington relapsed into the tongue-tiedness of his first visit to Merrion House, and no doubt deeply relieved his parent, by only bowing and smiling at the mention of his name; afterward turning his head to gaze in mute admiration at his brother, as that gentleman performed the impressive feat, of responding to the murmurs of fashionable persons who find themselves being introduced to those in whom they have not the slightest interest, without once sounding either inane, affected, or premeditatively clever.

It was with considerable relief that Ann and Julia heard themselves being greeted by Mrs. Spenhope, and contrasting her good-natured face, and pleasant manner--she always singled Sir Warrington out for a kind word, whenever they met--with that of their hostess, Ann could not help wishing they were of the Spenhope’s party instead. It was the briefest of respites. When necessary introductions had been made, civilities exchanged, and the continued health of all absent family members established, they were forced to pass on, and fell almost at once into another clutch of Lady Lenox’s acquaintance.

But when the box was finally achieved, Ann felt repaid for all the aggravations involved in reaching it, for almost without any contrivance on her part, the seats were arranged, precisely as she would have wished them to be; and Julia and Mr. Lenox, without being in any way separate from the rest, were so situated, as to make it awkward for Lady Lenox or Sir Warrington to address them rather than Ann, and for them to address any one but each other. Lady Lenox appeared at first rather displeased with this arrangement, but Ann seated herself with the air of one who assumes that she will not be required to move, and summoned up a speech of elaborate praise of the box’s situation. This was an opportunity for Lady Lenox to explain how dearest Edmund had obtained it for her, which she could not resist; and she was so busy implying to Ann that it was some magnificent piece of cleverness for him to have actually seen and answered an advertisement in a newspaper, that she took her own chair without giving voice to any of the objections that might have been assembling on her tongue.