“The down that on her chin so smooth
So lovely once appeared,
That, too, has left her with her youth,
Or sprouts into a beard;
As fields, so green when newly sown,
With stubble stiff are overgrown.”
She had come to accept that compliments were inevitable, and as long as a gentleman did not persist in them beyond the first introduction she would not hold them against him; but those who, struck by her charms, made no effort to recover from the blow, and deemed their continued prostration and wonderment an acceptable topic of conversation, soon became the happily unconscious recipients of smiles prompted by courtesy rather than pleasure, and boredom conscientiously dissembled. Julia would not for the world have allowed them to sense her impatience, as her parents had very strict views on the compassion due those afflicted with feeble minds.
Accordingly, Ann was not at all surprised to observe her friend standing up for a second time with Sir Warrington Lenox, when that persuasive young man had but that evening been introduced, and had surely less claim on Julia than the faithful Greenlings, who stood gazing in disgusted resignation at the couple. It was Miss Spenhope who had made the introduction, doing so, with eyes full of an inward amusement, which was not explained until Sir Warrington, eschewing superfluous civilities, pleadingly requested a dance with Miss Parry, in an Irish accent so lush as to be almost impenetrable. Julia murmured assent to a question whose meaning she assumed rather than understood, and allowed herself to be led out on to the floor by her beaming conquest.
Sir Warrington’s features were regular, but Ann did not think him more than tolerably good-looking; but then, she did not admire fair hair, nor ruddy complexions, and was perhaps not strictly impartial in her judgement. And though he was certainly tall, his movements were entirely without grace, and his figure not of the best. Or perhaps it was merely that he wore his fashionable garments with so much an air of finding them a nuisance, that they had settled into retaliatory bulges and wrinkles. Ann could not help thinking of the description of the Vulgar Man, whose “clothes fit him so ill, and constrain him so much, that he seems rather their prisoner than their proprietor.” He walked, furthermore, at a slight angle, so that his shoulders preceded his feet wherever he went, and had a way of carrying his head, as if every moment about to duck it bashfully; only he never did. The requirements of the dance seemed to be a recurring trial to him, but his incompetence in this respect did nothing to impair his good-humor, and Ann saw that he talked to Julia almost without pause, and that her replies appeared to gratify him exceedingly. He smiled more broadly than ever, and missed his steps with ever-increasing aplomb.
Miss Spenhope had moved just far enough away to make it clear that she had no further interest in the matter; and having maintained a silence of sufficient length to foil any expectation of an immediate application, Ann at last permitted herself to turn, and seek the intelligence, which that young lady was plainly desirous of giving.
“Sir Warrington? A perfectly harmless creature, I assure you, and vastly entertaining. He is called ‘Edgeworth’s Essay,’” said she, with a rather sly smile. “I could not do less than present him to Miss Parry, for you must know he distinguishes only the prettiest girls with his attentions, and it was only a matter of time before he discovered her for himself.”
Though her words declared his respectability, her tone implied the absurdity of his “attentions,” forcing Ann to seek a further explanation.
“Respectable! Oh, highly so, Miss Northcott. It is a question if the poor man could be anything else! He is quite stupid, you know, not to mention quite dreadfully Irish, though I do not mean to imply that the two invariably go together. But he is always blessing either his body or soul at the least provocation, and he dances, as you can see, like a great unwieldy mannikin, hung upon wires--but perfectly respectable! As for his attentions, I am afraid Miss Parry must not allow herself to be swayed by his present enthusiasm. He admires all the ladies he dances with, but it is not lasting, and he soon moves on to the next one to catch his eye. Not long ago he was much attached to Miss Caroline P_____y and danced with her three times---we all thought he was caught, for she is desperate for some sort of Burkean prefix, and played him very cleverly.”
She paused; for a long minute Ann weighed the satisfaction of disappointing such irritating confidence, against that of gratified curiosity; but having delayed long enough to instill a reasonable doubt of her continued interest, in the end Ann could not resist asking after the fate of Miss P_____y’s ambitions.
Miss Spenhope was amused, but her triumph was only a shade of voice as she replied, “A tragic one, I fear. She was presented to his brother, and all was at an end. Mr. Lenox is a great favorite with me, by the by. I have reason to believe that Sir Warrington finds my manner intimidating, if you can credit such a thing; but his brother is a sensible man, and capable of appreciating a young lady’s conversation, even if she does not agree with him on every point of interest. Besides, any one who can earn the enmity of such as Miss P_____y in a meeting of less than five minutes, must recommend himself to me as a matter of course.”
Ann, now completely vanquished by curiosity, requested particulars, but these Miss Spenhope was regretfully unable to provide.
“No one is quite certain just what did occur. The introduction was made, they both murmured the accepted phrases--and Sir Warrington never sought her out again. It was very disheartening for all the pretty young ladies, who had flattered themselves with the hope that his search had come to an end.”
Ann herself hoped, with misgiving, that Sir Warrington would not (though one could hardly blame him) decide that his search had ended with Julia. “Has no one told him,” she asked, “that one dance, or even two, is not commonly thought sufficient time in which to judge of a person’s merits?”
“It is clear,” replied her companion, archly, “that you have yourself not yet been privileged to dance with Sir Warrington. He has evolved his own method of eliminating the unfit, and puts his partner through such a rigorous catechism during that one dance, that he may be pardoned for feeling that he has nothing more to learn about her, and therefore no reason ever to meet her again. It begins the moment he has her fairly to himself--or as fairly as a dance permits. Do you like horses, Miss Nameless? Dogs? Cats? Catholics? Peep-o’-day Boys? Fishing? Riding? Hunting? Books? Dancing? Hens? Pigs? Ireland? The list ends only with the set, and if the lady is not altogether sure of her preferences, she is pressed to give a reason for her indecision, until she is convinced of only one thing: that whatever her sentiments on pigs and Ireland, there is no doubt of her hearty dislike of Sir Warrington!”
“He must indeed be an idiot!” said Ann, trying not to laugh. “Perhaps his family has never heard ‘How much a dunce that has been kept at home, Excels a dunce that has been sent to roam’! Such persons are much better kept decently in the country, where they cannot pester defenseless females with their notions of polite conversation.”
Ann was thinking only of Julia, forced to spend an endless half-hour struggling to disentangle English words from the undergrowth of Sir Warrington’s brogue, in order to answer a host of senseless questions; her bewilderment was great, therefore, when Miss Spenhope’s countenance, from showing the animation of a witty woman given the opportunity to exercise her wit, became at once closed and stern. She uttered a few chilly words of excuse, and then walked away, leaving Ann in a draught of disapproval. For such a person as Miss Spenhope to have taken offense, Ann knew her comments must have sounded cruel indeed, and she blushed deeply for the thoughtlessly spoken words.
**
Chapter XII
In her mortification--“Nothing makes one look sillier than a pleasantry not relished or not understood”--Ann retired to the safety of a chair, and the company of Lady Thomasin, whose talent for self-perpetuated conversations enabled her to recover her composure unnoticed. As Lady Thomasin sustained the flow of her speech by
expounding on every thought that flitted across her mind, it was not long before, observing her great-niece’s partner, she began to talk about him. On the subject of his social and mental deficiencies she was either reticent or ignorant, but as the history and fortune of every one in society is considered the lawful property of every one else, and the possession of such knowledge the duty of every responsible parent, she did not scruple to tell her companion all that was known.
Ann was still at the stage of her embarrassment in which any mention of Sir Warrington brought renewed discomfort, but she steeled herself to listen, and was astonished to hear that as a young child he had been spirited away by gypsies; that their ingenuity had defeated every attempt of his parents to recover the boy; and that it was not until after the death of his father, at the time of the late uprising, that he had reappeared and deposed his younger brother, who had been brought up in expectation of the baronetcy. Ann could not help wondering if Lady Thomasin had proposed this romantic and incredible chronicle in jest, but as that lady gazed back at her with every appearance of having delivered a round unvarnished tale, she was forced to give it credence, if only as a respected rumor. Some response being required, Ann remarked that this was surely a hard circumstance for the younger son, to be so quickly and unexpectedly deprived of his inheritance; to which Lady Thomasin replied,
“Oh yes, indeed--but at least he does not make a display of his disappointment; he leaves that for his mother to do. It is shocking the way that woman behaves! After all, one is her son, as well as the other! At least--well, I have heard some doubt may exist on that head--but I for one do not believe it--and I should not be at all surprised to find she had put it about herself! Ha! Ha! If there were the slightest possibility of his not being who he claims, you may be sure she would not acknowledge him even as much as she does! As it is, he might be a flea, from the way she looks at him, when she can bring herself to do so at all! She cannot forgive him for being older than her darling, and now that Sir Warrington has come to London in search of a wife she is twice furious. Ha! I suppose she thinks that having had the poor taste not to be dead or lost beyond reclaim, he ought at the very least have the courtesy to go to the grave without further interference with the succession! But Sir Warrington has other ideas, and who can blame him? Ha! Ha! Though why he must come here when there are plenty of pretty girls in Ireland who would be happy to help him spend his rents--! Ah well! Poor boy! One trusts he will not regret it. Ha! They call him Edgeworth’s Essay, I understand. Mrs. Erskine told me that it was Lord Al_____y who began it--saw him coming down St. James one day and exclaimed, ‘Oh no! Here comes Edgeworth’s Essay--Illustrated. Gentlemen, I’m off!’ Of course his companions thought he had uttered something terribly clever and rushed about repeating it.” Glancing over, she evidently mistook Ann’s expression of discomfort for one of perplexity, and added, “From the book, you know.”
Ann said that she did; and seeing her chance, told of her conversation with Miss Spenhope. “I fear I should not have said that about Sir Warrington. I did not then know his history, but I should not have said it in any case.”
“Well, you certainly should not have said it to one of the Spenhopes! Have you not heard about poor what’s-his-name? The eldest boy--he stays at Bell Hall with his attendants. Something happened to him when he was born; I do not know what, but he is quite childish, I understand, and subject to violent fits, and has never said a word in his life.”
Lady Thomasin was not burdened with a great deal of sensibility, but Ann’s distress at this disclosure was such, that even she could not mistake it. She gave Ann a look of commiseration, and then searched the room for a likely distraction, which she soon found. “Here comes little Jenny Carruthers! Ha! Her mother married one of the Risleys, and his family never saw him again--which I always thought rather excessive, as she was a perfectly legitimate widow. And Meg Carruthers may have been a silly piece, but she was not half the chatter-basket her daughter is! You have never seen such a girl! She can carry on a conversation all by herself, without a word from anyone else ever being needed! Ha! Ha! I pity that young Mr. Ardmore--they say he is going to offer for her--perhaps he has some notion that her tongue will slow down as she grows older, but in my experience that kind of gabble-grinder only grows worse with the passage of years! Some one ought to warn him before it is too late! He will spend his life listening to her rattle on and plotting how soon he can leave for his club! Ha!”
But not even the sad prospects of Mr. Ardmore could long deflect Ann from her remorse. However, by the time the Parrys’ carriage was summoned, her feelings had subsided to more manageable proportions, and she was able to face the prospect of the nightly review, with only the smallest amount of reluctance.
She was so taken up in wondering how to begin, and sighing with the renewed regret which these reflections brought, that only gradually did she become aware that Julia’s spirits were as cheerless as her own. She was quiet, almost grave, and so much in her own thoughts, that Ann spoke to her twice without receiving any notice. This was so unusual, that Ann at once lost interest in her own troubles, from curiosity over her friend’s. She ceased to worry about the whens and ways of telling her own tale, and related it with an absence of concern, and an indifference to choosing words which would make her own behavior look as admirable as possible, that is seldom achieved in such narratives. Her sole desire, now, in telling it, was to encourage a return confidence, and she could not be bothered to take pains over her reputation.
Julia was all sympathy, and exclaimed and murmured and Oh-Ann’d, and was positive in her conviction that Miss Spenhope was not one to despise an apology, even had she not yet realized that only ignorance had prompted the unhappy speech.
Ann, allowing herself to be comforted, had not long to wait before she received the reward for her openness, which had been her hope. The question, “what had Julia herself thought of Sir Warrington?” was all that was required. Julia shook her head, and replied that she did not think it right to classify a man as stupid, when she understood so little of his conversation, that the perceived inadequacies of it might very well be in her own head. All she felt qualified to say of him, was that he was very friendly, very inquisitive, and danced very badly.
Ann was of the opinion, that they need not scruple to lay stupidity to his charge as well, for, said she, “Was not excessive friendliness a sure sign of mental deficiency?”
This was a favorite maxim of Clive’s, and usually did not fail to provoke a derisive smile, and a disparaging word from his sisters; but on this occasion, Julia said nothing, and when, after a moment, she looked up, Ann was astonished to see tears standing in her eyes.
Explanations could only follow, and Ann soon learned, that Julia’s answers to Sir Warrington’s catechism had so impressed that finicky son of Erin, that he had barely waited for the set to end, before grasping her hand, and more or less dragging her about the rooms in search of someone, as persistent as a hound on the scent. The trail had ended at a gentleman in a brown coat, who was identified by the baronet, as his brother. “He appeared less than delighted at being cornered in this fashion, and I suppose one could scarcely blame him,” said Julia, “for not only did Sir Warrington seize upon his arm as if afraid he might attempt to escape, but standing thus, with one of us secured in each hand, he made his introductions a mere preface to urging his brother to dance with me. It was, to be sure, a most graceless presentation--and I could easily have forgiven Mr. Lenox, if, in the discomfort of being placed in such a fix, he had blundered in his handling of it. But he did not appear to be in the least sensible of its awkwardness!” In the agitation of her feelings she rose and walked about the room. “If I could but make you understand the manner in which Sir Warrington presented me! I do not know quite how to describe it—”
Here Ann assured her, that descriptions were superfluous, as she had seen how it was with him, from the way in which he had gazed at Julia as they danced. “He presented you, did he not, a
s if you were the golden bird of Tippoo Sahib, and he had been to India and won you from the despot by his own ingenuity and valor? At once proud, joyful, and not a little awed by his good fortune?”
“Dear Ann, you make me laugh; are you never at a loss for an analogy? Yes, it was exactly like that. He was so childishly pleased with himself for having found me, and so sure that his brother would admire his treasure just as he did; and then, to see his disappointment! So cruel, so unnecessary!” She turned her head away, but after a pause, said more calmly, “Whatever Mr. Lenox thought of me, and however much he may have resented his brother’s ill-advised attempt to dispose of his dances, Sir Warrington surely deserved better from him, than such open indifference. I cannot believe, that a few minutes of perfunctory dissembling, would have harmed Mr. Lenox’s conscience, or exhausted his capabilities!”
“I collect Mr. Lenox thought differently?”
“Mr. Lenox looked at me, and said, ‘I cannot think what my brother sees to admire in you! I wish you will go away at once and stop imposing on his naivete!’”
“Julia! He cannot have said such a thing!” But despite her words, Ann’s horrified exclamation held nothing but belief, and Julia’s reply of, “No, certainly not; he only looked it,” was for a moment lost on her. Then she sighed, and laughed; at which the other commented, that Ann might very well find it diverting--after all, she had not been the one to receive the look: “Which,” added Julia, “I assure you, conveyed his sentiments quite as clearly, as if his lips had been framing those words, instead of the ‘How do you do, Miss Parry? My brother has not thought, but I am very sure you have not another dance free this evening,’ with which he informed me, that he had not the slightest wish to stand up with me.”
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 8