This infuriating sort of behavior had its effect; the Miss Robinsons could not be too soon rid of her, and, with swelling resentment, ordered their accommodating coachman to head for Merrion House.
The return journey was very long. Kitty could never afterwards be brought to say, that any other journey, of whatever length, was more than “a trifle tedious.” Her companions were no doubt meditating on the misery of thwarted pleasures, and beyond exchanging several observations on the general loathsomeness of holier-than-thou, stupidly proper, ninny-witted schoolroom misses, they practiced an admirable restraint.
In what follows, I would not have my reader blame Miss Robinson too severely. Consider the provocation. She no doubt intended, from her first intelligence of Mrs. M_____’s invitation, to turn it to good account, and what must have been her chagrin, when the evening was cluttered up with an entirely superfluous guest. Consider further, the praiseworthy ingenuity with which she modified her plans to surmount this difficulty, and over and above that, the trouble she was put to, to persuade her mother to neglect her obligations and stay home, whilst contriving that her father should see nothing in this arrangement to occasion the least alarm. One can imagine the glow of accomplishment in which she prepared to take those last few steps, that were to see herself and her sister through the door, and safely away--and the fierce disappointment that must have been hers, at being accosted by the inconvenient guest, who, deaf to all reason, insisted on joining them, and would not be shaken off.
Many, faced by such a reversal as this, would have bowed, and proffered the sword; but not Miss Robinson. She had continued to fight, cleverly employing her adversary’s own weaknesses, and had seen victory once more within her grasp, only to have it snatched from her at the last instant, by the quivering hand of the disregarded guest. Ruin could no longer be denied, and Miss Robinson was left with nothing to do, but taste the proverbial dregs of defeat, and find them increasingly unpalatable with each street that passed.
And then, what must this marplot do, but gaze out at the darkened streets, and cry with eager inaccuracy, “This is Grosvenor, is it not?”
Really, when one considers fairly all the evils Kitty had brought upon Miss Robinson, it would have been almost wonderful had she not instantly agreed, and called for the coach to stop, urging Kitty to alight, saying, “Yes, yes, this is it. There is your house! Hurry! We must be going!”
Kitty tumbled out in haste; the door was shut almost on the hem of her dress; the coach moved away at once.
It was dark, but not pitch dark, in which black anonymity there might have been some comfort; there were sufficient lights to spawn a host of creeping shadows. Kitty, rattled by her sudden eviction, stood gazing up at the houses, and realized a terrifying thing: she did not know them. She looked around, and saw nothing familiar. This was not Grosvenor; she did not know what it was. She was in an unknown square, at night, in a city where even Members of Parliament were disinclined to walk home singly after sundown, and quite, quite alone.
**
Chapter XIX
History and literature have demonstrated, that there are many ways, all of them acceptable, of responding to a supernatural visitation. Trembling and looking pale, or falling down in a faint, are perhaps the most popular expressions; but it is not unheard of, for those blessed with strong minds and superior nerves, to offer the visitants dinner, or to quiz them meticulously on future events; or even--as in the case of a certain Danish prince and his late father--to attempt to irritate them into departing, by replying to every thing they say with a selection of useless ejaculations.
Sir Warrington Lenox, imposed upon by the spiritual realm as he was standing idle on his front steps one night, awaiting both his brother and his carriage, did not see fit to employ any of these time-honored responses. Those with any acquaintance of Sir Warrington, are sure that he acted as he did, not out of a vainglorious desire to be unique, but from pure ignorance of the accepted form in such situations. His attention, roaming without object around the square, was suddenly arrested by a glowing, unearthly figure, and, not stopping to consider history, or precedent, his only thought was to see it more clearly, and assure himself of its reality. With this aim, he took a great step toward it, and it is understandable, in the circumstances, that he should have done so entirely forgetting his elevated position. He avoided contact with the pavement only by various clutches and contortions, which saved his person, even if they did nothing for his dignity. Arriving once more at level ground, he righted himself, and, undaunted, immediately darted out into the street, only to escape by inches from the hooves of his own horses, having failed, in his excitement, to note their approach. Scrambling his way out of this latest danger, he espied his brother finally emerging from the house, and, with a thankful gasp, tripped (in all likelihood, quite literally) back up the steps to seize his sleeve and implore him, with stuttering speech, to come and see the angel across the street. It is reported, by those who can have no wish to malign him, that, having looked across at the figure indicated by Sir Warrington, Mr. Lenox was so unfeeling, as to say, “An angel? In London? No doubt the poor creature became lost in the smoke and crashed against a chimney,” and turn briefly aside in order give some instructions to a servant, before yielding to the insistence of the other’s hand.
Mr. Lenox’s insensate behavior continued, as he traversed the proposed distance in a steady stride, that averred, by its scorn of haste, that here was a man, to whom the appearance of an angelic being was not a matter of any great moment. Sir Warrington was not so lofty, and gave vent to his impatience with a sequence of intricate capers, which would not have disgraced a dancing master (and would have done Sir Warrington no hurt, had he thought to produce them at a ball, where they would have met with proper appreciation). Happily for him, even at Mr. Lenox’s pace it took but a few moments to draw close enough to the vision to satisfy curiosity. They halted a respectful distance away, and gazed upon it with sensations only to be imagined.
It is to Sir Warrington that we are indebted for the information that the figure, seen more plainly, had the appearance of a young girl, clothed in ethereal white garments, which flowed in all directions, in the approved fashion of angelic attire; that she was irradiated by a distinctly celestial glow, from the street-lamp directly above; and that her posture was one of fervent prayer. She knelt in the street, Sir Warrington reported reverently, with folded hands and closed eyes, as engrossed in her devotions, as if she had been a figure of stained glass, in the window of the grandest cathedral. Sir Warrington, if he had ever entertained a doubt, entertained it no longer. And though even the impressionable Mr. Butler, admiring the general ensemble, might have deplored the absence of wings, and fussed over the detail of the extremely mundane reticule, clasped tightly in the folded hands, Sir Warrington was not so hidebound.
A few seconds, no more, they stood and gazed. Sir Warrington had no thought of speaking: one did not, unless one was an utter heathen, disturb a person engaged in prayer--how much less an angel! His brother, however, was of the stuff of which skeptics are made, and, evidently motivated by a deplorable determination not to be awed, addressed the oblivious seraph with a civil offer of assistance. His exact words on this occasion were so inadequate, when compared to the profundities of others in like situation, that they have not been recorded for posterity. One is left to make the dismal inference that his voice was perfectly steady as he made the offer, and that he probably addressed the vision as “ma’am”: given our description of his conduct thus far, one feels that even the stateliness of “madam” is too much to presume.
Kitty was roused at last, from the desperation of a plea for deliverance so impassioned, that she had failed even to hear the advancement of two pairs of feet. She opened her eyes to see two strange gentlemen looming over her--in point of fact they claim to have been above a yard away, but to Kitty they loomed--and behaved in a predictable fashion, which her family would have deprecated as much as the readers of Mrs. Cu
thbertson’s tales of adventure and insipidity would have applauded it, and only started to her feet the better to topple forward, quite senseless, into the younger’s hastily outstretched hands.
“Bother!” said Mr. Lenox (or at least, so posterity has received it). He found some difficulty in gathering up one so seemingly without vertebrae or lesser bones, but managed it at last, and having directed his brother to pick up her shawl and reticule, walked back to their carriage. A short conference was then held, as to the advisability of summoning the housekeeper, Lady Lenox being absent at a card party. Sir Warrington was strongly against this proposal, due to his dread of the woman in question, who combined a peevish disposition, with an uncompromising belief in the perfection of all things English; and Mr. Lenox was explaining that even such hideous faults as these would be countermanded, in this instance, by the mere fact of her being female, when Kitty recovered her senses somewhat, and adjourned the debate, by bursting into tears.
Mr. Lenox feared the onset of hysterics, and would have been glad to have been provided with some means of distancing himself from her. A sofa, descending from Heaven on a cloud at that instant, would have been received by him with nothing but gratitude. He hesitated to take her into the house, for fear that to a mind weakened by terror, this harmless action might take on some sinister significance; for the same reason he was reluctant to place her in the carriage. The obvious answer, that she should support herself by means of her own limbs, was discouraged by the peculiarly boneless quality which she still displayed. Chivalry dictated that one did not rescue a maiden from the painful results of a swoon, only to drop her onto the pavement at the first sign of difficulty.
Had he but known it, Mr. Lenox’s apprehensions were groundless. Kitty never indulged in hysteria: it was at once a condition too loud, too uncontrolled, and entirely too spectacular for one of her retiring nature. She continued to cry quietly, and allowed his reassurances and questions to flow unheeded over her head, until his repeated request for her name, at last made its way through the confusion of her mind, and drew forth a reply.
The name Parry could not fail to meet with recognition from both gentleman, but it was left to Sir Warrington to realize her precise identity; and his joy at finally meeting the elusive Kitty, wonderful Miss Parry’s beloved sister, far surpassed any thing he had felt when he had believed himself in the presence of a mere angel.
The journey from Berkeley to Grosvenor Square was for Kitty blessedly indistinct. All strength, both mental and bodily, had deserted her; she was no more than half-conscious at any time, and becoming every second more thoroughly ill. The brothers had never before encountered any one whose health was so completely at the mercy of her nerves, and their ignorance of how she came to be alone in the square, coupled with the manner of her response to them, was for Mr. Lenox terrible. He had a lively imagination, unclouded by any cheery illusions about the behavior to be expected from his fellow men, and he could not help thinking of the possibilities. Sir Warrington’s distress was less complicated: he became convinced that she was dying of some unperceived malady, and himself began to weep, and to importune his brother for confirmation that all would be well once she was restored to her family. Mr. Lenox, faced with promising something he had no ability to secure, or pointing out his lack of omniscience and increasing Sir Warrington’s distress, chose to steer a middle course of hopeful ambiguity, and naturally enough spent the rest of the drive repeating his unsatisfactory professions, to one who would not be satisfied with anything less than a definite assurance.
In this state they arrived at Merrion House. Kitty had ceased to weep, but as she now lay huddled on the seat, white and inanimate, and looking more dead than any one still breathing has any business to look, there was little comfort to be found in this. A few seconds’ agitated assault on the knocker brought a servant--one horrified face became many--Exclamations drowned out any attempt at explanation--Here was Mr. Parry, reaching for his daughter, his face as ashen as hers--Here was Mr. Lenox, handing her over, and again seeking to give a few words of explanation--He suspected that they went unheard--doubted that any one would be in any frame to listen for some time to come--He appropriated a footman--impressed his name and direction on the man’s memory--extricated his brother from the corner in which he had taken refuge--and decamped with all speed.
**
Chapter XX
And thus the dinner-party, which had caused Kitty such anguish, was very effectually broken up for her after all. Mr. Parry was the first to remember their guests, and even he did not do so until they had all removed to the drawing-room, and were drinking tea in a state of voluble indecision. His regrets were protested away, and he was heaped with all the eager sympathy of kind-hearted people, who have just finished consuming a lavish meal in a house of affliction, and feel half guilty for doing so. They were perfectly agreeable to leaving at once, did not feel themselves in the slightest illused, and had only been waiting to hear how their poor young relative got on. Mr. Parry felt qualified, by that time, to say that a few days of rest would probably see her recovered, and with more thanks and regrets and good wishes, the guests departed.
The abrupt, graceless manner in which this dinner-party was ended remained for some time a tender spot on Lady Frances’ conscience; but there are few, perhaps, who would not exchange a pleasant, uneventful dinner, for a moment of drama, that can be talked about for years to come. A family gathering, delightful as it may be, is seldom remembered except for some striking incident, and if some one can contrive to upset a full tureen of soup, or an aunt be so obliging as to allow her new hat to be carried away by the wind, and deposited in a pond, their relatives are suitably grateful, and do not fail to refer to these selfless acts every time the affair is mentioned.
Mr. Parry’s assessment turned out to be correct. Kitty was three days in bed, and was then so far recovered, as to observe that the Miss Robinsons must be feeling very badly over what had happened, and to wonder if it might all have been a mistake, and if the girls had perhaps sought to return for her, but been prevented by some sudden excess of traffic in the next street. But this was only on the fourth day: in the beginning she suffered feverish anxieties and discomforts, and frequently frightened herself into tears by the fancies of a half-sleeping brain. The fever was a light one, however, and as much as it troubled her sleep and her family, it left her waking mind perfectly clear, and her account of how exactly she came to be in the wrong square, was told, if not with calmness, with consistency; and the detail with which she recalled every moment from the time she entered the carriage, left little room for exaggeration, and none for disbelief, even had her habits not been painstakingly truthful. She had no thought, then, of excusing anyone, and merely told of words and deeds; but every one listening was as convinced of Miss Robinson’s malice aforethought, as if she had posted them a written confession.
Ann’s mortification was necessarily extreme. But this is Ann’s story only insofar as her existence served to “gild the scene and guide the plot,” and so my readers are to be denied many instructive paragraphs on her penitential wallowings. The Parrys, let it be said, did everything in their power to make her feel altogether wretched, by not only forbidding her to apologize, but repeatedly assuring her that she had no reason to reproach herself, and pressing clean handkerchiefs into her hand. Even the reminder that, had Ann thought to give the Robinson’s official notice of her intention of joining their party, her young cousins could never have dreamt that they might be able to succeed in their scheme, and would have abandoned it, failed to have any effect. (Kitty’s self-appointed champion, Clive, on whose rancor Ann thought she could safely depend, refused to be drawn into recriminations, but instead sought to comfort her with the reminder that “every flock has its ebony factor.”) After several days of meeting with nothing but rejections for her remorse, Ann ceased to offer it, and became resigned to undiminished favor.
The Robinsons were more successful in their efforts to achieve
and retain the Parrys’ displeasure, and most of the credit for this must go to Mrs. Robinson, who, as their spokeswoman, went about securing it in a masterly fashion.
The morning after Kitty’s trial Mr. Parry sent ’round a note to Mr. Robinson, but it was his lady who replied to it, by calling herself that same day. She was received with reserve, but had she come with a suitable amount of contrition there is no doubt she could swiftly have dispelled this. But Mrs. Robinson, wise in her generation, did no such thing. She came full of explanations and justifications, which began with her excellent reasons for not attending the concert in the first place, and for allowing two young girls of questionable reliability to venture forth on their own. This first speech lasted a considerable time, even though Mrs. Robinson, in her fervor, hardly drew breath; but since, in his estimation, she spoke on matters of comparative insignificance, Mr. Parry listened to her without comment, and waited politely until she had finished extenuating herself, before broaching the circumstance of her daughters having deserted his own in the streets of London. Mrs. Robinson broke in upon him almost at once, eager to admit him to the truth of that incident. It seemed that “poor Kitty” had grown hysterical in the mistaken belief that she was being take to a masquerade, and that “poor Barbara and Georgina,” unnerved by her behavior and accusations, had simply mistaken the street. The whole unfortunate episode could, therefore, be laid to the charge of Misunderstanding; and though it was, naturally, to be lamented that young heads grew so easily muddled, it was really no one’s fault and these things happened.
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 13