Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I

by Meredith Allady

  “And is this,” inquired Ann, “the pattern of how he expects to go about finding a wife? Bringing each young lady to his brother for approval, and then meekly sending her back if she does not receive it?”

  Kitty gazed at her in surprise. “If it is, why should you dislike it? Sir Warrington obviously has the highest regard for his brother’s judgement; and one must give Mr. Lenox credit for his readiness to help. It is not easy, you know, always to be having to give the deciding opinion on every issue.”

  “But in this case, very convenient,” said Ann to herself; and instead gave Sir Warrington all the credit, of discerning Julia’s worth enough, as to be, for once, willing to go against the pronouncements of his household oracle.

  “Your brother is very proud of you, Mr. Lenox,” said she, one evening, having recently passed within hearing of where Kitty and the baronet sat, extolling their siblings, in a corner.

  She was thinking of Kitty’s explanations as she spoke, and her feelings may have betrayed themselves in some way, for he said, “Yes, I know,” and then, accepting a cup from her, met her look for a moment, before advising, “You need not refine too much upon it. My brother has a warm and impulsive nature; his affections are easily engaged. In some instances, the commonest acts of courtesy are enough to win his devotion.”

  This was said, in a tone so equivocal, that Ann could not discern whether it was a commendation, or a condemnation, or merely a statement; and she was looking after him with a discontent, which caused Julia, coming up, to ask what he had said to her. “From your expression,” said she, “it cannot have been a compliment on your deft manner of pouring coffee.”

  Ann told her, adding, “I never speak to Mr. Lenox, except I regret it. I always gain the impression, that he is thinking much more than he is saying, and that were I privy to the things left unsaid, I should not care for them at all.”

  “It is the same with me. But I begin to think that he means nothing by it, and it is just his manner.” She ended on a sigh: for having, with what difficulty, persuaded herself that he held the fate of his inheritance in the noblest indifference, it was surely disobliging of him, to maintain a formality, a coolness, toward herself, above that which he maintained toward the rest of the family, and which appeared to be habitual with him. The distinction was a fine one; had she not been watching him closely, Ann did not think she would even have marked it, and she was surprised to discover that Clive had done so as well--until she recalled, that he had always been very quick to note, when one of his sisters was not accorded the careful regard by others, that he had been taught to take himself. His speech was often flippant, his schemes for their protection, too often mismanaged, and wanting in subtlety; but his care was nonetheless real for all that.

  He confessed to Ann, that Mr. Lenox puzzled him; and he frowned as he said it, for Clive had no opinion of puzzles. When he was quite small, his uncle Thomas had given him a toy, a brightly painted thing of wood and metal, and his own contrivance. The object of it was very simple--to get it apart. Adults had praised its ingenuity, and Julia and Ann had knelt down beside Clive, and endeavored to show him the best way to go about figuring out how to work it. He had stared at it fixedly whilst they explained and demonstrated, and when they had done, he had picked it up with an air of great determination, and given it a vigorous shaking. When this measure failed to persuade it of the wisdom of becoming less enigmatic, he evidently decided, that it was utterly incorrigible, and immediately lost all interest in it. The next day he carried his clever new toy out to the fish pond in front of the house, and dropped it in under the horrified eyes of his nursemaid.

  But one could not very well resolve Mr. Lenox in this fashion.

  Ann suppressed a smile at the very thought, and inquired of Clive his reasons for bafflement.

  “You cannot have missed his singular habit of looking, very politely, at every body and every thing in a room, other than Julia. What I wish to know is, why does he do it?”

  “Perhaps, for the same reason a man generally declines to look at something: because the sight does not please him.”

  “And perhaps we are not speaking of Julia, but of some other person entirely.”

  At this Ann did smile; and seeing that he was set to worry the matter with tenacity, she thought it better to tell him something of her own conclusions, rather than risk his losing all patience, and “shaking the puzzle” by bluntly demanding an explanation of Mr. Lenox. Though she would have given much to see that gentleman put to the blush, she could not feel that such a course would meet with Julia’s approval, or help matters in the least. She was careful to present her suspicions as beginning and ending with herself, and to present them in the best light possible.

  Clive was at first incredulous, then scornful, then indignant; but gradually she was able to persuade him, of its being a tolerably happy explanation, since, had Mr. Lenox’s manner toward Julia sprung, not from concern over his inheritance, but from mere inclination, they could not help but think the worse of him for it. In keeping a jealous eye on the disposal of estates one had been raised to believe one’s own, a man might be thought to have some excuse; in disliking Julia, he could have none at all.

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  Chapter XXIII

  Clive was persuaded, but he was not wholly appeased, and Ann was rather uneasy of what he might say, or do, when next Sir Warrington persuaded his brother to come to Merrion House. The only revenge he took, however, was to promote the notion that it would be only polite, for their new acquaintance to be asked to read aloud from a volume of his own choosing, when dinner was over, and all the children were gathered with them in the drawing-room.

  Many a man, seeing himself encircled by such a disparate audience, had been known to quail before this formidable request. A man’s amour propre might be steeled to withstand the veiled inattention of adults, and the ink-stabs of the most irritable reviewer, and yet be helpless before the blank stares and wriggling bodies of bored childhood. Mr. Lenox hesitated, and asked what they liked to hear, and received an eager disagreement of replies, in which “poetry” and “Rosamond” and “Resipatory Tales” were distinguishable. Perceiving, from this, that further attempts to reduce the number of suggestions would only wound the feelings of those whose preferences were passed over, he cast a quick glance at Lady Frances, which she would undoubtedly have answered, had Sir Warrington not bounced to his feet the next moment, and excitedly entreated his brother to “do the one about the wine.”

  For a marvel, this unfortunate petition was perfectly intelligible to everyone, and Lady Frances looked alarmed, and made a movement, as if tempted to rise from her chair, and physically forestall any attempt to introduce into her drawing-room some kind of vulgar taproom ballad. Mr. Lenox, of course, saw what she was about, and under the influence of his amused eye she subsided, and even colored faintly, when he quieted his brother, by asserting his disbelief, that there was to be found one person left in England, who had not already heard The Diverting History of John Gilpin many times over. Sir Warrington was so obviously disappointed by this response, and Lady Frances’s anxieties so relieved, that nothing would do, but for someone to run and fetch a copy of the poem at once. Several of the children made a rush to do so--it being a favorite with them as well--but Sir Warrington, in a voice stuffed to bursting with pride, gave them to understand the utter superfluity of this action, since his brother had the entire thing in his head. This boast impressed even Gerard: it was one thing for a schoolboy to have painstakingly memorized the account; quite another for a grown man to have such a thing tucked away in his head, ready to hand, as it were. Once more they gathered around Mr. Lenox with unwinking eyes, ready to pounce on any unfamiliar phrase, and keep count of the number of fumbles and “um’s.”

  “Little vultures!” said Mr. Parry, laughing. “Say the word, and I will send for it. It shall not be said in this house, that a guest was made to recite for his supper.” But Mr. Lenox replied, that the honor of his House was at
stake, and nothing would prevail upon him to use the book. He challenged the children to give him the first word, and when, with one voice, they hurled it at him, he caught it, and was off, his tongue galloping through the verses at a rate that would not have shamed the borrowed steed they recounted, until every one was smiling, and his youngest listeners were all a-giggle. He pulled up at last, rather breathless, having gone, quite unchecked, from beginning to end, and got himself much Credit and Renown in the process. Sir Warrington sat fidgeting happily on the edge of his chair, grinning all over, and looking as if life could hold no greater joy, than for him to spend his evenings exhibiting his brother, and hearing him applauded.

  As much as she deprecated certain aspects of his character, Ann could not help thinking, of the pity it was, that Mr. Lenox had not preceded the other into the world. One could not have them together in the same room, without being continually forced to recognize how superior was the younger in understanding, and self-discipline, and in everything that fitted a man to be a master and a landlord; and how ill-suited was the elder to have charge of any matter, greater than the arrangement of his hair--and perhaps not even that, as this feature had the singular property, of curling wildly out from his head, the moment it touched his ears, and he was apparently content to leave it so.

  “It is a poor system,” said she, the next morning, “that deprives one man of rank and dignity, when he has prepared for the responsibility all his life, in order to bestow it on another, who wears it badly, and esteems it not at all.”

  “I do not think,” replied Julia, thoughtfully, “that one can truly say that Mr. Lenox has been deprived of dignity; or that Sir Warrington despises his rank. It would be most unnatural, in one of his boy-like sensibility, if he did not take at least some pleasure, in having that important-sounding Sir before his name. And he is certainly in greater need of its protection, than his brother will ever be. Plain Mr. Warrington Lenox, stripped of his ‘Bart.’ and left to make his way in the world as a mere younger son, would be a perpetual dupe and victim; plain Mr. Edmund Lenox, is neither. Still, I know what you mean. It seems a pity, that this is not the land of ancient Canaan, where the whole business of the birthright could be settled amicably over a mess of pottage.”

  “Particularly, as Sir Warrington would never play Esau, and go back on his bargain, but would be only too pleased, to be relieved of troublesome tenants and taxes, and have nothing to do, but give away his allowance to any plausible rogue who happened to ask for it.”

  Clive was also in the room, and he now let it be known that he had been attending to their conversation, by interjecting, “True; until his brother caught him at it, knocked down the rogue, hailed him before the nearest magistrate--probably himself--and then appointed a trustee to take firm charge of the said allowance--again, probably himself.”

  The accuracy of this presentation was so apparent, that even Julia was obliged to acknowledge it; and they were still smiling over it, when Kitty, catching the drift of their talk, said, diffidently, that for her part, she had rather have a master who possessed kind and generous feelings, than any amount of cleverness, for, “Clever people are so much harder to know.”

  It was not to be expected that Clive could hear a remark of this sort, and let it go. He expressed his agreement, and feelingly mourned the fact, that because of it, the workings of his mind must forever remain a Rare Book, sealed and enciphered, to even his nearest and dearest; ending with the encouragement, that even though he and his kind might be “harder to know” than the multitudes of pellucidly stupid who roamed the earth, some might contend, that they were more worth knowing.

  “Some might, indeed,” said Ann. “But then, some might contend, that the cleverer a man is, the more obnoxious are his faults, and the less excuse he has, for suffering them to remain.”

  “No, no,” said he; “a really clever man, has no faults.”

  “What, none at all?”

  “No; for those little distinctives of character, which, to lesser intellects, often appear as faults--such as, for instance, pride---resentment---avarice--are but the proper manifestations of cleverness. A clever man, you see, comparing himself to all those of inferior talents, realizes that he has a right to be proud; a circumstance which, from the very nature of their limitations, the benighted masses cannot be expected to appreciate. In the same way, he alone is in a position to mark with accuracy, the dreadful injustice done, by any slight to himself--and to resent it as it deserves. And what is frequently mistaken for Avarice, is merely his clear-sighted attempt to provide an environment for himself, in which his mental powers will be given the free range they require, and not be constantly checked by the petty domestic details of tradesmen’s bills, or thrown off stride, by stumbling over duns in the hall.”

  He finished up this speech, by looking censoriously down at Kitty, and commenting that giggling was an idle pastime, and he was sorry to see any sister of his indulging in it. Ann wondered aloud, how any one raised in the Parry household was able to mangle the truth with such facility; and Julia shook her head, and said, that he was clearly destined for great things in Law.

  He then was taking himself off, when Julia called him back, and asked, if, in his defense, he had any one person in mind. “Your selection of offenses--pride, resentment, avarice--Were you, perchance, denigrating anyone in particular? Or were you merely being severe on clever people in general?”

  Clive, about to disclaim any intended severity, saw that she was unwontedly serious, and checking, instead replied, that he had understood Kitty’s words to be in reference to a certain gentleman, well known to all those present; and that it was more than likely, that in choosing exemplary faults, he had been influenced by the thought of those, which were recognized as being shades on a character they had otherwise every reason to admire.

  Kitty only looked bewildered; but Julia had caught her brother’s swift, almost involuntary glance at Ann, and she turned on her friend a look of reproach, which Ann only withstood, by telling herself, that it was certainly most odd, that Julia could even have suspected that such a trio of unpleasant characteristics might have any reference to her paragon. After a moment, perhaps seeing in Ann’s face both apology, and impenitence, Julia looked again toward her brother, and said,

  “I do not know how you can say that, Clive. He has never given us the slightest cause to think such things of him. All I know to his discredit, is that he did not care to dance with me: and I suppose a man may be permitted to prefer one dancing partner above another, without losing his character.” Here a slight color came into her face, showing that she meant these words particularly for herself.

  Clive, as he had just finished expounding, was not at all deficient, and he must have seen the futility of arguing against such willful obtuseness, for he only begged her pardon, and said that to please her, he was willing to grant Mr. Lenox the advantage over his brother, in every area except that of singing.

  This was a wanton aspersion, directed at Kitty, who did not disappoint, but at once bristled up, very gently, in defense of her favorite. Sir Warrington, she protested, was much the better looking of the two.

  Having now got the talk where he wished it, safely away from Julia’s vexation with herself, and with him, Clive lost no time in fortifying the site, but said provokingly, “I suppose that is so, if one judges strictly by features. If bland symmetry is your ideal, there can be no comparison. One the other hand, if one were to be given a choice of dining off a dinner of three removes, or a very handsome cabbage, I take leave to doubt, whether many would be found to prefer the latter; even though, when assembled altogether on a plate, the dinner must inevitably bow to the cabbage, in respect to pure geometry.” Clive actually had the greatest kindness for Sir Warrington, but he was not one to allow sentiment to obscure a plain assertion of the facts, as he saw them.

  “Sir Warrington is not a cabbage,” said Kitty, with a hint of gentle reproof. “Why is it, that you must always be introducing food,
in some form or other, into every conversation?”

  Clive confessed, that he did not know; food had this curious habit, of obtruding itself on his notice, when he least anticipated it. He rather suspected his stomach of having some hand in the matter--if they would overlook the anatomical impossibility of this conclusion.

  Julia said, that they would happily overlook anything, if he would only take himself off, and let them get on with their work; and after sternly reminding her, of just who it was, that had frustrated his first effort to depart, he smirked at Kitty (who was giggling at him again, she could not help it), and exited, with an exaggerated display of that manner, which people are wont to adopt, upon quitting a room in possession of the Last Word.

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  Chapter XXIV

  Sir Warrington was so happily constituted, that as long as he did not meet with outright hostility, no thought or fear of exhausting his welcome ever entered his head; and when he had once been invited to dine, or to drive, or to walk out with the Parrys, he took it for granted that he was desired to join them on all similar occasions as a matter of course. His requests became mere formalities, and were made with such innocent presumption, such a lack of any suspicion that he might meet with a refusal, that he was never in any danger of receiving one.