Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I

by Meredith Allady

  Lenox (he continued) was sensible enough to say nothing, or, when he could not escape doing so, only uttered some mild phrase of agreement. Nor could Major Merrion perceive in him any emotion, other than distaste for the subject, a distaste that was shared by most of those at the table. Lord Meravon, in great disappointment, was losing interest in his latest gambit, when unhappily he chose to end it, with a final denunciation of General Lake.

  It was Major Merrion’s opinion, that Colonel Nichols had become rather too intimate with the bottle at his elbow. In any event, whether previously silent from respect for Lord Meravon, or whatever reason, at this he could no longer hold his tongue, and crashed in to reveal, first, that General Lake had been something of a patron to him, and then, that he had had the privilege of implementing that glorious man’s policies in Kildare and Wicklow. A spirited defense of these policies followed, accompanied by animadversions against Sir Ralph Abercromby and General Moore, for their part in “prolonging the rebellion by their soft and delicate treatment of the rebels.”

  At this point Major Merrion broke off his account, with an expression of countenance that told Ann he was struggling anew with his indignation, and perhaps devising how he could continue without giving voice to it; upon which suspicion she asked him, wonderingly, what Colonel Nichols could have meant by such accusations? The question proved an admirable lever; she was at once warmly advised that what the colonel had meant was to defame honorable men, but that what he had done was merely to confirm himself a fool. Major Merrion then went on to declare that this alleged “soft and delicate” treatment had consisted of allowing ignorant, deceived people to return to their homes once they confessed and surrendered their arms; of not approving the indiscriminate burning of houses; of--but here he again checked himself, and this time would not continue, except to say that “all Lake had accomplished by his ‘severe examples’ was to make the people so terrified of the government he represented, that they felt they had no choice but to join the rebellion against it, thus extending and spreading the insurrection over at least three more counties, and as many months.” As Major Merrion had briefly served under Sir Ralph’s brother in India, and was also much attached to his present commander, his vehemence on the subject was understandable, and Ann listened attentively to all he wished to say on the matter; after which, having unburdened himself of what he had obviously refrained from saying at the table, for fear of exacerbating the situation, he returned more calmly to his narration:

  “Nichols was permitted to spew his opinions about on us for a good deal too long--I believe we all thought that it was Father’s place to stop him, and Father did not--but upon his beginning, in his fervor, to mention rather too particularly the instances in which Lake’s methods had proved effective, Lenox was at last compelled to request of him, that the conversation might be turned, saying that ‘such a subject cannot help but be distressing to anyone who has personally experienced the results of those methods.’ His warning was quite civil, and generally given, but his glance indicated his brother, whom I, and I suspect most others, had completely forgotten. The poor fellow wore a distinctly unhealthy hue, and a face of misery. Nichols cast them both a look of contempt, and said, ‘he was sure he was very sorry, and perhaps the gentleman was of a taste that preferred pitch-caps to triangles’; meaning, it seems (though the division was hardly that arbitrary), that any one who did not relish a report of Lake’s atrocities must have been in sympathy with the rebels. One doubts if Sir Warrington understood this, but the reference was enough to turn him even paler, whereupon Lenox said again, and more sharply, that he would be greatly obliged if some other topic could be introduced.

  “’I suppose, sir,’ said Nichols, ignoring this, ‘that even you had rather see a rebel flogged into surrendering his pike, than carrying your head about on it.’

  “’Yes,’ replied Lenox; ‘but I should like to be assured that he had not had the thing forged in the first place, just so he might have something to surrender to your inquisitors. But enough of this; I forget myself. Mr. St. Bees, I beg your pardon, but I begin to think it would be wise if I were to see my brother home.’ He then asked that their carriage might be sent for, and began to say polite things about the dinner, and send compliments to Lady Thomasin.

  “This was too much like being dismissed, for Nichols to be able to support it, and he broke in to declare loudly, that General Lake had used nothing but ‘approved methods of suppressing rebellion,’ and that he greatly resented any implication to the contrary.

  “Lenox would not even look at him, but kept his eyes fixed on poor Uncle St. Bees, who was ringing for a servant with something approaching urgency, and striving to meet the occasion with a few verbal scraps such as ’quite understand,’ ‘deeply regret,’ and ‘only too happy.’ But the colonel is not the man to permit himself to be thus ignored, and after glaring for several minutes to no effect, he finally jumped up, leaned across the table, pounded his fist, and shouted at Lenox, with a total disregard for the accurate apportioning of rank, that ‘if it had not been for General Lake, all you da--ah--doomed Croppie-loving potato baronets would have long since been eaten by pigs in the streets of Dublin.’

  “Nichols was so entirely the choleric officer of farce that it should have been amusing--but it was not. Lenox merely gazed at the man as might a Brahmen offered the drinking cup of a Chandala, but Sir Warrington burst into tears, and rising, knocked back his chair, and ran from the room.”

  Once again Major Merrion paused, obviously examining the memory with renewed vexation, though for which aspect of it, Ann was uncertain. She respected his preoccupation for as long as seemed reasonable--that is, about nine or ten seconds--and then wished to know, did he mean to say that Sir Warrington’s chair had been quite overturned? For they had heard nothing of it in the drawing-room, and she would have imagined that such a heavy, solid article, would have made a most tremendous crash.

  This query restored his attention to her, and he explained that there had been no crash to hear, as Mr. Lenox, rising at the same instant, had been at hand to catch the chair before it fell--Ann reflected that intercepting objects before they reached the ground seemed to be a habit of his--saying, as he replaced it, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my brother. He helped to cart away the dead after the debacle at New Ross, and I fear it has permanently affected his taste for pork.” Then, turning to Nichols, he had continued, “Pray accept my congratulations. I had never thought to meet an Englishman in these days, to whom the burning of a hospital full of wounded was an ‘approved method of suppressing rebellion.’ I had before supposed that approving the massacre of defenseless men was confined to large-minded conquerors such as Buonaparte, but you, Colonel, have reassured me the English are behind Le Grande Nation in nothing.”

  “It was a good speech,” added Major Merrion; “I wish I had made it. It left Nichols with precisely nothing to say, and while he was still saying it, Lenox had gone out in search of his brother, shortly followed by Mr. Parry, while Merivale came in here to fetch Fanny. The rest of us remained behind and concentrated on reducing Nichols to appropriate Flimnapian dimensions.”

  “He did appear somewhat--shrunken--when he came in.”

  “He should have been peeking over the buckle of his shoe. My father, as you may have noted, is not without skill in the art of belittling. To engage a guest in heated argument is one thing; to curse at him or drive him from the room in tears, is quite another. Though I daresay he is vexed with Sir Warrington as well, and thinks he should have stood his ground, and not made every body uncomfortable.”

  “--and with Mr. Lenox,” added Ann, “for not losing his temper.”

  “But he did lose it,” replied Major Merrion, surprised at her suggestion. “I do not say Father was precisely gratified by its display or direction, but if he cares to tally such things, certainly he may mark that through his efforts, aided and abetted by the worthy Nichols, he did at last succeed in enraging Mr. P. E. Lenox, younger son of Si
r Sylvan Lenox, of Burndall in Country Antrim.”

  “He did not sound enraged,” said Ann, still doubtingly. “Sarcastic and displeased, yes; but that is not rage.”

  “It is my manner of delivery that is at fault. Plainly, I would not have been in great demand as a travelling bard. There is something ironic in the fact that I, of all men, should have such apparent difficulty in conveying that particular emotion. Well, he did not shout, or glare, of thump the table, but I was seated next to Nichols but one, and you have my solemn assurance, that Lenox was very, very angry.”

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Ann, “and I had thought, from what you said, that it was all a cup-storm business, and Sir Warrington had only to be ‘there-there’d’ and offered some sugar-plums, to make it right. But if Mr. Lenox is angry and offended, there is no telling, with his disposition, how long it may take him to forgive us all, and Julia will be completely miserable until he does! Oh heavens! I wish we had never come to this dinner! Why, why did Lord Merivale allow himself to be persuaded into staying here?”

  “Because he thought he ought to, of course. Really, I think you exaggerate the case. Let us examine the matter in a calm and orderly fashion. One, Lenox is not such a stupid fellow, that he cannot perceive the difference between the actions of his friends, and the actions of some misbegotten wanderow who happens to be seated at the same table with them.”

  ‘No, I suppose not. But--“

  “This court does not recognize suspended conjunctions. Two, even if this were true of Lenox, Julia is not such a ninny, that she would suffer the tantrums of such a fellow to govern her peace of mind. She would be far more likely to regard him with shocked disapproval, and think, that it was a pity he was not back in the nursery, where appropriate measures could be applied, until he came to realize the advantages of behaving in a civilized manner. I have heard her speak in just this fashion, of young men who had wrapped up the undisciplined egotism of childhood in a fancy cravat, and brought it down with them into the drawing-room.”

  “With most young men, yes; but the Lenoxes rescued Kitty, you see. She feels such an obligation to them, as must excuse them in everything else.”

  “Has a sense of obligation muddled her intellect? I have observed no symptoms of it. A person does not commonly beat one’s pillow over the piques of those to whom one is merely under an obligation--unless, of course, the obligation is a monetary one, and the pique takes the form of demanding an early payment. But that is not the case here. To resume, then: three, even if he were such a fellow, and she such a ninny, her interpretation of ‘complete misery’ appears to me to be so very mild, that I think even you may be able to bear with it in tolerable comfort, for however long it may last.”

  As he said this, he looked so meaningly across the room, that Ann was moved to turn and look across as well, and beheld Julia seated on a sofa, talking with her cousin, and smiling--yes, actually smiling--and the next moment, even laughing.

  Ann stared. She was shocked, first of all, that Julia could have returned to the room, a return which she had of course been anxiously awaiting, without being observed by herself; and then, that Julia should have returned in such spirits. Ann supposed that her interest in Major Merrion’s narrative could account for the first, but for the second, she knew not what to think. She realized, that she ought to be feeling joy and relief, that the distress she had apprehended showed no evidence of being; but for the moment she was so confused, that she could feel nothing except her confusion.

  “My niece is a most remarkable girl,” Major Merrion was commenting. “I know Fanny has always prized and instructed her children in self-command, but Julia has gone beyond any mere composure of feature. That laugh, for instance--I would not be capable of such a light-hearted sound in the depths of despair. Not, that is, that I would particularly wish to utter a sound quite like that, even in moments of hilarity, for I cannot help but think, that it would do nothing for my efforts to convince affrighted matrons of my benign respectability, were that exact pitch of merriment to issue from this kim-kam face of mine--”

  He had gone on in this nonsensical vein for some time, before Ann roused herself enough to give it the response it deserved, thankful that he refrained from making sly observations, on how remarkably well she knew her friend.

  **

  Chapter XXXVI

  Nor was it very soon, before Ann could entirely believe in the truth of Julia’s felicity, and she watched with covert anxiousness the while her friend was talking, first to her cousin, then to her uncle, and later to one or two of the ladies. At length, however, on Julia’s snatching a moment, to draw near and press her hand and say, with a happy, speaking look, “It is all right; everything is all right,” Ann could no longer hold on to doubt.

  Bewilderment remained. She wondered more and more what it could mean. The “all right” must indicate that both Sir Warrington and his brother had proved readily reconcilable--as, indeed, she afterward learned to be so. But how to explain the “everything” and the bright eyes? That Julia should feel relief at the end, or the averting, of an estrangement, was only to be expected; but not that she should appear more pleased, than before any offense had occurred to make conciliation necessary.

  It was not until much later, that Ann gained enlightenment. There were no disastrous relations to impose reticence; no indiscretion of the tongue to make either reluctant to confide; and neither had any mind for sleep. It was then that Ann began to see the evening through Julia’s eyes, to hear it through her ears, and, if not to feel each moment of embarrassment, distress, fear, and joy as she had felt it, at least to begin to understand how and why she had done so. From her Ann received a vivid picture of the scene in the blue room, with Sir Warrington seated on the end of a sofa, rocking back and forth, holding on to his brother, who stood beside him, with one hand, and covering his face with the other, sobbing and talking at the same time, like a child awakened from a nightmare, who must recount the horror that has come to him, before he can convince himself that it is really in the past. To Julia, unprepared by Major Merrion’s account, it had been a strange, disconnected jumble of words, of guns and gravel-pits, of pikes and death and burning houses, and--the smell of roasted pork.

  Tears rose to her eyes once more, as she described his grief. “And we could do nothing for him. He would have none of us, even Mama, to comfort him, and only held the tighter to Mr. Lenox’s hand, whenever she drew near, which you may suppose she did not persist in doing. We could only stand around like Job’s comforters at the first, trying to exude sympathy. Papa asked Mr. Lenox if he would prefer us to leave, but he shook his head, and said, that in a few minutes his brother should become quieter, and then we might be of help in distracting him to more cheerful thoughts. I thought him unduly sanguine, which was foolish of me, for which of us must be better acquainted with his brother? Within ten minutes Sir Warrington had ceased to weep, and we were talking to him of the assembly tomorrow night, while Papa went out to see why no one had come about the carriage yet.”

  “Did he--Mr. Lenox--not seem angry, then?”

  “No, not at all. Oh, I know that insufferable man made him furious, and at first I was a little afraid he would think we ought to be able to stop Grandpapa from picking quarrels--but when I arrived Papa was apologizing for not having done anything to quash Colonel Nichols, and Mr. Lenox stopped him, saying, ‘Please do not, sir. You are hardly responsible for the boorishness of a fellow guest. If anyone is to blame for what occurred, it is myself, for failing to divert the conversation, when I first perceived its direction. I fear my only excuse is that of incredulity--I hesitated to believe that any one of mens sana could be asserting such things with sincerity, and in awaiting the word and the laugh that must soon reveal it a jest, and the man less than an utter fool, I erred most grievously.’”

  Ann was not entirely sure that she believed in this magnanimity, but she saw no profit in questioning it before Julia, and sat listening in a silence that became increasingly
thoughtful, as her friend described how a blotched and subdued, but nevertheless smiling baronet, climbed into his carriage, and drove off with his remarkably un-angry brother; heard of Julia’s return to the drawing-room, and any conversations of interest she had engaged in there. Ann roused upon being solicited for her own conversation with Major Merrion, and in reporting it as accurately as she could, it came to her, that she was uneasy. Something in Julia’s manner, in her words, her looks, or all three, had unsettled Ann’s sense of well-being, and she wished heartily that she could figure out precisely the what, which and why of it.

  At last Julia had done wanting to talk and listen, and Ann was free to turn her face to the wall, and try to slow the disorderly spinning of her thoughts. Much later, beating her pillow in an effort to find the comfort and sleep that fled from her, she recalled Major Merrion’s words, his disbelief in the strength of Julia’s sense of obligation, and was struck by the sudden delightful thought, that she had been right, after all! That Julia had not been miserable, was no credit to clear-sightedness or self-command: there had been nothing to make her unhappy, for Mr. Lenox had not retained his anger--or, at least, had not shown that he had. Ann told herself, with renewed assurance, that if he had done so, there remained not a shadow of a doubt, that Julia’s mood this night would have been wholly different, her misery a certain thing. It was upon the completion of this last thought, that Understanding came to Ann.