And all the time she had been priding herself on the tolerance with which she viewed his supposed selfishness, even offering her views to Clive, with this assurance of their infallibility, that they had come entirely from her own head.
Having got this far, Ann could endure no more, and tore herself away from such reflections; that she would have to return to them she knew well. She would have to return, and examine them carefully so that she could not fail to recognize them if ever they attempted to impose on her again, and then renounce them to the best of her ability. But she could not do it now. They were too strong for her, their jeers too loud, and they chased her as bees do.
She became conscious that Lord Merivale was gazing at her with concern. “My dear Ann,” said he, as she looked up, “I thought I had wearied you into a stupor! I beg your pardon; I knew myself to be a trifle dull this evening, but I had not suspected it to be as bad as that! What shall we talk of? I fear our last subject has been so long resting in peace, that it would be useless to try to revive it. I leave it to you to introduce a new one.”
Nothing could have suited Ann better, but for a moment she hesitated, at a loss, before recollecting a previous wish to know the identity of the young lady standing up with Major Merrion.
“That is Miss Catherine Bramford. She is a ‘pretty modest-looking girl,’ but a poor choice for Tor. She has put him quite out of humor.”
“Oh no, how can you say so? She has made him smile. Look how cheerful he is.”
“Do you think that a smile? I had thought it a gentlemanly way of gnashing his teeth. How can he be enjoying the dance, when his partner will not look up at him? All he can win from her, are nervous upward glances, and monosyllables. It is always a mistake, for him to stand up with any young lady, who has not previously had occasion to speak with him at length, and realize how harmless he is; and to approach one when he is in a temper already--that was very unwise. I have heard him say more than once, that it is a great pity you do not dance, as you are one of the few females not within his immediate family, who does not gaze at him as if in momentary terror of his shrieking like a banshee, and falling upon the inhabitants of the room with a saber.” He smiled at her laughter, and then said, “Now, do, Ann, allow me to fetch you a glass of ratafia, if only as an excuse to fetch myself one. I have talked and talked, and made myself quite dry.”
Thus urged, Ann could not again refuse, and was so in charity with him for the service, that she was even pleased upon his return, to find that he had no thought of leaving her. He said no more of the Lenoxes, and they talked comfortably of other matters, until Lady Frances came up, and after first apologizing to Ann for taking him away, requested that her nephew would go and dance with “little Miss Hartley, who has had no body ask her all evening, but has been forced to sit and listen to her mother talk of all her sisters’ successes when they were brought out.” Lord Merivale obediently went off to rescue the afflicted damsel, but as Lady Frances immediately took his place beside Ann, his departure could not be regretted, other than as he had been recounting to her something of life at Shorncliffe, in particular instances of the esteem in which his uncle was held by Colonel M________, which Lady Frances was naturally unable to continue.
It was of course impossible that Ann could be entirely easy with matters, so disagreeable to both pride and integrity, awaiting her inspection; but her spirits had received such material improvement from the affable inconsequence of Lord Merivale, that she felt she wanted only an opportunity to apologize to Major Merrion, to make her as easy as a person could well be, who had just received such unpalatable insight into the machinations of her own heart.
Given the strength of his displeasure, and his obligations to Miss Bramford (for whom she now felt nothing but compassion), Ann knew it would be foolish to expect to be granted such an opportunity before much later in the evening, but she could not help watching for it just the same, and kept her gaze fixed on the dancers as much as she could, without rudeness to Lady Frances. She was confident, that if she could just catch his eye, and express by her own, her anxiety to make things right, then, whether or not he accepted it at the time, he would be certain eventually to make some time during the evening, to receive her apologies. Her hopes and vigilance grew as the set came to an end, but her watchfulness was in vain--his head was not turned toward her, but toward his partner; and then, on Ann directing her attention to Lady Frances but for the briefest of moments, she discovered, on looking back, that he had disappeared.
She perceived that there was nothing for it, but to reserve her apology, and had just bent upon the longsuffering Lady Frances an undivided eye for the first time since she had taken her seat, when he appeared beside them, having apparently spontaneously assembled himself from the dust of the air. For a second she was too much surprised to remember the opening words of her apology, and in that space he forestalled her, saying, “I see that Merivale has been sweeping up behind me as usual. Forgive me; I had no right to say what I did, without knowing more of your reasons; and never any right, to speak it in that manner. Pray, Fanny, return my chair to me, that I might plead my case in comfort, if she proves obstinate.”
Lady Frances smilingly gave up her chair, with a look that expressed her absolute disbelief in such a possibility, a disbelief which her brother evidently shared, for he did not refer to the subject again, but began instead to talk of the Parrys’ plans for the next day, until Ann’s heart, which was for a moment so full as to be in danger of spilling from her eyes, had subsided.
I should like to be able to record, that after this Ann spent some time reflecting on all she had learned of her own heart, or of the advantages of taking counsel, as opposed to wasted hours of solitary fretting, etc; but though I do not say such reflections never came to her at all, at the moment her thoughts were not orderly enough to allow her to draw such sensible, admirable deductions. It must be remembered that Ann is not a heroine, so I hope my readers will grant her a little license, and not condemn her utterly when I report that though there was a small portion on her mind which remained deeply ashamed, the greater part was not only comfortable, but even--dare I confess it?---quite happy.
**
Chapter XL
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 explai
n 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 appropria
ting 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.
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 26