After this disclosure, it was not long before Lady Lenox was allowing herself to be persuaded into returning with the other to her box, there to greet her husband and daughters, and meet her interesting guests. Her acceptance was all polite accommodation; and having somehow contrived that everyone in the box should be made to rise and stand back from their chairs in order that she might quit hers with more ease, she prepared to follow her deliverer, with the air of one whose life is spent yielding to the importunate demands of those who clamor for her society. As Mr. Lenox moved her chair aside, he took the opportunity to remind her in a low voice of the time, which was then, perhaps, half-past nine, and request that she take heed of it. She patted his cheek, and said My dear Edmund, of course! and went out telling her companion in a penetrating voice what a careful, responsible young man her son was, and how determined he was, that every one about him should be just as punctilious as he. Ann fancied that Mr. Lenox took his seat, with slightly more color in his face, than when he had left it.
But if Lady Lenox had hoped that by pitching her remarks so that he could not help but hear them, he would be ashamed to enforce his schedule, and risk being seen as unduly-nice by various Consequential Persons, she had overestimated his sensibility. At a quarter to eleven he took out his watch, and then rose as he replaced it, asking that they excuse him, while he made sure that his mother had not become so absorbed in her friends’ conversation, as to forget the time. Before he could leave, however, Sir Warrington, always helpful, jumped up crying that he would fetch her, and for his brother not to forsake his “comfairtable sichy-ation”; and being nearer the door, bolted through it before the other could make any objection.
Mr. Lenox hesitated, and then resumed his seat. It was plain that he did not care for this turn of events, but he said only that he hoped his brother had some idea of which box it was that he sought. Ann was glad to be able to apprise him, that Sir Warrington had been listening attentively to their visitor, as she described its location to Lady Lenox--listening attentively, and with indignation, to her unrestrained tones, no doubt delighted to hear of the possibility that she might soon depart, and take his mother with her. For this intelligence, Ann earned a grateful glance from Julia, but Mr. Lenox, though he thanked her, did not appear greatly reassured.
Eleven arrived, paused, and passed away, and with it the integrity of his promise to Mr. Parry. Ann admired his forbearance. Not only did he refrain from general complaints concerning the tendency of life to frustrate all his best-intended plans, and from bitter mutterings against the willfulness of his mother, or the stupidity of his brother; but he actually resisted the temptation to increase the discomfort of his guests, by continually apologizing to them for what he could not help, or berating himself aloud for not possessing perfect foresight, and preventing his mother from ever departing the box. For this, Ann was very grateful indeed.
By twenty past the hour, Ann and Julia had ceased to pretend an interest in what was taking place on the stage (which in any event seemed to be a rather amateur effort that Ann, for one, found distinctly embarrassing to witness), and Mr. Lenox having remarked on the lack of servants at hand, Julia suggested, that if he wished to go himself in search of Sir Warrington or his mother, he should not hesitate to do so, from any consideration of herself and Ann. She quite saw, that they could not all go rushing madly about in search, for it was in the nature of things, that the moment they did so, Sir Warrington or Lady Lenox would return to the box, and finding them gone, immediately depart in search of them, and begin the business all over again; but she saw not the slightest reason why he should not go himself. He might be very sure, that they would detain, by clinging like anchors if necessary, to any errant family member who wandered in.
“Thank you,” said he, “but no. We shall wait here for perhaps fifteen more minutes, and then I shall take you home.”
He spoke with such a fair assumption of his usual manner, that Ann was persuaded of his being no more than moderately exasperated at the way his plans had fallen out, and that he faced the necessity of deserting his troublesome relations, with suitable resignation. But then she heard Julia urging, that he should instead take them to the Spenhope’s box, that he might be enabled to conduct at least a brief search, before starting for Merrion House, and revised her opinion. Julia was not one of those persons, who always believe they can contrive a plan superior to any body else’s; moreover, she must have known, that by the time they had made their way to it, and matters were explained, Mr. Lenox should still have had to spend so much time to-ing and fro-ing, as to have been left very little of it indeed for an actual search. Not to mention, that Julia’s previous point remained, of the inadvisability of their all leaving the original box. A note might, of course, be left; but what if it were not seen? Confusion upon confusion, confusion worse confounded.
In short, it was a very poor suggestion, and that Julia should even have made it, showed her to be so desperate that he not be forced to leave behind any member of his family, as to grasp at even a weak alternative. It did not seem to Ann, that her friend could be that desperate for herself; therefore, it must be from consideration of Mr. Lenox’s feelings that she had proposed it. Having reached this conclusion, Ann renewed her scrutiny of his countenance; but as he had turned his head to reply to Julia, she was not gratified by any excessive marks of agitation in the hair, the ear, or the strip of jaw available to her sight.
He did not point out to Julia the impractical nature of her suggestion, but said, that he feared it was too late for such measures. “And in any event, how could I ever meet Mr. Parry, if I were for some reason prevented from returning to collect you?”
Julia assured him, that the Spenhopes were good friends, and would not have made any difficulty about stopping at Merrion House.
“I am sure they are all that is obliging. But your father entrusted your care to me for the evening, not to the Spenhopes.”
After which, Julia made no more suggestions.
**
Chapter XLIII
At perhaps thirty-five minutes past eleven, the curtain came down. Ann and Julia were at first relieved, for they thought that now, surely, Lady Lenox must give up all hope of her pas de deux and return to their box, and even Sir Warrington must realize what the curtain portended. They were actually preparing to depart, however, before Lady Lenox chose to make her entrance. She arrived with exclamations. “My dear, I know I am a trifle late, but I really could not come before! The G_____rs are the most charming people; if only you had come with me; you would have liked them excessively, I am sure! They are entirely convinced, as I am, that the last act has been needlessly sacrificed. It was not but a few minutes past the hour when that last piece came to an end, and I am certain that the rest of the Ballet could have been performed, and the curtain still have been dropped before twelve. It can be nothing but obstinacy on the part of-”
Mr. Lenox broke in upon this, to ask, with the first hint of urgency Ann had detected in him, if his mother had not, then, seen Sir Warrington?
She looked almost indignant at the imputation. “No, I did not. Did you send him to fetch me? Has he become lost again? How wearisome! There was not the slightest necessity for you to have done so! Did I not tell you I would return in plenty of time? I know, it is a little past eleven, but you see it is not yet--why, is it so late already? But I was most careful to ask Lord W_____ for the time! His watch must have stopped! What an unhappy mischance!” And at the look that he could not quite restrain, she added rather hastily, “I daresay I would have seen--your brother--except that, as I think I began to tell you, after a quarter of an hour or so we went across to another box. The G_____rs particularly desired that I--”
But Mr. Lenox was no longer attending, as even she perceived. With a glance he had Ann and Julia checking to be sure they had shawls, fans, and reticules secured, while he stepped out of the box to look up and down for some sign of his returning brother.
Lady Lenox took offense a
t his failure to be interested in the G_____rs’ desires concerning herself. “I do wish you would be more reasonable about this, dear Edmund,” said she coolly, as he stepped back in and held out his hand for her to let herself be escorted from it. “Look about you and see--there is nothing in the slightest out of the ordinary. The performance has come to an end, and everyone is leaving, calmly and good-naturedly, just as one would expect.”
This may have been true of the boxes, but Ann, glancing down with curiosity as various sounds of disapprobation began to arise from the pit, could see that a great many of its occupants had retained their seats, and showed no disposition to retire.
Mr. Lenox had taken note of it as well, and said in reply to Lady Lenox, “I hope you are right. But ten minutes before it began to rain, Noah’s neighbors were no doubt laughing at him. Ma’am, please come.”
But she could not come. She had lost her fan. It was a fan particularly precious to her. Her father had bought it for her in Madrid. She certainly could not leave without it. She stood and gazed about her in a helpless fashion, while Ann and Julia, diving more vigorously into the search, began to look under chairs, and move drapes aside, and make suggestions of where she might have left it. She repudiated any notion that she might have dropped it in one or the other of the boxes she visited, and insisted that somehow it must be still in their own, though Ann could not quite see how it could be, as there are not really many places to conceal oneself in a box, even if one happens to be a fan.
Mr. Lenox again stepped out into the hall while their furious search was being made; but he allowed it for a few moments only, and then returned, and speaking over his mother’s repinings, said, ”He was sorry she had lost her fan, but there was really nothing to be done about it, and they could not delay leaving another minute.” And taking her arm he led her, still protesting, from the box. Julia followed at once, and Ann was close behind, but as she moved a glitter in one corner of the box caught her eye, and thinking it might, somehow, be the aberrant fan, she was just going to step over and investigate it, when Mr. Lenox, standing at the door, said, “Miss Northcott, come.”
Miss Northcott came.
Lady Lenox felt herself abominably used, and said so as she traversed the hall in the grip of her heartless son. As she hurried ahead with Julia, Ann took the opportunity to seek the answer on a matter that had been exercising her for some time, and that was, why Julia had not tried to persuade Mr. Lenox that they should stay as long as was needed in order to find Sir Warrington, assuring him, that however late it made them in reaching Merrion House, Mr. Parry was not the sort of man to blame anyone for a failure to anticipate Providence.
Julia was just replying, that Mr. Lenox would much rather she assist him to keep his word to her father as much as she was able, than that she waste her breath explaining how he might be excused for breaking it, when the noise from the pit, which had been continuous but not particularly alarming, suddenly swelled, as if some boundary had been burst through, and to the clamor of mere vocal protest now became added various sounds indicative of vigorous activity.
As the business was thoroughly reported by the newspapers at the time, I will not attempt a description of the chaos of that night, which, as it turned out, Ann and Julia saw very little of. When the sounds of tumult reached them, Mr. Lenox only requested them to walk a trifle faster, and they had reached the lobby before anything of a truly violent nature began. As he had ordered the coach to be ready at eleven, they had hopes of being able to step into it at once; but of course, when they had not arrived when expected, after a while the coachman felt the necessity of walking the horses, and though he was within sight, he was not where he was needed. A servant was sent after him, but other carriages had by now been sent for as well, and he experienced some difficulty in returning with as much ease as he had left.
As they waited, the noise of outrage increased, as did the number of worried patrons who began to appear, hurrying out in some disorder, adding their chatter and carriages to the growing confusion. Some found it all rather amusing, and there were many jocular remarks about the folly of the Bishop; but others, who from the comments Ann could catch, were remembering other times and seasons, when popular outrage had brought about riots and great destruction, were clearly fearful of where it might end. Lady Lenox had not ceased to give expression to her displeasure, though its object had somewhat changed, and she now concentrated on abusing the slowness of the servants and the coachman. They could not hear the sounds of what was taking place within the theater very well, but what they did hear was quite enough to frighten Ann and Julia, who had for most of their lives been unused to crowds in any form, and certainly unused to maddened ones. There was a sudden loud crash--which they later guessed to have signified the demise of the Grand Piano--and Lady Lenox interrupted her mutterings to give a small shriek, while Ann and Julia clung even harder to each other’s arms. The next moment they were being urged forward by Mr. Lenox, who was more nearly carrying than assisting his mother, and directing them among the carriages to their own, which was still some distance from the door.
Ann and Julia reached it without having taken the slightest care of where they stepped, and scrambled in with all haste, but Lady Lenox proved obstructive even now, and clutched at her much-tried son, crying out that he must come with them, that he must not stay, that he would surely be killed in that dreadful place if he returned! He removed her grasping fingers from his coat as gently as he could without wasting time about it, and said, “Please calm yourself, ma’am. I believe there is little real danger to be apprehended. You may be sure I shall come to you, as soon as I have fetched my brother from this tumult.” Lady Lenox started at this, as if he had uttered some sharp rebuke instead of these reassuring sentences, and in that moment of silence he compelled her to be seated, and stepping back, was in the act of shutting the door, when Julia leaned forward and stayed it with her hand, to beg, that he would send word to Merrion House as soon as he reached home safely, assuring him, that they would be praying for his and Sir Warrington’s safety until they heard from him. He might have reached to touch Julia’s hand briefly as he gave his promise, or he might merely have been ascertaining it would not be caught in the door; Ann could not be sure. And then they where shut in, the coach was rolling, and Mr. Lenox, moving away immediately to return inside, was gone from sight. Lady Lenox uttered another shriek, this time on the scale of a mortally wounded peacock, and much to her companions’ dismay, burst forth into violent sobs.
Ann was by this time so thoroughly weary of her hostess, that she was quite prepared to let her weep herself hoarse if she wished; but Julia, after hesitating a second to recover from the shattering effect of that scream heard at close quarters, moved across to sit beside her. Taking her hand, she besought her to be calm, and counseled all manner of sensible things; nevertheless, it was with the greatest difficulty that Lady Lenox was restrained from grasping the check string, and ordering the coachman to turn back, and in fact she did so, loudly, more than once, but thankfully either he did not hear her cries, or he was more convinced of the wisdom of obeying the instructions of his absent master than his present mistress, for he paid no attention. Lady Lenox was too distraught to take the umbrage at this that she might, and after the second corner, she evidently saw that there was no returning, and gave herself up to complete hysteria. It was the more disturbing, from being so entirely unlike her normal manner, which, despite her frequent inability to resist making ill-natured remarks, was one of coolness and control. Now, however, she raved and wailed, and made vehement, uncoordinated gestures with her hands, alternately swayed by anger and sorrow, convinced that her younger son was at that moment being killed by enraged opera-goers (whose nationality, Ann could not help noticing, had suddenly become strangely unreassuring to her ladyship), or that a fire was breaking out in which he would be consumed; and, always, that her eldest son was to blame for it all.
As her distress grew in proportion, so it grew in irrat
ionality, and before they had traversed many streets, she had lost interest in merely apportioning blame, and was exclaiming that Sir Warrington had “murdered the father, and now he was going to murder the son,” and all manner of nonsense on that head, until Julia, whose efforts to sooth her had all been ignored, grew bolder, and said firmly, “Lady Lenox, you are distraught--you do not know what you are saying! Indeed, you must not repeat such unkind foolishness--Sir Warrington is devoted to his brother, and would never deliberately bring him to any harm.”
At this Lady Lenox launched into a kind of broken scale of laughter, most unpleasant to hear, particularly in the confines of a carriage, and afterwards cried, “Stupid, blind girl! You know nothing about it! You were not there! We were safe on the ship--mere hours would have seen us home in England--so safe--when the wretched boy rose up and dragged him from me! I begged him not to go--I--I!-- went down on my knees--I knew he would be his death--I knew he would never return--but he would not listen--he was shot like a dog in the street! There was only Edmund left to me, then, dearest, dearest Edmund. I thought we were secure--so many had died--there was no one that knew--I was sure he must be dead as well--Surely God would not let him be alive, when so many others had perished! I thought there could be no harm in telling him--if he had not found that box--I never knew he kept such a thing, or I should have destroyed it--How could he not have realized the danger of it?--How was I to know he would be so irresponsible? And Edmund--I explained it to him--but he went mad I think--he would not listen to reason--his head was full of Simeon--ignorant, fanatical man--I blame him very much--dear Edmund was never used to be so foolish--but nothing I could say would restrain him--he would go--he would go, and the disgrace--the shame--meant nothing to him--he would not listen--just like his father--he never paid any heed to what I said--we could have handled the matter quietly--discreetly--no one would have regarded it--but no, no, he would not hear a word I said even then, even when he saw--and now, and now he is to be killed, and I will be left entirely alone, and it is all his fault!”
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 28