“I suppose not. That is, I understood her to say, at one point, that Sir Warrington had dragged his father off a ship in order to murder him, and that he cherished the same sanguinary designs against his brother--but doubtless it was as you said, merely wild excitable talk that meant nothing, and I misunderstood her.”
The effect of this admirably candid speech, was not quite what she had intended. For a moment Mr. Hayden stared at her, and then his face became so alarming suffused with color, and his expression so indignant, that for an instant she quailed, and repented; but then he sprang to his feet, and gave his indignation words, and in proving that it was directed solely against another, relieved her of regret. “Careless, inexcusable folly!” he cried. “To speak in such a fashion--after these many years, to have no more regard--thank God that it was before no one but yourselves! She loses all command of herself in a crisis, and cares not what she says, but only to express her own outrage! It is not true, of course--Sir Warrington, far from murdering his father, was not even in the same county as Sir Sylvan at the time of his death; and as for the charge of enmity against his brother--” for a moment he could not find words sufficient to describe the absurdity of it, and in that pause Julia exclaimed,
“Pray, sir, do not distress yourself! You have no need to tell us any of this. Had Lady Lenox been in the most rational frame in the world, we still would not have believed her accusations, if accusations they were. Anyone, who has spent even a few minutes in his company, cannot fail to see how deeply attached Sir Warrington is to his brother.”
“You are right,” said he, speaking more calmly, with an effort. “You are right. His affection for Mr. Lenox, is almost as great as it is deserved, and that encompasses a good deal, I assure you. I upset myself for nothing. But no,” almost interrupting himself, “I do not. She gave me to understand that it was her own character that was imperiled by her unguardedness; she had no thought, no care, for his. That she should be so unmindful of the injuries she has done him in the past, as to take no care for his reputation now--or even, despising him, that she should ignore all the wishes and entreaties of the very one whose happiness, she maintains, is her first, nay, her only concern--It is not to be borne!” He resumed his seat, and gripped the arms of the chair, as if this alone kept him from rising. Julia, after one long look of compassion, removed her gaze from him while he thus strove to master his feelings; Ann did likewise, praying hard the while, that he would lose the battle, and yield in his vexation, that which, in a cooler temper, he would have fought spiritedly to defend even from suspicion.
When at last he spoke, her hopes were at first lowered by his doing so with a deliberation much closer to his normal manner than the hurried sentences that had preceded them; but after thanking them for their patience, he continued, “I think, yes, I think I must beg your indulgence for a little longer than I had at first intended. I have been pondering how I ought to proceed. I came, at Lady Lenox’s request, to try how far a man may go in presenting the truth from an acute and limited angle, yet without falling into falsehood. I do not apologize for this, for it was undertaken in the belief that, however selfish her own motives, the result must serve the wishes of her son--sons--as well as herself. But what I have learned from you, has put a different complexion upon it. In the face of her accusations, I am persuaded that he would prefer that you should know the whole truth, unpleasant as it is, rather than that such a charge should go unanswered. I know,” said he, to forestall Julia, as she would speak, “that your goodwill would claim the needlessness of this; that your sense of justice would strive to enforce the command of your heart. But I also know that however greatly we might wish to banish it, a vicious rumor, a lie, cannot ever be entirely forgotten; its effects linger, perhaps only on the edges of our minds, and, without our ever actually believing it, it can affect how we think of the person so accused. Nothing, in my experience, is effectual in erasing the harm of such things, save an utter, and exact, contradiction from a reliable source.”
Even Julia could not argue with this, but she was still troubled by the turn the call had taken; seeing which, he again begged pardon for keeping her, and promised to be as brief as he could be, without injustice to those concerned.
“Length is not an object,” replied Julia, gently, “if we are but persuaded, that in telling us his history, you are not telling us any thing Sir Warrington would wish concealed.”
“There is no question of that. Sir Warrington would raise no objection to the account being heralded by the mail-coach. You know how he is, with any matter that reflects the least credit on his brother. No, it is Mr. Lenox, whose wishes on this head prevent Sir Warrington from speaking; and in this case, even he could not object, as it is not now a matter of satisfying vulgar curiosity, but of clearing Sir Warrington’s name. I do not say,” with a small smile, “that Mr. Lenox would not tell it differently; you would have the whole business, perhaps, in a sentence or two: the honest bones, without a shred of meat. But by the appointment of Providence he is at home getting the rest he was denied last night, and cannot prevent me from including all the details I wish.”
Julia, like Sir Warrington, could have no aversion to a narrative that promised any credit to Mr. Lenox, and at this she smiled, and folded away her scruples. Ann breathed a sigh of relief, and prepared at last to satisfy a curiosity, that was every bit as vulgar as any; but as no one but herself knew of its existence, it did no harm.
**
Chapter XLVI
“But how shall I begin?” said Mr. Hayden, with an almost perceptible rustling of mental notes. “I shall have to proceed as a gardener does, I suppose, clearing away rubbish, that the true seedlings may flourish unhindered. You have, perhaps, heard the report of Sir Warrington’s having been abducted by gypsies when he was a child? Yes? I see you found it as difficult to credit as most, as implausible as Joseph Andrews himself. I do not deny that such things happen (I have lost too many of my hens to their avarice, to find the idea of gypsy thievery expanding to include children, at all impossible); but in this case, it was not true. Sir Warrington was not stolen by gypsies; he was not stolen at all, but at the age of six or so, placed, by his parents themselves, in the care of a respectable couple, who were well-rewarded for raising him as their own.”
Mr. Hayden went on to assure them that as Sir Warrington had, from birth, seen but little of his parents, he could not have felt this removal very acutely. For the first few years of her marriage, Lady Lenox was almost constantly engaged in an endeavor to persuade her neighbors that their lives would find improvement in a conformity to the sort of society to which she had been used in England, and her efforts in this respect naturally left her scant time for an infant. Then, once it became clear that he was not advancing as other children, certainly not displaying those superior characteristics which she had every reason to expect in a child of her own, she could not bear to have him even in the same room as herself.
When the second Lenox son was born, it was as if the blessings Heaven had denied his brother, had been stored up for him. He delighted his parents with the rapidity with which he went from infant accomplishment to accomplishment, walking at an age when Warrington had barely learned to sit unaided, and conversing in a manner far beyond his years. And of course, the more his skills increased, the greater grew his parents’ regret that he was not the firstborn. By his fourth year, regret had become resolve; legal measures were examined, and discarded. Sir Sylvan was concerned, that even if effected as quietly as possible, the business, when known, might cause them to appear to their neighbors as unnatural parents. Lady Lenox cared not a straw what such neighbors as they had might choose to think; what dissuaded her, was the consideration, that as Warrington matured, he might grow into the sort of disagreeable person who resents being even reasonably displaced, and cause his brother a great deal of grief, after he became a man. This picture she could not endure, and it was she who first proposed the more--decisive--way of disposing of an unwanted heir,
although it was Sir Sylvan alone who took the journey with the boy, which resulted in his disappearance.
Sir Sylvan did not even then forsake his son entirely, but went once a year to visit him, and see how he was faring, before settling another yearly sum on the couple. He always found Warrington to be perfectly content in his new family. The man had been a writing master, a position he had been forced to give up through increasingly poor health; and probably, through his patience, and the fact that he had not much else to do, Warrington was able to learn many subjects, that he would never have been given the time to comprehend, by an ordinary tutor. They had no child of their own, and Mr. Hayden had no doubt that the young Warrington repaid their care of him, with every mark of esteem, every kindness in his power.
For nearly twenty years the secret was kept. The tale of the gypsies was generally accepted, for lack of evidence of anything more scandalous, and for many years after Mr. Hayden came to reside at Burndall he was unaware that there had ever existed any son other than “dearest Edmund,” who was away at school in England, but constantly on the lips of his mother.
“Sir Sylvan,” continued Mr. Hayden, “being a distant connection of my mother’s, was kind enough to take an interest in my situation. We shared a keen interest in the agricultural experiments of Mr. Coke and the Duke of Bedford, which Sir Sylvan was attempting to adapt to his own--much smaller--estate, and through its agency we became friends, after a fashion. I felt esteem and gratitude toward him, and I believe I may say without boasting, that he trusted me; enough so, at least, that he consigned Warrington to my care, should anything happened to him. He did not tell me the whole of it, of course, but one year, having contracted a severe head-cold while returning from his annual visit to the Nallys (for such was their name), he summoned me to the house, and told me, that his mortality was sitting heavily on his shoulders, and he had the notion that it might sit a little lighter, if I would give him my promise, to look after a certain private affair of his, if he were to leave this world unexpectedly. He then explained the purpose of his yearly journeys to New Ross, and showed me a strongbox which he kept, saying that it contained all the instructions and explanations I would need in order to continue to see that the--youth--was provided for. I gave him my word, of course, but I regret to say, from the embarrassment of his manner, and certain ambiguities of his speech, that I assumed the boy in question was his natural son; perhaps he meant for me to do so.
“It was about this time that I first made the acquaintance of young Master Lenox. I must admit that my earliest meetings with him were not very favorable. Having, from his cradle, heard his intellectual accomplishments exclaimed at from all sides, and possessing personal attractions by no means contemptible, it would have been strange indeed, if he had not been somewhat spoilt. And Edmund had not then developed that strangeness, which his mother was later to lament so bitterly. I did not see a great deal of him during that vacation, for he could not long be bothered to stop at home with his parents, when he might be off amusing himself with a parcel of young men his own age, whom he had met for the first time that week, and who probably had more genuine interest in his father’s stable, than in himself. In short, he appeared to my eyes to be just the sort of conceited, selfish, elegantly-mannered youth I expected to find from Lady Lenox’s fervent descriptions of him--with this exception, that he had refused to conform to her designs, and ascribe to the complete superiority of English ways and manners.
“But although many young men go off to University and fall into bad company, Master Lenox fell into good company, in particular a Fellow, Charles Simeon, who was at that time one of the Deans of his College--but I see you know of him. Of course, you have a great mutual friend in Mr. Venn, the Rector of Clapham, have you not? I believe I heard Mr. Parry speaking of him just the other evening. I wondered at the time, if you could ever have met--but I must not digress in this fashion, or I shall never be done. To return to my tale: Where was I? Oh, yes---Lady Lenox did not at all care for the changes wrought in her son by this association; an entirely understandable response, when one considers that she had thought him quite perfect before. She complained that he had become too serious; and because he no longer took pains to let everyone know how clever he had been, she fancied that he had begun to neglect his studies; also, that because he now elected to be a great deal at home with his parents, without even the incentive of a large dinner party, he must be in poor health or spirits. She spent most of his time with them, encouraging him to resume his former inconsiderate ways, that she might be able to exclaim over the card tables how little she saw of her son even when he was home. And to this extent he obeyed her, that he often spent whole days out riding with his father, instead of allowing her to lead him around the neighborhood, to be marveled at by any one who could be made to listen. When he left, I believe she was actually pleased, for then she could return to imagining him to be all that he was before, without being constantly reminded of what he had become; but his father missed him very much, and observed to me, that he felt as though he had never known his son at all.
“After this Sir Sylvan grew rather quieter, and would often come to our cottage with, it appeared, no other purpose, than to sit and stare at the fire. I know that once, at least, during this time, he went to New Ross, when he had been there but a few months before, and was so grave upon his return, that, as he gave no other explanation, I thought he must have been disturbed by the sight of the measures taken to prevent rebellion--or the possibility of their failure. Sometimes, indeed, we would speak of the unrest, but it never appeared to me that he was more than mildly concerned with where it might lead. He had a great respect for Sir Ralph Abercromby’s abilities, and was confident that he could bring the rebels to heel. When Sir Ralph resigned, Sir Sylvan expressed regret, but by then it was believed that the country was sufficiently pacified, and the danger of a general rebellion was past. But then Lake and the United Irishman brought about ‘the rising of the moon’ between them, and when news of it came to us, I never saw a man as devastated as Sir Sylvan. In truth, I believe he had been so taken up with his own personal cares, that the violent disturbance threatening the entire country had seemed to him less real and immediate than that within his own breast, and now it was finally come, he was horribly torn. Lady Lenox had, of course, been pressing for their departure for England from the time of the first faint rumor, but since such pressure from her was no new thing, he had had little difficulty in withstanding it. Now, even his neighbors were fleeing, and he could not deny that there was something more than English prejudice in his wife’s entreaties. He agreed that she should depart at once for England, and even arranged for Mary and myself to accompany her, but for himself, he refused to leave. He gave no explanation that satisfied Lady Lenox, until the last hour, as he was urging her to board the packet. Once again, she fell to abusing his foolishness in not joining her, in remaining in a country run over with murdering pikemen and wicked revolutionaries, when he could be safe in the beautiful homes of his in-laws. He bore it patiently for some time, but at last was provoked into replying, that he would not leave a burning house, while a child remained inside; and that only after he had safely ‘fetched his son out of this raging country’ might she expect to see him join her as she took her ease in the grand houses of England. I think Lady Lenox was more terrified of this declaration, than of any danger from pikemen. She--but I have no need to describe that scene to you, who have had ample demonstration of how she is when her nerves are overset by fears and alarms. Her words at that time, together with Sir Sylvan’s speech, and his previous confidences to me, were quite enough to arouse suspicions of the truth in my head. He compelled her to retire below, and begging me to see her safely to her brother’s seat in Leicestershire, grasped my hand, and departed. I never saw him again. Hearing of Johnson’s approach, he left for New Ross in haste, and was shot, not by rebels, but by those who were supposed to be on the same side as himself. Had he not been carrying a letter in his coa
t, with his name and direction upon it, which was discovered by an officer enjoined to clean up the streets, his fate might be unknown to us to this day.
“Once we arrived at Port Patrick, we were of necessity forced to travel together by post to England, for Sir Sylvan had arranged beforehand with me that we should do so--but it was a most uncomfortable journey for all concerned. However, we reached her ladyship’s brother without mishap, and from there Mary and I came by diligence to London, to stay with her relations. You may suppose that I spent many hours thinking of Sir Sylvan, and wondering if any day I might perhaps have the privilege of hearing from him that he was arrived safe, and accompanied. I wrote to Lady Lenox, but received no reply, and at length, after many weeks, I sent a letter to Charles Simeon, being confident, that wherever Mr. Lenox might be, his friend would know of it. Unhappily for me, Simeon was all that summer gone on a tour of Scotland, and did not receive my note until he returned in September, at which time he immediately took such steps, that my answer came in the form of Sir Padraig himself: I call him so, for at that time, so he was--although I admit that I did not think of him thus, even then, for I had never heard him called anything but Edmund by Lady Lenox, and Sir Sylvan always named him “Padraig-Edmund,” in full, by way of a small defiance--or so I believe! In any event, the new baronet expressed his gratitude for my inquiry, for knowing of my friendship with his father, he had desired to send me word of Sir Sylvan’s death, but was unable, as his mother had not the faintest notion of where I was to be found, having taken no interest in the matter, when I told her our plans at our parting. When I made reference to having written, he was surprised, for she had made no mention of any letter, and when later questioned, was quite positive that one had never come to her hand. The servants, also, denied any recollection of it. Such things do occur, and I should not have been in the least astonished at my missive going astray, had I not written twice, to insure against that very possibility. But let that be.
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 30