Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I

by Meredith Allady

  “I am ashamed to say that at this meeting it was not I, the friend, who played comforter to the bereaved son, but rather the reverse. On that occasion, he showed himself to be everything I had thought him on his last visit. We talked for many hours about Sir Sylvan, for as a boy he had seen little of his father, and less as a man, and was eager to hear anything I could say to his credit. Before he left, he urged me to come and stay at his uncle’s, where he and his mother were then residing, but I declined, from the knowledge of the vehement dislike in which Lady Lenox had taken me, ever since I was witness to--ever since that day at Donaghadee. She would have it that I was in some measure responsible for her husband’s decision to stay behind, and had refused to speak to me during the entirety of our journey south, except to accuse me of it.

  “Mr. Lenox knew nothing of what had taken his father on that disastrous last journey, that I saw plainly. It was, indeed, a source of some puzzlement to him, why Sir Sylvan had not come to England; but his mother had offered him some story of vague obligations to account for it, and you may suppose, with so much else to be seen to, that it was not a matter that exercised him to any great degree. It had not previously occurred to me how difficult I might find it to execute my promise to Sir Sylvan, but I saw now, that it was a nearly impossible task he had set me. Even had I been in the right country, and that country not in a state of upheaval, it would have taken all my ingenuity. I had been given no legal authority to take possession of that strongbox, and without it, I had no way of knowing where, or how, this mysterious, unnamed boy was to be found. To secure it by any means other than theft, which was, of course, out of the question, I would be forced to take either the widow or the son into my confidence; and then--but I need not enumerate. You perceive my difficulties. I saw that it had been a grievously misconducted business. After much prayer on the subject, I determined to say nothing, either of the box, or of my suspicions, at that time. On thinking the matter over, I saw that they really were nothing but that---suspicions; and until I was once more in Ireland, and able to go about making my own inquiries, I dared not cast aspersions, or bring even a hint of scandal on the memory of a man who had been everything that was generous to me, and on his widow and son. And to be entirely honest, I did not wish them to be true. From the reports received of what had taken place in New Ross, it seemed not unreasonable to assume that the real heir, if he really had been there, had been slain in the siege. I admit, the supposition brought nothing but relief. This may seem harsh, but remember I had never met Warrington, and his brother I had grown very much to esteem during our stay in England.

  “By the mercy of the Almighty, although highly instrumental in the rebellion, Antrim was not as badly hurt by it as were other counties. Many had their homes looted and burned, but aside from bearing the marks of being masterless for so many months, Burndall was really in remarkable trim, due mainly to the exertions and bravery of a few loyal servants who had remained behind. Mr. Lenox was therefore able to give himself to helping his less fortunate neighbors, so that it was several more months before his rather leisurely examination of his father’s effects resulted in the discovery of the strongbox. He could not, at first, make much sense of the papers it contained, or rather, his mind would not quickly allow him to do so, for their meaning was perfectly plain. Sir Sylvan, even as he arranged Warrington’s disappearance and disinheritance, had preferred that, in the event of his own death and the death of his youngest son, his estate should come to his eldest, rather than to any more distant relation, and he had carefully provided proofs of the true identity of young master Nally of New Ross, together with a letter explaining, bluntly and without apology, his decision to deprive the boy of his inheritance “due to his inferior talents.” He made no mention of his wife’s having any complicity in the matter, and indeed, from the letter one might suppose that she was herself a dupe of the gypsy tale. But when Mr. Lenox at last went to her, and began just to hint at his discovery, to see if she knew anything of it, (for still, he could not believe its meaning) she realized at once what Sir Sylvan must have done, and was so horrified at the thought of such documents existing, that she made no pretence of ignorance, but demanded that he bring the box to her at once, that she might throw its contents into the fire. When he refused to do so, and began instead inquiring into her knowledge of the business, she lost her temper, and admitted to knowing and approving the entire plot; indeed, she still approved it, and regretted only that her husband had been imprudent enough not to destroy everything relating to the child. I understand she even railed against him for having gone to visit the boy, charging him with a foolish sensibility. Of Sir Sylvan’s ultimate folly, that of refusing to leave Ireland without being assured of the safety of his son, Mr. Lenox learned now for the first time.

  “He stayed with her until he judged her calm enough not to reveal everything in front of the first servant to come into the room, and then walked down to see me. I fear at first I thought he was the worse for drink, he behaved so strangely; and then I thought he must be unwell. He came, he told me later, with no notion of confiding in me, for he did not feel it was his secret to confide. He had merely left the house with a desire to be anywhere but in it, and his steps had directed him to our cottage, as a place where he was quite certain of being safe from any further unpleasant revelations. Once I saw how really ill he looked I made him take some wine, and from one or two exclamations he made, I guessed enough of what must have happened, to be able to intimate to him, without forcing a confidence, that I might have a fuller knowledge of his dilemma than he could know.

  “I will not dwell on the interview that followed. He was--very deeply distressed--and I could do little more than listen as he told of his discovery, his gradual realization of what it must portend, and his subsequent interview with his mother, of which, you may be sure, he said as little as possible. I certainly had no comfort to offer him. In the circumstances, the only human comfort to be given, was that the unhappy heir might indeed be dead. If he was not dead--ah, well, there was an alternative, that I did not like to contemplate. Mr. Lenox’s chief emotion, upon finding me already in possession of his secret, was relief, that he was to have someone near at hand, whose impartial judgement he might rely on. This he was good enough to say--but I fear his hopes were deceived. I was very far from being impartial. With all the prayers, all the thoughts I had expended on the situation over the past months, I was no nearer, at that moment, to being able to advise him, than I had been that day in Charlotte Street. A decision so momentous, effecting his whole life, his mother’s life, and the lives of all those for whom he had responsibility---it was not a thing upon which I could pass down a judgement, as I would pass the butter-boat.

  “I was still musing in this fashion, growing more indecisive with every passing minute, when he raised his head from his hands, and asked me, if I was free to accompany him to New Ross on the morrow. I assured him that I was, and ventured to ask, what he intended to do. ‘I must find him,’ said he. ‘If he is yet alive, he must come home. After that--I do not know. How can I, when I have no way of knowing what sort of man he is? My mother claims he is an idiot, unable to perform even the simplest tasks; but I ask myself, how can she be assured of this, if she has not seen him these twenty years? There can be no question that as it stands now, he is my father’s heir, however unfit. My brother--God help me! I do not know. I will do--whatever is best for Burndall.’”

  “I am sure young ladies such as yourself have never found yourselves praying for the death of a perfectly unexceptionable person, merely because the loss of his life would ease your own. You frown, Miss Northcott, and perhaps I horrify you by this confession--but in this state, I accompanied Mr. Lenox. And what we first saw of New Ross made the granting of my petitions seem entirely likely. At the inn where we stayed, and where we made our first inquiries, we heard a number of things to perplex and discourage us. A great deal of the town had been burned, and Church Lane, where the Nallys resided, especially s
o. In addition to which, such a number of dead had been heaped up in the streets, and then carted away to a gravel pit on the edge of the town and thrown in, that the possibility of ever being able to ascertain whether a certain person had been among them, was very doubtful indeed. The Nallys were known, but although it was fairly well agreed upon that the wife had been dead for some time, and Mr. Nally killed in the siege, no one seemed at all certain, or interested, in the fate of the son. One man whom we questioned rather thought he might have turned rebel. At this, we almost despaired, for the rebels had been so scattered and pursued across the country, that he might have fallen, or now be living, almost any where.

  “I retired that night nearly persuaded that our journey had been in vain, and that a day or two’s dutiful searching, would allow us to return to Burndall with clear consciences and no results. I awoke rather later than usual to find that Mr. Lenox had risen many hours earlier, and, after much walking and many interviews and frustrations, had, to make a long story a trifle shorter, discovered his brother to be living with an old ferryman, who had taken him in after the melancholy affairs of the fifth of June left him with no home, and no family. Mr. Nally had indeed been killed on that day, shot by drunken soldiers after the rebels had fled, when he had rashly sought to remonstrate with them for looting the shops and houses. No one knew where the ‘son’ might have been when this occurred, for had he been present, it was certain he must have challenged the soldiers, and been killed as well. As it was, the ferryman found him in the evening, weeping over the body in a doorway. This excellent man had helped Warrington (or Walter, as he was then called) to see to the burial of his ‘father,’ and then, as no one else knew what was to be done with him, had invited him back to his home for the night--and there he had stayed. He was a strong fellow, and a willing worker if someone was there to show him precisely what needed to be done, and so had been able to make himself useful; but without any one of his own he was a very sad, lost young man, and as he had grown no better in the months that had passed, the ferryman expressed his wish that there was some place that he could live besides New Ross, where he might perhaps be happier away from such painful reminders.

  “I found that Mr. Lenox had explained his interest in the family by saying that Mr. Nally had performed a signal service for his late father, which debt he had come to discharge to any of the family who might yet be alive. The ferryman was perfectly satisfied with this explanation, the more so perhaps because Warrington was not an easy charge. Though not ill-natured or wishing to be troublesome, yet his daily dependence on others for his happiness, makes him something of a burden. When I first saw Warrington, he was sitting on a bale of wool, attempting to mend a rope--Poor fellow! He did indeed look most wretched. ‘Lost’ is how the ferryman had described him, and it was very apt. The ferryman explained to him that some kind gentlemen, who were friends of his parents, had come to see that he had everything he needed; but when he finally understood that he was to leave his kind benefactor, he burst into tears, and begged the old man not to send him away. Everything that could be urged was urged in vain, until Mr. Lenox said, that naturally we did not wish him to come with us if he did not wish it himself, but perhaps he would not object to coming and staying at the inn for a few days, and then, if afterward he still desired to stay in New Ross, arrangements would be made that would permit him to do so. After a little more persuasion on the ferryman’s part, Sir Warrington at last consented.

  “He returned with us to the inn with every sign of reluctance, and sat around with so miserable an expression, and spoke so little, that I began to see an end to our problem. You may have noted, that great emotions increase his inability to express himself clearly. To be blunt, I thought him so irremediably stupid, that having him legally removed from the succession would be a thing easily decided upon, and easily accomplished.

  “It was Mr. Lenox who began to coax his brother into taking walks along the Nore, or about those portions of the town least affected by the rebellion. They would go out in the morning, and not return until dinner, and by the end of the second day Warrington was talking freely, and appeared almost happy. He had evidently developed a tremendous admiration for Mr. Lenox, and when, on the third day, he was asked if he would go with us, or return to the ferryman, he said at once, that he wished to go wherever his brother went. He did not call him his brother, of course--the relationship, and the whole matter of deciding how the inheritance should be handled, was not resolved for several months. I remember we talked, on the way home, after Warrington had fallen asleep, of how best to explain his return. We agreed that only the barest facts should ever be given out: he had been lost, and was found. It was Mr. Lenox’s opinion, that we need say nothing further, for people would contrive a story to satisfy their curiosity soon enough, and that whatever they might concoct, it could scarcely be much worse than the truth. He prevailed upon his mother to treat Warrington with (for the most part) civility if not affection, and the new baronet’s attachment to him became quickly so marked, that the truth never had a chance to become more than a malicious spark in a gossip’s eye. Warrington’s affections, if not his understanding, are as strong as his frame, and he requires very little, often only the commonest courtesies of life, by way of return. Mr. Lenox has given him so much more than these, that it is not to be wondered at, if his regard for him approaches venerable proportions.

  “Let me say that even I, though less passionately than Lady Lenox, was very much against Sir Warrington ever becoming--Sir Warrington. In fact, of the five of us in any position to have an opinion--for we were of course obliged to take a solicitor, a friend of Sir Sylvan’s, into our confidence--I think Mr. Lenox was the only one to be convinced, that the baronetcy should not belong to him. Sir Warrington, when the matter was at last explained to him, accepted it in the same way a child accepts the playing of a music-box--with delight, but without questioning how it could be--until he understood that he could not become his father’s heir, without deposing his brother: and then, he wished to have nothing to do with it. I do not know that I entirely agree with Mr. Lenox’s stance on this even now, but every man knows what his own conscience will bear; and the business has certainly arranged itself remarkably well, until this business of an English wife arose.

  “At first he tried to dissuade Sir Warrington from coming, but when this inexplicably failed, we agreed that he ought to come as well, and discourage his brother from pursuing unsuitable young ladies.”

  **

  Chapter XLVII

  Ann, who had for some time been waiting impatiently for this rather voluble account to come to an end, or at least to an intermission, at this could wait no longer, and exclaimed in great perplexity, “But Mr. Hayden, why should Mr. Lenox have deemed Julia ‘unsuitable’? At their first meeting, he can have known little about her, and after that, he had plenty of opportunity to discover that she was in every way eligible!”

  Julia said, “Hush, Ann; it does not signify,” but Mr. Hayden only looked surprised and said, “Deem Miss Parry unsuitable? Of course he did not.”

  “But he did! He did not at all wish for Sir Warrington to marry her. I taxed him with it in this very room, and he did not deny it.”

  Julia was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and now said, “Oh, Ann, you surely cannot have done so!” in a faint voice; but Mr. Hayden gazed at Ann in puzzlement, and after a moment replied, “I beg your pardon for contradicting you, Miss Northcott, but what you say is impossible. He cannot have agreed that he did not like the notion of Miss Parry marrying his brother; I am quite sure he never thought of it. He has never had the least expectation of such a match.”

  But Ann was stubborn with the stubbornness of a good memory and a bad conscience, and was not to be so easily convinced. “But he did. And when I pointed out that he was making Julia unhappy, by disapproving her whenever she smiled at Sir Warrington, he---he ‘acknowledged the truth of my charge,’ and admitted that blaming her was an ‘offense against charity and c
ourtesy.’ That is what he said. I remember it clearly.”

  Julia continued to gaze at her friend with a mixture of embarrassment, horror, and reproach at her daring; but a look of enlightenment was spreading over Mr. Hayden’s face. “My dear Miss Northcott,” said he, “it is as good as a play! I wish I could have been present at that interview: you must both have come to an agreement, in unparalleled ambiguity! Mr. Lenox never had the least expectation of Miss Parry accepting his brother--he had every expectation of her refusing him. It was that assumption, which was responsible for the demeanor you attacked. When Sir Warrington announced his intention of seeking a wife in England, Mr. Lenox’s first fear was, that he would marry unwisely; his second, that he would be cruelly hurt by a rejection, however necessary, from a truly amiable woman. When he suggested that Mary and I accompany them, I believe it was in the hope, though unexpressed, that should the latter indeed befall Sir Warrington, he might come to see that his happiness lay rather closer to home, in Mary. I have no expectation of it myself, although they have always dealt well together; nor do I fancy Mr. Lenox had ever considered it before circumstances compelled him to do so. But I am curious, Miss Northcott: you cannot seriously have believed that he found Miss Parry ineligible, and if you did not understand his true reason for disapproving his brother’s attachment to her, and her seeming encouragement of it, to what did you attribute it?”

  Ann had received such a shock during the past half hour, that few things in her mind were in adequate working order, least of all her pride, and she answered directly, “I thought he resented having been ousted from the baronetcy by Sir Warrington’s untimely reappearance, and was seeking to keep him from marrying anybody.”