Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I

by Meredith Allady

  Mr. Hayden looked for a moment rather at a loss, and then, to Ann’s considerable relief, he smiled. “Of course; stupid of me not to have seen at once how it was. But how strange it seems, that any one should imagine Mr. Lenox resented his brother! I wonder if it has ever even occurred to him how it might appear? At home, you see, everyone knows, that if they touch Sir Warrington, they will have to answer to him. He will go to great lengths to see his brother spared any further suffering, and has several times brought down on his own head the accusation of ruthlessness toward those whom he feels might be in danger of inflicting it.” Then, turning to Julia, he added kindly, “I do not know quite what his behavior may have been, to have caused Miss Northcott to take up the cudgels on your behalf, but if, in his anxiety to protect Sir Warrington, he has indeed been guilty of causing you pain, I have what I hope may prove an effectual balm--some words that he uttered, oh, perhaps two or three months ago. We were speaking of Sir Warrington’s affairs, and I noted that Mr. Lenox seemed unusually troubled in mind about him. When I asked if he were again being pursued by a--well, by a female with an inordinate fondness for titles, he replied, ‘No; no one is pursuing him,’ and then, after a rather extended silence, he suddenly exclaimed that it was not right of beautiful women to be too kind. ‘They ought not,’ said he, ‘to be allowed to flaunt themselves abroad unless they are in possession of a shrewish character, to disenchant their suitors, for when they are darling within, darling without, it is--most unfair.’ He did not mention your name, but from that first evening that we met I have had no doubt that it was yourself of whom he spoke. I remember I did not treat the matter with any great seriousness, and said something to the effect that the future husband of the lady in question would doubtless not agree with his assessment.”

  “And what did he reply to that?” asked Ann, seeing that Julia would not.

  “Reply? Well, I do not--Oh, yes. Now I recall. I believe he replied that such a man would be in no position to offer an impartial judgement--something about a state of bliss being a poor one from which to sympathize with the acute wretchedness of another. Of course,” smilingly, “I was immediately going to challenge the fallacy of this from a theological perspective, but he forestalled me, saying that he referred solely to mortal men, and not to the Deity.”

  Julia blushed, and then, for no reason that Ann could fathom, turned very pale, and thanked Mr. Hayden in an almost inaudible voice. Ann could see, that the narrative had not been an easy one for her to hear, and perhaps Mr. Hayden saw it too, for he rose at last. “Mr. Lenox has, on occasion, suggested to me that I may suffer from a tendency to insert too many inconsequential details, even into my sermons, and I fear he is right,” said he, with a rueful countenance. “There is just one more thing, and then I will be done. When first you came in, Miss Parry, you spoke of my generosity in undertaking this commission from Lady Lenox. I really cannot lay claim to that. I came most unwillingly, and only from the conviction that in serving her interests, I would be serving those of her sons’ as well--in particular, those of Mr. Lenox, for whose sake, I may say now, I undertook the office at all; for if I had not agreed to come, it is certain that he would have been called upon to do what I would not. But now I am glad, exceedingly glad, that I came, and that at least you, his dear friends, will know his true history. You see that I do not ask of you any vow of secrecy: I refrained from doing so purposefully, first, because I realize that, particularly for you, Miss Parry, to force you to conceal such a revelation from your parents would be unkind indeed; and second, because I have such confidence in your native discretion, and your regard for Sir Warrington and Mr. Lenox, as to experience not the slightest misgiving that you may be tempted to speak of their private affairs before those whom they would not care to have so distinguished. Indeed, in many ways I have more confidence in your discretion, than in my own! ‘In many words, there is much folly.’ It is a Proverb I have taken for my own--but I fear I have not yet mastered it. Indeed, you may have wondered at my decision to reveal a tale so discreditable to a man who was in every way generous to me in his life; you may even have censured me for it. If so, I do not blame you, and have only this to say in my defense: I esteemed the father; but I love the son.”

  At last he took his departure, and Ann was left to eye her friend, and indulge her bewilderment. For herself, she knew not what to feel, but she knew what Julia should be feeling, what gratification and triumph. That she had heard many sobering things, was true; but they were not, in Ann’s estimation, so sobering as to account for her friend continuing grave and silent, as if she had just received news of a tragic nature, instead of the total vindication of every admiring and affectionate thought she had ever entertained toward Mr. Lenox.

  After a time, Ann felt that something must be said, or done, by one of them, and accordingly she observed, “I have heard of men giving their lives to save their companions, in a fit of heroism, and been affected by it to the point of weeping; but voluntarily to submit to listening to Sir Warrington for the rest of his life--well, such nobility belongs more properly in the pages of a book, where it will not discommode the rest of us, who cannot help being aware that we would never, in like circumstance, do the same.”

  Julia did not laugh, or even smile, as Ann had hoped. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, and then opening them, said, with quiet fervor, “Thank God he has Mr. Hayden.”

  This had the effect of making Ann rather ashamed of her own flippant speech; and as often happens in such a case, she instantly made the business worse, by adopting a bold course, and pretending it had not: as if somehow impertinence atoned for imprudence. “I do not doubt,” she therefore replied, “that Mr. Hayden is a comfort to him. With him, Mr. Lenox will always be assured of a companionship, which will try neither his temper nor his patience, but only his ears. But in my opinion, and I suspect in his own, the right sort of wife, a kind, darling sort of wife, would be even better.”

  Julia did not reply for a moment; nor did she look at Ann. At length she said, “I suppose she would. I hope he may find one. Perhaps a--darling--Irish girl, who will help to relieve his cares, not add to them; one whom his brother will not make it impossible for him even to consider marrying, by first becoming attached to her himself.” And having said this in a low but steady voice, faltering only on the one word, she then hid her face with her hand, and gave way to a nearly soundless grief, which, having raged long against the restraints imposed upon it, now broke through at last, and began to take its revenge.

  Ann, startled and aghast, flew to her side, full of ineffective words of comfort, and unspeakable thoughts of stupid young men, who had no better sense than to sacrifice themselves for their even stupider brothers, who had no better sense that to fall in love with a young lady just because she was the kindest, loveliest, most wonderfully amiable being he was ever likely to meet on this earth.

  **

  Chapter XLVIII

  Ever since that evening when Major Merrion had taken her so severely to task, Ann had acknowledged the hope, even as she set herself to promote the welfare of Julia’s attachment, that somehow, though through no active agency of her own, nothing at all would come of it. The Lenoxes would in due time take their difficulties and dissensions back to Ireland, and the Parry ensemble return peacefully to Merriweather, to resume their happy, interrupted, lives. The possibility of Julia’s suffering from a slight melancholy in this event could not be altogether ignored, but it was to be a melancholy of no more than a few weeks’ or months’ duration, quickly succumbing to the notorious insalubrity of the Dower House for such complaints. It was a pretty, modest-looking hope, and Ann entertained it with a clear conscience. She did not precisely encourage it, but when it suggested that Julia was sensible and cheerful by nature, and not the sort of young lady to allow disappointed romantical notions to affect her spirits for long, or her health at all, Ann was quite willing to listen.

  The interview with Mr. Hayden, and the short, but bitter storm which
momentarily engulfed Julia, completely swept away any such roseate picture. Ann realized that she could never have fancied it even a tolerable likeness, if she had not, once again, been looking through lenses ground by her own feelings. She recalled the rather lofty fashion in which she had settled Julia’s probable ignorance of her own heart, and grew wholly ashamed of herself. She to devise an opportunity for poor purblind love to recognize itself? she to bring the insensate gentleman to a consciousness of his undeserved fortune? she to arrange the whole thing and call down the gratitude of her friend, the approbation of her friend’s uncle, upon her head? It was in every way farcical: as well might Mrs. Malaprop proclaim her intention of editing the works of Dr. Johnson.

  It was, therefore, in a frame of mind very humble, very diffident, that Ann at length ventured to ask those questions, which answers would have long been hers as a matter of course, had she been content to remain in her role of faithful confidante, instead of presumptuously taking up, first, that of Chief Marplot, and second, that of Manager: i.e. how long had her friend loved Mr. Lenox, and had she any notion of his returning her regard?

  Over the first question, Julia was so long in replying, that Ann, aware of deserving no answer at all to a query so belated and so ill-timed, grew anxious lest she had, for once, succeeded in offending a Parry; but this fear was removed when Julia at last spoke, revealing that the hesitation was the result of ignorance, rather than indignation. She could not satisfy Ann’s curiosity on the point, for she could not satisfy her own. The date of the occasion on which she first recognized the state of her heart, she could give with precision: “From that hour,” said she, “I loved him consciously. But--as you might phrase it, Ann--that was no more the beginning of it, than to look about and see nothing but ocean, is to first set sail.”

  Her reply to the second question was more rapid, and also more agitated: “No; that is, on occasion I have thought--but it does not signify. For his sake, I must pray he does not.”

  After this, Ann forbore to ask anything else, for there was little pleasure to be found in such an interview. Once, she was sadly aware, there had been a time when any number of details and digressions might have been light-heartedly pursued amidst the changes of color, the conscious smiles, the deliciously silly laughter which naturally belong to such a subject, taken up between intimate friends; but the time for that was now past. A mere matter of hours had seen its end. Ann, by her own folly, had handed away her opportunity for such joyful confidences, and it was Lady Frances, she discovered, who had received them in her stead.

  “Julia did not wish to vex you, dear,” that lady told her kindly, when Ann later spoke to her on the matter. “She explained that, as you seemed to dislike it whenever she spoke too well of Mr. Lenox, she thought it more than probable that you would not appreciate ‘being made the recipient of the sort of extravagant, repetitious nonsense with which persons in love are supposed to weary the patience of their friends and relations.’ So she came to me whenever she felt herself ‘particularly irrational.’”

  Ann could say nothing to this, but sighed deeply, being visited by a memory of the time when she had judged Lady Frances insensible of her daughter’s state, and herself the only person to have fathomed it out by her own perspicuity. Perspicuity! The very word caused her renewed shame, reminding her, as it must, of that occasion when Major Merrion had so justly demanded that she gaze honestly at her own motives, without first donning the spectacles provided by self-love. Would to God she had done so from the very beginning!

  But now, at least, her way was plain. She had nothing to do, but follow Julia’s lead in all matters, and seek to spare her as much distress as possible. There were to be no more plots, no more stratagems for her friend’s imagined good. If Julia wished to speak of Mr. Lenox, Ann was ready; if she wished to avoid all mention of him, Ann would hold her tongue until it withered at the roots from disuse. She would not say a word against him, nor against Sir Warrington--though this was not entirely the easy task it might appear, for she saw and heard enough evidence to convince her that the gracious composure which Julia displayed during the day, was often wrested from her during the night, and won back in the early hours of the dawn.

  Julia might hold her own spirits in a determined hand, and spend sleepless hours pulling them back into the path she had appointed them, but Ann’s temper was more unruly, and one morning she sought out Lady Frances alone, to declare passionately, “I do not understand this business! Julia is absolutely convinced that because of the Lenoxes’ past history, there remains no hope that Mr. Lenox would ever seriously think to make her an offer. But why should his having already given up his inheritance for his brother, necessitate the further sacrifice of--of Julia? He wishes to protect Sir Warrington from hurt; very well. But it is not reasonable for a man to give over all his own interests for those of another; neither reasonable, nor right. How can a relationship, based upon the self-denial of the one, and the self-gratification of the other, fail to end in mutual resentment? Mr. Lenox must at length discover that being regarded with enormous admiration is inadequate compensation for all he has denied; and Sir Warrington, having grown by then accustomed to the sacrifice of others, will resent its removal. Mr. Lenox is creating a--a harpy. Someone ought to show him what he is doing.”

  Lady Frances did not quail before this fury of words; nor did she feel herself compelled to point out that harpies were universally recognized as female figures. Instead, she caused Ann to be seated, and continued to sew silently for a few minutes, perhaps waiting until her impetuous visitor manifested signs of increased rationality, before she replied, “What you say is true, Ann; or rather, it would be true, if it did not contain so many errors! But you cannot use terms such as ‘necessitate’ and ‘require’ in this situation--or at least, not as you have used them. Sir Warrington does not consciously require anything of his brother, any more that Mr. Lenox acts as he does, because of some outward constraint. What could constrain him, in such a case? The fear of what people would say? But most will think, as you do, that at best he is being overly punctilious, and at worst, a fool. Nor is he dependent upon Sir Warrington for sustenance, companionship, or approval; and if he is in a measure dependent upon him for his happiness, it is because he has chosen for his own happiness to be bound up with that of his brother. If you care for someone, you cannot simply cast them aside when their needs interfere with your own, as much as, on occasion, in particularly black and self-indulgent hours, you may desire to do so.” Ann had never before heard such a firm speech fall from the lips of Lady Frances; she was thoroughly subdued by it; seeing which, Lady Frances was at once all compassion, and readily engaged to add her own maternal tears to the sum of Ann’s.

  In this unsatisfactory manner, did the last days of the season draw to a close. Lord Meravon came to give them his opinion of Buckingham’s petition, the Paddington Canal, and the entire history of Newcastle, and deride those who submitted to the heat and departed early for their country estates. Lady Frances smiled, and plied her fan, and said nothing, merely allowing her eyes to drift toward the chimney-piece, above which resided Wilson’s tranquil, tree-shaded depiction of Merriweather. But though Lady Frances might confine her longing to the expression of her eyes, the younger Parrys had no such restraint, and rejoiced in their imminent return to Warwickshire, with a carelessness and frequency that was both a testimony and a trial to Julia’s self-command. They included her in all anticipations without the slightest suspicion that there might exist any reason for her to regard the ending of their trip to London with less delight than they. The exception to this was Kitty, who alone appeared to mark any lack of spirits in her sister; and while the continued serenity of her manner attested to the fact that she had not the faintest suspicion of its origin, yet the affectionate solicitude which was at all times the hallmark of her relations with others, at this time perceptibly increased in tenderness toward Julia.

  I do not say that Julia was alone in feeling or expressing
regret at the prospect of parting from the Lenoxes, and, to a lesser degree, the Spenhopes; but the younger Parrys’ sorrow was, while not perfunctory, certainly on such a limited scale, that the first sight of things loved and familiar would dissipate it almost entirely. Ann, though she could not help sharing their joy to a great extent, managed to dissemble it, at least in Julia’s presence; and whenever she could do so without undue remark, sought to divert all discussion of Merriweather to a less sensitive topic. But Julia soon saw what she was about, and put an end to it. “Let them talk of Merriweather all they wish, Ann; why should they be forced to damp down their joy, simply because I cannot share it? And yet, I think I, too shall be glad to be at home once more, despite--” Here her words ceased abruptly, as if some fearful specter had appeared, forbidding them; but after a few moments she added quietly, “This business of longing to see him, and then jealously counting out the minutes, wondering always how many more until the very last, is a wretched way to live. If I can but manage to say my farewells with the same friendly regret that he does, I shall be satisfied.”

  And, though she never said so, Ann knew that Julia lived in constant dread of Sir Warrington’s realizing that open admiration did not constitute a proposal, and that some other necessary ceremony must take place, before a young lady could ever come to the point of accepting or rejecting a suit--not that the latter possibility seemed ever to trouble that incredibly buoyant young man. For a time Ann entertained hopes that they might get clean away from London, without the truth of it every dawning upon him; but at last the children’s effusive anticipation bore this further unpleasant fruit, that the wheels began to turn in his head, grinding out the disturbing thought, that the Parrys, with Miss Parry necessarily included in their number, were all shortly preparing to remove from Merrion House, and unless some steps were taken to prevent it, he would see them no more.