Read Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Online
Authors: Meredith Allady
Clive was persuaded, but he was not wholly appeased, and Ann was rather uneasy of what he might say, or do, when next Sir Warrington persuaded his brother to come to Merrion House. The only revenge he took, however, was to promote the notion that it would be only polite, for their new acquaintance to be asked to read aloud from a volume of his own choosing, when dinner was over, and all the children were gathered with them in the drawing-room.
Many a man, seeing himself encircled by such a disparate audience, had been known to quail before this formidable request. A man’s
amour propre
might be steeled to withstand the veiled inattention of adults, and the ink-stabs of the most irritable reviewer, and yet be helpless before the blank stares and wriggling bodies of bored childhood. Mr. Lenox hesitated, and asked what they liked to hear, and received an eager disagreement of replies, in which “poetry” and “
Rosamond
” and “Resipatory Tales” were distinguishable. Perceiving, from this, that further attempts to reduce the number of suggestions would only wound the feelings of those whose preferences were passed over, he cast a quick glance at Lady Frances, which she would undoubtedly have answered, had Sir Warrington not bounced to his feet the next moment, and excitedly entreated his brother to “do the one about the wine.”
For a marvel, this unfortunate petition was perfectly intelligible to everyone, and Lady Frances looked alarmed, and made a movement, as if tempted to rise from her chair, and physically forestall any attempt to introduce into her drawing-room some kind of vulgar taproom ballad. Mr. Lenox, of course, saw what she was about, and under the influence of his amused eye she subsided, and even colored faintly, when he quieted his brother, by asserting his disbelief, that there was to be found one person left in England, who had not already heard
The Diverting History of John Gilpin
many times over. Sir Warrington was so obviously disappointed by this response, and Lady Frances’s anxieties so relieved, that nothing would do, but for someone to run and fetch a copy of the poem at once. Several of the children made a rush to do so--it being a favorite with them as well--but Sir Warrington, in a voice stuffed to bursting with pride, gave them to understand the utter superfluity of this action, since his brother had the entire thing in his head. This boast impressed even Gerard: it was one thing for a schoolboy to have painstakingly memorized the account; quite another for a grown man to have such a thing tucked away in his head, ready to hand, as it were. Once more they gathered around Mr. Lenox with unwinking eyes, ready to pounce on any unfamiliar phrase, and keep count of the number of fumbles and “um’s.”
“Little vultures!” said Mr. Parry, laughing. “Say the word, and I will send for it. It shall not be said in this house, that a guest was made to recite for his supper.” But Mr. Lenox replied, that the honor of his House was at stake, and nothing would prevail upon him to use the book. He challenged the children to give him the first word, and when, with one voice, they hurled it at him, he caught it, and was off, his tongue galloping through the verses at a rate that would not have shamed the borrowed steed they recounted, until every one was smiling, and his youngest listeners were all a-giggle. He pulled up at last, rather breathless, having gone, quite unchecked, from beginning to end, and got himself much Credit and Renown in the process. Sir Warrington sat fidgeting happily on the edge of his chair, grinning all over, and looking as if life could hold no greater joy, than for him to spend his evenings exhibiting his brother, and hearing him applauded.
As much as she deprecated certain aspects of his character, Ann could not help thinking, of the pity it was, that Mr. Lenox had not preceded the other into the world. One could not have them together in the same room, without being continually forced to recognize how superior was the younger in understanding, and self-discipline, and in everything that fitted a man to be a master and a landlord; and how ill-suited was the elder to have charge of any matter, greater than the arrangement of his hair--and perhaps not even that, as this feature had the singular property, of curling wildly out from his head, the moment it touched his ears, and he was apparently content to leave it so.
“It is a poor system,” said she, the next morning, “that deprives one man of rank and dignity, when he has prepared for the responsibility all his life, in order to bestow it on another, who wears it badly, and esteems it not at all.”
“I do not think,” replied Julia, thoughtfully, “that one can truly say that Mr. Lenox has been deprived of dignity; or that Sir Warrington despises his rank. It would be most unnatural, in one of his boy-like sensibility, if he did not take at least some pleasure, in having that important-sounding Sir before his name. And he is certainly in greater need of its protection, than his brother will ever be. Plain Mr. Warrington Lenox, stripped of his ‘Bart.’ and left to make his way in the world as a mere younger son, would be a perpetual dupe and victim; plain Mr. Edmund Lenox, is neither. Still, I know what you mean. It seems a pity, that this is not the land of ancient Canaan, where the whole business of the birthright could be settled amicably over a mess of pottage.”
“Particularly, as Sir Warrington would never play Esau, and go back on his bargain, but would be only too pleased, to be relieved of troublesome tenants and taxes, and have nothing to do, but give away his allowance to any plausible rogue who happened to ask for it.”
Clive was also in the room, and he now let it be known that he had been attending to their conversation, by interjecting, “True; until his brother caught him at it, knocked down the rogue, hailed him before the nearest magistrate--probably himself--and then appointed a trustee to take firm charge of the said allowance--again, probably himself.”
The accuracy of this presentation was so apparent, that even Julia was obliged to acknowledge it; and they were still smiling over it, when Kitty, catching the drift of their talk, said, diffidently, that for her part, she had rather have a master who possessed kind and generous feelings, than any amount of cleverness, for, “Clever people are so much harder to know.”
It was not to be expected that Clive could hear a remark of this sort, and let it go. He expressed his agreement, and feelingly mourned the fact, that because of it, the workings of his mind must forever remain a Rare Book, sealed and enciphered, to even his nearest and dearest; ending with the encouragement, that even though he and his kind might be “harder to know” than the multitudes of pellucidly stupid who roamed the earth, some might contend, that they were more worth knowing.
“Some might, indeed,” said Ann. “But then, some might contend, that the cleverer a man is, the more obnoxious are his faults, and the less excuse he has, for suffering them to remain.”
“No, no,” said he; “a really clever man, has no faults.”
“What, none at all?”
“No; for those little distinctives of character, which, to lesser intellects, often appear as faults--such as, for instance, pride---resentment---avarice--are but the proper manifestations of cleverness. A clever man, you see, comparing himself to all those of inferior talents, realizes that he has a
right
to be proud; a circumstance which, from the very nature of their limitations, the benighted masses cannot be expected to appreciate. In the same way, he alone is in a position to mark with accuracy, the dreadful injustice done, by any slight to himself--and to resent it as it deserves. And what is frequently mistaken for Avarice, is merely his clear-sighted attempt to provide an environment for himself, in which his mental powers will be given the free range they require, and not be constantly checked by the petty domestic details of tradesmen’s bills, or thrown off stride, by stumbling over duns in the hall.”
He finished up this speech, by looking censoriously down at Kitty, and commenting that giggling was an idle pastime, and he was sorry to see any sister of his indulging in it. Ann wondered aloud, how any one raised in the Parry household was able to mangle the truth with such facility; and Julia shook her head, and said, that he was clearly destined for great things in Law.
He then was taking himself off, when Julia called him back, and asked, if, in his defense, he had any one person in mind. “Your selection of offenses--pride, resentment, avarice--Were you, perchance, denigrating anyone in particular? Or were you merely being severe on clever people in general?”
Clive, about to disclaim any intended severity, saw that she was unwontedly serious, and checking, instead replied, that he had understood Kitty’s words to be in reference to a certain gentleman, well known to all those present; and that it was more than likely, that in choosing exemplary faults, he had been influenced by the thought of those, which were recognized as being shades on a character they had otherwise every reason to admire.
Kitty only looked bewildered; but Julia had caught her brother’s swift, almost involuntary glance at Ann, and she turned on her friend a look of reproach, which Ann only withstood, by telling herself, that it was certainly most odd, that Julia could even have suspected that such a trio of unpleasant characteristics might have any reference to her paragon. After a moment, perhaps seeing in Ann’s face both apology, and impenitence, Julia looked again toward her brother, and said,
“I do not know how you can say that, Clive. He has never given us the slightest cause to think such things of him. All I know to his discredit, is that he did not care to dance with me: and I suppose a man may be permitted to prefer one dancing partner above another, without losing his character.” Here a slight color came into her face, showing that she meant these words particularly for herself.
Clive, as he had just finished expounding, was not at all deficient, and he must have seen the futility of arguing against such willful obtuseness, for he only begged her pardon, and said that to please her, he was willing to grant Mr. Lenox the advantage over his brother, in every area except that of singing.
This was a wanton aspersion, directed at Kitty, who did not disappoint, but at once bristled up, very gently, in defense of her favorite. Sir Warrington, she protested, was much the better looking of the two.
Having now got the talk where he wished it, safely away from Julia’s vexation with herself, and with him, Clive lost no time in fortifying the site, but said provokingly, “I suppose that is so, if one judges strictly by features. If bland symmetry is your ideal, there can be no comparison. One the other hand, if one were to be given a choice of dining off a dinner of three removes, or a very handsome cabbage, I take leave to doubt, whether many would be found to prefer the latter; even though, when assembled altogether on a plate, the dinner must inevitably bow to the cabbage, in respect to pure geometry.” Clive actually had the greatest kindness for Sir Warrington, but he was not one to allow sentiment to obscure a plain assertion of the facts, as he saw them.
“Sir Warrington is
not
a cabbage,” said Kitty, with a hint of gentle reproof. “Why is it, that you must always be introducing food, in some form or other, into every conversation?”
Clive confessed, that he did not know; food had this curious habit, of obtruding itself on his notice, when he least anticipated it. He rather suspected his stomach of having some hand in the matter--if they would overlook the anatomical impossibility of this conclusion.
Julia said, that they would happily overlook anything, if he would only take himself off, and let them get on with their work; and after sternly reminding her, of just who it was, that had frustrated his first effort to depart, he smirked at Kitty (who was giggling at him again, she could not help it), and exited, with an exaggerated display of that manner, which people are wont to adopt, upon quitting a room in possession of the Last Word.
**
Sir Warrington was so happily constituted, that as long as he did not meet with outright hostility, no thought or fear of exhausting his welcome ever entered his head; and when he had once been invited to dine, or to drive, or to walk out with the Parrys, he took it for granted that he was desired to join them on all similar occasions as a matter of course. His requests became mere formalities, and were made with such innocent presumption, such a lack of any suspicion that he might meet with a refusal, that he was never in any danger of receiving one.
The Parrys were too good-natured--or too grateful--to do more than lift an occasional brow at this blithe encroachment; and Ann, by assiduously bearing in mind her own trifling claim on their hospitality, was able to curb any sign of ill-humor as well. Mr. Lenox’s confidence in the indelible nature of his own appeal did not equal his brother’s, and after coming several times to Merrion House, he began once again to decline invitations, careless to whether or not the Parrys would be able to support themselves under the deprivation. Sir Warrington felt this thoughtlessness as one would expect, and took upon himself the task, of obscuring the fact of Mr. Lenox’s absence, by introducing his opinions into every conversation; and if the subject happened to be one, on which Mr. Lenox had inexplicably failed to offer an opinion in his hearing, Sir Warrington would endorse the view of whoever was espousing his or her cause with the most success, by announcing his assurance that his brother, if the matter were put to him, would doubtless share the sentiments of that particular person. For instance, on the critical matter of the length of fringe suitable for a parasol, when carried by a young lady with any pretension to taste, Mr. Lenox had apparently kept all his personal convictions selfishly locked up in his own breast, so that Sir Warrington could predict his brother’s judgement in favor of Julia, only after Ann had meekly acknowledged to her, that perhaps six inches, was, after all, a trifle excessive. Of Sir Warrington’s own opinion, nothing need be said, since once his brother had ruled on a matter, even in absentia, any other view was, of course, wholly untenable.
This inevitable interjection, of one more voice in a matter than there were persons discussing it, caused Ann to point out, that they heard less from Mr. Lenox, when he was present in a room, than when he was not, and moved Clive to pen the following elegant verse:
“’The voice of the people’ did make the earth shake,
Not from words that they uttered, but the numbers that spake;
And, generally speaking, this maxim is true,
That th’ assault on the eardrums has something to do
With the tally of talkers collected around ’em:
But a new breed is come--in London we found ’em.
The fewer there are, the more words close in,
And double the number, is half of the din.
Unnatural reversal! Convention undone!
Our ears fall before a battalion of one.
No mercy expected, and none will be shown,
If this pitiless breed is not joined by his own.
But lo! comes another, restrained and polite;
A damper in waistcoat: a beautiful sight!
The chatter decreases, when e’er he appears;
The second O’Lenox--balm to our ears.”
This literary effort met with varying responses, dependent on the exact degree of heartlessness present in the listener. The extent of Ann’s mirth, may have caused the Parrys to wonder how her blood ever managed to circulate its way through her veins; while Julia covered her face and shook her head in reproof, even as laughter spilled between her fingers. Kitty only smiled a troubled smile, and said, “But, Clive, their name is not
O
’Lenox, it is just Lenox.”
To which her brother replied, that she should not blame
him
, for an etymological circumstance, that could probably be laid at the door of “a certain Lady of terrifying diction and forceful prejudices, who shall not be named.”
Shortly after this, it was discovered, quite without design, that the way to ensure a plurality of Lenoxes, was to invite one of them to go riding in the park. A small party from Merrion House went, nearly every morning, to take this form of exercise, and since they chose to go at an impossibly early hour (impossible, that is, for any one who had stayed out fashionably late the night before), it had not at once occurred to them that Sir Warrington would care to add himself to their numbers. But a casual reference, made by Lady Frances, to this morning custom, had him pouncing on it instantly, and gratuitously assuring every one, that to begin his days by riding in the park with the Parrys, was the only thing wanting, to make them entirely wonderful. To be properly mounted, had, he continued, been almost his first concern after arriving in town, and although his brother had gone about procuring suitable hacks with his habitual diligence, of late they had found only infrequent opportunities to ride. Furthermore, he entertained not the faintest doubt, that when his brother heard of the Parrys’ admirable scheme for circumventing both the clock and the crowds, he would be anxious to join them as well. These were not, of course, the baronet’s exact words on the subject, but Ann was beginning to pride herself on her ability to translate all but his most colloquial speeches, and she was tolerably sure that this was, in fact, what he said; or at any rate, what he meant.
Much to her surprise, Sir Warrington was proved, on this occasion, to have gauged his brother’s response with accuracy. Mr. Lenox sent ’round at once, to know if his presence would indeed be acceptable to the Parrys, and to ask, if it would be a great inconvenience to them, if they were all to meet at the entrance of the park, instead of at Merrion House, as had been arranged. They were not used, wrote he, to riding in London streets, and preferred not to complicate their stay in town, by any untoward meetings with its cobblestones. This did not sound promising; nor was it altogether congruent, with Sir Warrington’s expressed enthusiasm for riding, or his boast that his brother was the best horseman in county Antrim.
Ann, having come upon her friend frowning down at the harmless form of a fashionable and becoming habit, suggested as a reason for the frown, the fear that the addition of inferior horsemen might curtail their own pleasure in their early rides. Julia shook her head, and said, that she had no anxiety on that head, but, “When Mr. Lenox is anywhere around, I can never be entirely comfortable, for wondering if I am speaking too much, or too loudly; if my dress, so unexceptionable on paper, is gaudy in person; or if what I have just said, is precisely what I would have said, had I not known him to be within hearing. In short, when he is by, I do nothing but think about myself, and the impression I am creating--and there is nothing more tiresome in the world, than thinking and fretting about such a subject, for hours on end. It is not his fault--you must not think it. He has never, by word or look, given me reason to suppose he has any extraordinary degree of interest in what I wear or do or say. The fault is to be found solely within myself.”
Ann was astonished; although she had occasionally noted that Julia was not as lively in Mr. Lenox’s presence, nothing had caused her to suspect that her friend was as badly affected as this. It did not take her long to realize that it must be the result of being unused to disapproval. She, having lived with it all her life, was in some measure immune to it; but Julia was like the natives of Polynesia, who, having never before encountered such a thing as a measle, were entirely unable to support themselves under the affliction, and fell before it at once.
Julia said no more on the subject, and soon put away the dress and left the room, leaving Ann to give herself over to a contemplation of Mr. Lenox’s sins; with the result, that she was very indignant against him all that day, and by morning had ruminated so long on the injustice and absurdity of his behavior, as to be quite taken aback, upon arriving at the park, to find him gentlemanlike and conversable, and not the openly arrogant, irremediable toad, he had grown to be in her head. Her injury would not allow her to ride for long distances, or at anything more jarring than a walk, and at the height of her animosity she had framed a plan to entrap him by her side, and weary him with half-recollected
Lyrical Ballads
, that Julia might be free to canter on ahead, and forget his existence; but this scheme had now, regretfully, to be abandoned. Ann’s regret might perhaps have been the greater, had the sight of him not introduced the unwelcome suspicion, that given the history of her past attempts to gain ascendancy of him in conversation, she was quite as likely to have found herself subjected to the entire
Iliad
(in the original Greek) as to have succeeded in her vengeful intentions.
Sir Warrington could scarcely wait to exchange greetings before showing off his “suitable hack,” and gaining every one’s affirmation, that it was one of the handsomest “bastes” they had ever seen. Its lines were elegant; it seemed almost ready to exceed itself with good-health and good-eating; and the gleam of its coat would have shamed a dandy’s boot. Julia had only to add, that she had always been partial to a bay, to render him completely euphoric. He was almost speechless with it, and could only manage to convey, that his brother and chosen this splendid animal especially for him, and that its name was Curran, before degenerating into idiomatic bliss. Mr. Lenox had chosen for himself a less eye-catching mount, and Ann was unwillingly impressed, by this instance of self-abnegation, particularly as Sir Warrington had quite the worst seat of any one she had ever seen, not excepting Kitty, who was terrified of horses, and never approached one that was not secured between poles. He sat his “Splindid Baste” with less form than a small boy riding a fallen tree, and Ann, glancing over at Mr. Lenox, felt her indignation against him unravel still further, and was moved to pay him a compliment on his powers of selection, by way of amends for her former hard thoughts. His acknowledgement was a “too kind,” and a very faint smile indeed; and she was to recall this piece of modesty later, and put a somewhat different construction on it, than she did at the time.
As Ann had always made it a condition of her joining the Parrys, that she be left to set her own pace, without anyone feeling the necessity to match it, she was soon left to her position of rearguard; but she was not terribly surprised to see, that Sir Warrington’s good-nature had overcome his good-sense, and that, in defiance of her request, he was falling back to pace his mount to hers. She could not help but be touched, but the truth was that she had by far rather ride alone, than with a companion on one side, and guilt on the other; and after allowing him to gratify his benevolent feelings for a few minutes, during which they did little more than smile at one another, she was then opening her lips to urge him to join those ahead, when it came to her, that he was matching her leisurely gait, through no design of his own. She closed her lips, and fell to studying this curious circumstance, and was soon satisfied of it having little to do with the ineptitude of the rider. Sir Warrington was sending the correct signals, and doing so, with a vigor that made Ann wince, and convinced her, that there was no possibility of their not being received; rather, they were deliberately disregarded by a mouth and hide apparently composed of some substance approximating iron. Curran, by his determinedly placid gait, seemed to be signifying, that, though cognizant of his duties as a means of transportation, he declined to expend any more energy in his performance of them, other than was required by painful external pressures. Further observation confirmed the suspicion, that here was a horse, for whom the terms “high-spirited” and “nervous” had no meaning; and one, moreover, who would probably greet the suggestion that he should run, by sinking immediately to the ground, overcome by the equine equivalent of a Spasm.
As Sir Warrington had claimed prior--if infrequent--experience upon Curran, Ann marveled that his admiration had survived the first trial, and could only conclude, that his own unhandiness, coupled with his belief in the infallibility of the one who had chosen the animal, was enough to persuade him that any failing must lie in himself alone. Ann pitied his frustration, but was forced to hold her tongue, from knowing no kind way of telling him that his brother had imposed upon him, and that his splindid baste was no more than a showy sluggard.
On this occasion, however, Sir Warrington’s childlike persistence stood him in good stead, and at length it seemed to dawn upon Curran, that the unmannerly excrescence perched upon him, was not going to acknowledge defeat:
“His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.”
Curran protested with the twitch of a fretful ear, and the blowing of a deep sigh, and then, with every evidence of the greatest reluctance, produced a kind of shuffling trot. A look of delighted triumph suffused Sir Warrington’s features, and with a gleeful wave, he went bouncing off to catch up to the rest of the party.
His triumph was short-lived, however, as the instant he relaxed his vigilance, he was forced to watch the others begin to pull steadily away from him; and he noted the diminution of the space between himself and Ann, with a look of lively dismay, which in anyone else would have been the grossest insult. He at once renewed his efforts, and either he was acquiring the knack, or Curran was beginning to realize that this particular rider was impervious to those intimations of incurable lassitude, which had worked so nicely on former occasions; in any event, after only a few minutes’ persuasion, he unearthed quite a pretty canter, and managed to sustain it with tolerable regularity, for the remainder of the ride.
Despite this progress, Ann spent the rest of the time, once again reassembling her thoughts on Mr. Lenox, and yearning to retract that compliment, which she had been inveigled into paying, at first sight of the deceptive bay. For this she was not vouchsafed an opportunity, until the very end of the ride, when, upon approaching the gate, they became more or less all grouped together, and Ann briefly found herself at a stand beside him, with no one very near.
“Mr. Lenox,” said she, directly, “it has been borne upon me, that Curran is a very poor sort of horse.”
“Miss Northcott,” said he, in the same manner, “has it not also been borne upon you, that my brother is a very poor sort of rider?”
As she had fully expected him to disclaim responsibility by pleading the horse’s appearance, she was unprepared for this speech, and stood mutely as he moved away, perplexed as to how to understand his words. Hope suggested, that her candor had shamed him into attempting to justify his duplicity; Honesty acknowledged, that chagrin had not been evident in his manner. She puzzled over his response until it occurred to her, that of the two brothers, she was more in need of an interpreter for the one who spoke plain English, than the one who habitually tortured his vowels past recognition. The thought amused her, and she decided, in a more charitable humor, to grant Mr. Lenox sufficient stupidity to have been taken in by a glossy flank and an unscrupulous horse-dealer.
**