Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (17 page)

Sir Warrington’s horse was, inevitably, the main topic on the ride back to Merrion House. Clive and Ann merely entertained themselves with its abuse, but the remarks of Mr. Parry and Julia showed, that they were more exercised with how to provide the baronet with a new mount, without giving offense to either brother. It was a difficult problem, for having no known precedent, it had no proven solution, and they were forced to witness Sir Warrington’s exertions for several more days, before Mr. Parry, pleading the necessity of the next morning being spent attending to letters of business, made it a point of particular favor, for Sir Warrington to take his mare to the park in his stead. Though only, you may be sure, if the baronet judged that Curran could sustain the loss of his early ride without becoming too restive.

There could be no doubt of Sir Warrington’s reply. Even had his own mount been the best-tempered, sweetest ride in London, he would probably have neglected it with as much eagerness as he did the infamous Curran; for after all, a
Parry
had requested it of him.

Sir Warrington left Merrion House in raptures, and Ann hoped that Mr. Lenox might say nothing to check his brother’s pleasure. She did not see how, having as good as admitted the inferiority of his own selection to her, he could then seek to deny Sir Warrington this respite; but she could not dismiss the suspicion, that he would attempt to discourage the exchange, merely from dislike of his brother’s intimacy with the Parrys, which it demonstrated.

Though she had no doubt he would have denied it vigorously, the scene that was enacted the next morning made her fancy that the same notion may very well have occurred to Sir Warrington. They had arranged for the exchange to be made at the entrance of the park, and the look upon Mr. Lenox’s face, when it became clear that Mr. Parry was not to join them, and that his brother proposed handing over his own baste to the longsuffering groom, and bestriding an animal who might be prepared to do his bidding without first consulting all the possible alternatives, was the look of a man who receives news as surprising, as it is disagreeable.

The nervous and apologetic manner in which Sir Warrington talked of the transfer, and the affectionate leave he took of the uninterested Curran, was enough to confirm Ann’s first impression; and she watched Mr. Lenox with, it must be admitted, a rather malicious eye. Poor equestrian though he undoubtedly was, Sir Warrington was nevertheless capable of appreciating the difference between Mr. Parry’s horse and his own, and his efforts to praise his present mount, without seeming to denigrate his former, kept him, for some time, pretty constantly employed in modifying and explaining away whatever it was he had said the moment before. Mr. Lenox, who might have made everything easy by a few words laughingly acknowledging the mediocrity of his own choice, had nothing to say, except, when directly applied to by Sir Warrington, to dismiss Mr. Parry’s mare, with a short, “Very pretty indeed.”

Ann was incensed by his behavior, and when Julia, deeply troubled by this reception of her father’s kindness, came along side to whisper, “Oh Ann, what have we done? Mr. Lenox is most dreadfully hurt and offended,” it was only with the greatest struggle, that she refrained from replying, that she wished it might do him good.

But having contrived that every one should be made so well aware of his displeasure, as to prevent any repetition of the incident that had provoked it, without his ever having to actually utter a discourteous word, Mr. Lenox then lapsed into his usual manner, and sought to engage Ann and Julia in a conversation on indifferent topics; which, however, they were ill-qualified to sustain, the one from oppression of spirits, the other from pure vexation. For herself, Ann did not think he deserved to be supported in this belated affectation of unconcern, and the appearance of complaisance, which such a conversation would give him; and gladly would she have left him to reap the clipped monosyllables which are ungoverned temper’s just reward, had she not known it would grieve Julia, who was trying valiantly to meet like with like, and put away her discomfort, as he appeared to have put away his displeasure.

Clive and Sir Warrington had, by some happy arrangement, drawn far enough ahead to escape such awkwardness, and Ann thought, from their bearing, and the gestures made by Clive, that he must be describing to the other the superior execution to be expected of his father’s mount. She became sure of it, when he began to point to an object some distance ahead, and then, at some hesitation or confusion of his companion, to point once again, more explicitly. A glance back over his shoulder, directed smilingly at Julia, accompanied by an almost furtive one by Sir Warrington, directed at his brother, at once gave solidity to the question forming in Ann’s mind; but scarcely had the idea of a match presented itself, than it was scattered in astonishment, at hearing Mr. Lenox call out to Clive, with an inflection so different from the one he normally employed, that for a startled instant she did not realize who it was, that had spoken in that tone of ignore-me-at-your-peril command.

Clive, being neither deaf nor foolhardy, pulled up at once, the race a stillborn thing, and sat with reddening ears, listening to Mr. Lenox’s sharply delivered opinion of young men who abandoned the ladies entrusted to their care, to indulge in foolish contests, unmindful of the notoriety such displays must draw upon the entire party, or of the pain and anxiety the ladies might be occasioned, should an accident befall one of the contestants.

Ann and Julia, who were used, at least in the country, to seeing Clive dash off in a race with anyone who gave him the least encouragement, and took no more notice of it other than to discuss with each other the probable victor, listened to this speech with feelings of surprised embarrassment, perhaps nearly as great as Clive’s. In other circumstances, nothing is more certain, than that he would have raised mockingly scandalized brows, and thrown himself on their mercy with a show of elaborate penitence, even as they amusedly hastened to explain the true state of affairs to his misguided critic.

Mr. Lenox made such a reaction impossible. There was something in his demeanor, an energy and seriousness, that precluded his concern being dismissed as merely the pompous interference of one whose own notions of propriety have been offended. Under its influence, Clive begged Ann and Julia’s pardon, too shaken even to smile at the muddled sentences of acceptance and exculpation he received in reply. And poor Sir Warrington! I have as yet said nothing of his reaction, but my reader cannot have doubted the effect of his brother’s words on him. The imputation of thoughtlessness completely crushed him, and the possibility of having, in one swoop, committed an offense against Miss Parry, and merited the contempt of his hero, was enough to render him one large, scarlet-faced, unintelligible apology for the rest of the ride.

There was no escaping his contrition, and Ann gazed longingly to where Clive rode once more up ahead, in a sober fashion quite unlike himself, perhaps symptomatic of his chastened frame of mind. Mr. Lenox, having first assured himself of “the ladies entrusted to his care” being safely bored to death by his brother’s anguished incoherence, after a few minutes advanced by degrees to ride beside Clive. Ann hoped that Clive would have recovered sufficiently to resent the high-handedness of the rebuke, and meet any overtures with chill magnanimity; and she noted with approval, that as Mr. Lenox approached him, his back looked gratifyingly stiff. But stiffness became merely good posture with depressing rapidity, and soon he was seen to nod, and smile, and when the other offered his hand, Clive took it at once, as if he said, “I did you an injustice before, for which I beg your pardon. Now we understand each other,” so that Ann perceived, with a sigh, that they were like to end the morning in perfect accord. She supposed that Clive really could not be blamed, for failing to hold it against a man, that he had shown more concern for the sensibilities of Clive’s sister, than Clive himself had done.

In this, however, she erred; or rather, in attributing the swift return of accord to Clive’s sense of justice, and whatever charm of manner Mr. Lenox might be thought to possess, she erred. Instead, an explanation had been given for the warmth of the rebuke, which so entirely satisfied Master Parry, that thereafter he only wondered at its mildness. Mr. Lenox had not charged him with secrecy--else it had never been known--but he had made the explanation as a private amends, for a too public reproof, confiding in Clive’s discretion, that he would not lightly expose what the other had gone to some trouble to conceal. Nor was his confidence misplaced. But no sooner were they free of Lenoxes, than Ann began to grumble. The officious absurdity of the charge, was as nothing compared to the way in which Mr. Lenox had left them at the mercy of his brother’s interminable remorse. Julia’s suggestion, that unnecessary as it may have been, and inconvenient as to consequences, Mr. Lenox had nevertheless been prompted by consideration for themselves, and was thus deserving of their gratitude, Ann utterly discounted. Her back ached, and her head rang; she was weary and cross, and of all things she most abominated that false chivalry, which pretends concern for those of the weaker sex, whilst in fact doing nothing but place increased burdens upon them.

Here Clive, probably moved almost as much by a desire to prove them both wrong, as to justify Mr. Lenox, gave them succinctly to understand, that that gentleman’s urgency had been prompted neither by misplaced consideration, nor false chivalry, but rather by a wish that his brother should not begin the day, by being thrown from his horse, and injured or killed.

The incredulous silence produced by this assurance endured for a full five seconds, and the rest of the journey back to Merrion House was hardly sufficient to appease the girls’ curiosity. At first Clive was reluctant to say anything further; but he was soon made to see, that if Mr. Lenox had wished the matter to be secret, he should have enjoined silence; and that if Clive had wished to preserve a confidence, he should never have spoken at all: after which presentation, he gave no further difficulty.

It seemed (he began) that Sir Warrington’s poor horsemanship was equaled only by his fearlessness, and the despondency that overcame him at any intimation of his true incompetence. These had all combined to make it a matter requiring no little skill, to preserve unbroken both his neck and his good-spirits. He had labored for improvement for some five years now, and despite having previously cracked his leg, his wrist, and his head, persisted in believing that a little more practice, a trifle firmer grip, would see him nearly qualified for Astley’s. The answer, at least in London, had been Curran; and no doubt an Irish slug of equal handsomeness was eating its head off in the baronet’s stables at home.

In light of this, Clive invited them to imagine Mr. Lenox’s alarm, upon the advent of Mr. Parry’s mare. Julia bit her lip, and looked distressed; but Ann could not help thinking, that Mr. Lenox had made things a deal harder for himself than he need, by his refusal to explain himself at the beginning. In fact, (she could not help pointing out), the brothers were an excellent illustration of Lord Chesterfield’s pronouncement upon the difficulty of establishing a golden mean in the matter of reserve: the one “imprudently communicative” of all he knew, and the other “ridiculously mysterious” concerning trifles. As for Mr. Lenox, continued she, “a few moment’s private talk with Mr. Parry aside, or a few written lines sent to Merrion House, would have at once seen all danger immediately removed. ”

This notion was at once assailed by her companions, who argued against it, first, that Mr. Lenox would have seen no need for warnings, whilst Curran was in command; and second, that afterward, from the very unexpectedness of the exchange, he would have found it impossible to utter them without at the same time openly declaring the baronet’s ineptitude, the very thing he was desirous of avoiding. “If you must apportion blame to one of them,” added Julia, “I think it will have to be Sir Warrington, for having failed to tell his brother beforehand what was intended--I do not think in this instance he can be accused of ‘communicating all he knew’! Do you not recall how strangely Mr. Lenox acted at first? We thought him offended, when it was merely that he had just received unpleasant news, and has not yet had time to master his feelings.”

Remembering her own observations on that head, Ann could not deny the first part of this speech; but she also considered that Mr. Lenox had displayed perfect mastery of his feelings, allowing them to appear with just sufficient force to wreck every one’s comfort, and accomplish his own ends; however, she did not say so. Nor, when Julia began to urge this latest event, as proof of the complete amity existing between the brothers, ”whatever society might hint to the contrary,” did Ann say anything of what she was thinking: which was, that because a man did not wish to see a close relative brained before his eyes, it did not then follow that he must rejoice in, or promote, the success of his matrimonial endeavors.

Ann said nothing, as Galileo said nothing: because she saw that to speak would be but to invite disbelief, exasperation, and perhaps even uncomfortable consequences. His carefulness for his brother had fixed in Julia’s mind, more firmly than ever, the worthiness of Mr. Lenox. Not only had he granted Kitty a seat in his carriage for some three or four streets, but now he had effectually prevented his brother from gaining the ephemeral attention of the beau monde (“…and this is the very spot where poor Sir What’s-his-name fell from his horse and broke his neck last month”); he could not be otherwise than admirable.

The discovery that his ostentatious concern for the welfare of herself and Ann had been no more than an excuse, or at best, only a secondary concern, appeared to have no effect upon Julia; his acumen, his compassion and his temper had all been vindicated at once, and she could not very well have appeared more pleased, had her own reputation been in question. She returned again and again to the subject, first to the difficulty of the situation, then to the forbearance he had shown, when the temptation to utter unpalatable truths must have been strong indeed; and she could not sufficiently admire the patience and delicacy with which he had handled it all, with no other aim than to spare his brother pain and mortification. Every paean had Ann imagining it the last; but the next moment always found Julia seizing on some new way in which Mr. Lenox had displayed his character to advantage.