Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I (31 page)

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.

His indecision and confusion began to show clearly on his face, and his gaze, when turned on Miss Parry, often held almost a hint of reproach; and occasionally his gaze would turn from her to his brother, with a look of puzzlement, as if silently asking, why this one, who did all things well, and made every path smooth for him, should have unaccountably failed to make Julia Parry fall in love with him as well, and offer him her hand, without ever being solicited for it.

Ann was not without a slight hope that Mr. Lenox might, in some fashion, be able to save her friend from this last grief, perhaps by presenting to Sir Warrington the inadvisability of pursuing his suit to its logical conclusion. But as the baronet’s restlessness grew, she became convinced that somewhere in his head a resolution was forming, like Mr. Roche’s infamous rat, and that it would not be long before Julia had the distress of turning down his proposals, and dealing with his misery and bewilderment, in addition to everything else.

So it was that the intelligence, delivered to Ann on the stair, that Sir Warrington was come to call, alone, and wishing to speak to Miss Parry on a matter of most particular importance, at once pitched her into a swift but furious battle within herself, in which her recent resolution to forswear all interference in Julia’s affairs struggled against an almost contemporaneous conviction that Julia was to be protected, at all costs, from any circumstances that might occasion her further sorrow. Those acquainted with Ann, could never have suffered a moment’s doubt concerning the outcome of this conflict, and the servant had scarcely left off speaking, before Ann was assuring him that she knew precisely where to find Miss Parry, and would herself tell Julia of her caller. She waited until he had returned downstairs, and then hurried to the drawing-room, explaining to her conscience that she really had every intention of doing just what she had said---
after
she had spoken with Sir Warrington herself, and, if possible, persuaded him not to speak to Miss Parry on any subject of particular importance.

**

The baronet greeted Ann’s entrance with a look suitably disappointed for a hopeful lover, and anxiously inquired, if Miss Parry was not at home, then?

Ann hesitated, and without answering his question, seated herself with the request that he follow her example, as she had something she wished to say to him. He obeyed, looking as if he found such a statement, coming from Miss Northcott, a highly alarming prospect. And indeed, she had not often voluntarily sought his company or his conversation.

She had come with no very exact notion, of how to say all that she felt must be said; but one thing she was tolerably sure of, and that was, that the words she chose to employ, must be very plain ones. Any attempt she might make at subtleties and implications, however easily penetrated by his brother, would be dark as a well-bottom to the baronet. Therefore, without giving herself time to repent of her decision, she began at once, and directly:

“Sir Warrington, I think I must know why you have come to see Miss Parry today. And you shall see her, in a few minutes, if you still wish it. But I hope you will permit me to say one thing to you first. I know you are very fond of Miss Parry, just as I am, and that neither of us would wish her to be made unhappy by anything we had done.” Here she paused, but as he was nodding at her in vigorous agreement, she continued, and more confidently: “Unfortunately, it is easy to make people unhappy, without in the least meaning to do so. Sometimes we imagine, that because a thing will make us happy, it must make someone else happy as well. But it is not always so. For instance, if a friend of yours--shall we say, Miss Denbigh?--took a violent fancy to that watch you are wearing, she might think, that because it would please her to own it, that it must also please you to give it to her. But I know it was a gift from your brother on the occasion of your last birthday, and so it is likely that you really would not be at all happy to give it away, and indeed, would probably refuse to do so. I see that you would. And that is perfectly understandable. However, at the same time, you probably could not help but feel very badly about it, because you were forced to refuse Miss Denbigh something that she wanted very much.”

He gave this statement a goodly amount of thought, and then, smiling broadly as the solution occurred to him, announced that he would buy Miss Denbigh another watch.

Ann refused to be discomfited, and replied patiently, “Yes, but suppose she was only to be satisfied with that particular watch. Then, if the only way to make her happy was to give her your own watch, and you really could not do that, then you would be made sad at having to disappoint her, would you not?”

Sir Warrington took such a long time considering this, that Ann almost despaired; but at last he admitted that this assessment was correct, though he naturally took the illustration no further, and sat looking at her with an expectant air.

Ann stifled a sigh, and began to tread toward her goal with great care. “So in such a case, you would now, both of you, be feeling very unhappy. Does it not strike you that it would have been more sensible--that is, kinder of Miss Denbigh, to think carefully before she requested that you give her your watch, to have realized, that you might not wish to part with it? Would you not have been grateful to her, for not placing you in a position in which you were forced to refuse her?”

There passed another long, brow-furrowing, meditative moment, before he nodded, with appreciable thoughtfulness, as if the dim, wavering outline of her target was beginning to appear before his mind’s eye.

“Miss Parry has a kind heart, too,” then said Ann, very deliberately. “It upsets her dreadfully when she cannot give that which is asked of her. Some years ago she was forced to tell a young man she could not marry him, and in consequence she became very ill, and nearly died.”

Sir Warrington looked properly appalled at this revelation, and Ann, pleased with having at last made an impression on him, felt fully justified in suppressing the rest of the matter, which was, that Julia had been twelve at the time, and the suitor in question a dramatically-inclined youth some two years her senior. Having received his congé, he had flung away from her in a passion, declaring he would drown himself, and to his considerable dismay, would perhaps have succeeded in doing so, from developing a sudden cramp in the middle of the pond into which he had taken himself off to sulk, had Julia not jumped in to save him. Her illness was the result of nearly being drowned herself, by the panicked strength of her rejected suitor; and had Kitty, the faithful, unnoticed shadow, not seen her sister’s difficulty and run at once to Mr. Parry, that first unsuccessful applicant might have had the gratification of taking himself and his lady to a very romantic end. Sadly for the poets, Mr. Parry had rescued his daughter, and even assisted her sodden swain to the edge of the pond, though with a sad lack of ceremony, and a subsequent tongue-lashing that had served effectively to douse whatever portion of the young Leander’s ardor had been left unquenched by the algae.

However, none of these details were necessary for her present purpose. There could be no question that at last Ann’s meaning had burst upon the baronet, and in his agitation he rose and began pacing the room with such a complete disregard for the furniture, as nearly brought him to ruin. Having escaped it by a hair’s breadth a number of times, to Ann’s relief he suddenly halted, and wilted onto a chair, rather as if all volition had been taken from him, and turned to her with a face so full of misery, that she was almost remorseful--until she remembered, that had she not interfered, it must have been Julia who looked upon it, a Julia who would have been a deal more affected by it, and less deservedly, than she.

“Shud Oi jist retirn howme, thin?” he asked, with such a simple reliance on her opinion, that she was moved, and replied very gently, “I am sorry, but I think it would be the kindest thing; for both of you.”

He nodded once again, and the tears which had been sitting in his eyes, fell over, and it was with a noticeable trembling of lip and voice that he asked in bewilderment, “Miss Nourthcutt, how kin she not luv ’im?”

Miss Nourthcutt, about to embark on a soothing speech concerning the different degrees of love, was assailed by the sudden recollection, that Sir Warrington, whatever his deficiencies of speech, was not guilty of that habit of referring to himself in the third person, which, in Ann’s opinion, was excusable only when the speaker was divine. She checked, to ask, with her own share of bewilderment, the antecedent of his pronoun.

His reply was succinct and unenlightening: “Me brither.”

“But she does love your brother,” replied Ann, by now too confused to worry about mincing words; hastily adding, “She is fond of you both. I know she hopes you will always be friends.”

But this palliative hope cheered Sir Warrington as little as it has done countless numbers of rejected lovers throughout the ages. Tears continued to disappear into his neck-cloth as he said sadly, “She was parfect. Oi kin niver find anither. Ther iz ownly Miss Pairy. He tould me we must go howme. Oi’ve made thim bowth onhappy. Id’s all me falt.”

Ann could not help agreeing, but she had suffered from this sentiment herself too often to hear it unfeelingly, and murmured some unconvincing phrases about the futility of seeking to apportion blame in every situation. But Sir Warrington was not attending, as he soon afterwards proved, by exclaiming, “If ’e had th’ Sorr, do ye thank she wud hav ’im, Miss Nourthcutt?”

Miss Nourthcutt, her brain sent reeling once again, was silent. Sir Warrington did not wait for her response, but shook his head, and answered himself: “Nah, bud Oi was forgitting. He ’ill not hav anywan that wud not hav ’im bud fer th’ Sorr, at all.”

After a significant pause, Ann managed to collect herself enough to ask, if she was correct in understanding her visitor to mean, that he was desirous of Miss Parry hav--marrying his brother?

“Oh, ay,” said Sir Warrington, still speaking with great dejection. And then, as the strangeness of this presented itself even to his intellect, he looked up to ask, wonderingly, “Did ye not be knowin’ that, thin?”

“No. That is--No. We thought--every one thought--that you wished her to marry--you. It--was understood that you had come to England to find a wife.”

Sir Warrington, to increase her confusion, appeared rather pleased at this confession. “So Oi did--bud fer Paddy. Bud Oi cud not be afther tellin’ ’im that, cud I? He wud not have cum. Me mither was tellin’ me an’ tellin’ me how id was, that he’d givin up ev’rythan’ fer me, and had no place of ’is own, so that he wud niver marry nor hav’ any childhre, bekase he was too bizy lookin’ afther me own throublesum affeers, an’ that if an’ he ever did marry, id wud be t’ sum dreedful neehburr’s daughther, and he’d be obleeged to listen to th’ Kang’s tongue bayin’ bate to death ev’ry mornin’ fer the rest of ’is loife. Oirish ghurls is very weel, Miss Nourthcutt,” said he, Lady Lenox’s clipped syllables somehow sounding clearly through her son’s brogue, “but raal illigance of moind and parson, is to be fownd ownly wid th’ Inglish.”

So, here, then, was the truth. For a moment, Ann really could not catch her breath enough to speak. How often, in past weeks, had she assured herself, that if it had been within her power to alter the situation, to make it possible for Mr. Lenox to wed Julia, without diminishing by one iota the happiness or love Sir Warrington felt for either, she would do so; how often had she fretted over her own inability to perform such a reversal, and grumbled over the seeming carelessness of Heaven? Now, however, by some dexterous twitch of the lantern, the thing had been accomplished, the entire scene was transformed, and she could no longer be satisfied with theoretical good-intentions. For an instant, her whole being rose in wicked revolt, pleading for silence; but only, I am gratified to report, for an instant. Then, having recovered her breath, and in a tone amazingly mild, she said, “But Sir Warrington, do you think this deception of yours was altogether wise? If your brother does not know the purpose for which you came to England, how can he know--that you have not designed Julia for yourself? How can he--think of loving her himself, if he believes you will not like it?”

“How kin he not luv ’er? She is parfect.”

Ann reminded herself that there was really no evidence of the baronet’s refusing to understand the meaning of plain English, from sheer intent to enrage. Then she said, with great deliberation, and her eyes fixed on his, “Sir Warrington, if he believes you desire to marry Miss Parry, then he would not ask her for himself, because he would not wish to hurt
you
. And if he does not
ask her
, then she cannot
accept him
.”

This, at last, was sufficiently blunt. She watched comprehension dawn in his widening eyes, and when they had grown quite round with it, he sprang up without another word, and hurled himself at the doorway--and, from the ensuing sounds, down the staircase as well.

The revelations of the moment seemed to call for furious exertion, for after sitting quite still for perhaps five seconds, or until the noise of his departure faded away, Ann then rose as springingly from her chair as injury would permit, and hastened up to where she knew Julia and Lady Frances to be supervising the packing away of some of the least necessary garments. She burst in upon them, exclaiming, “Julia! It is all a mistake! He had no notion of marrying you himself! He meant you always for his brother!”

Julia lowered the hat she had been examining, and gazed at her friend, with an expression almost as uncomprehending as the baronet’s; seeing which, Ann grasped her arm, crying, “Do you not see? Sir Warrington has just been here--we have been talking--
he
thought I was saying he must not speak to you on behalf of his
brother
---it is for Mr. Lenox that he came to England seeking a wife! He does not know it either--Sir Warrington says he has been unhappy---Julia, Julia, do you not see?--it is
Mr. Lenox
Sir Warrington wishes you to marry!”

And Ann saw, at this point, that perception had indeed come to her friend. “Oh,” said she, almost voiceless. “Oh--Ann!”

Ann was abruptly snatched from perhaps the most rewarding moment of her life, by the sound of a crash. She turned at once, and beheld the inanimate form of Kitty, who in fainting, had contrived to direct her head into the path of the highly-ornamented fire screen, so that to the limp form, and the appropriately waxen cheek, was added a fairly alarming quantity of blood.

**