The notion of dropping her fan slyly presented itself to her, only to be dismissed, with an inward grimace of distaste, as a vulgar stratagem; and so, when, shortly afterward, he first glanced in her direction, and then quietly moved to retrieve the shawl that had slipped behind her chair, she reddened as if the displacement had been deliberate, and uttered her thanks in some disorder. The gentleman, naturally mistaking this for shyness, sought to calm her by several commonplace remarks, to which Ann replied with more or less coherency; and thus, finding themselves engaged in a conversation of sorts, the absurdity of returning to their former silence struck them both, and caused him to say, “I ought, perhaps, to go in search of some mutual acquaintance to introduce us, but I know very few people in London, and I should probably only succeed in finding one by the time your carriage was called. My name is Lenox.”
Ann gave her own name, concealing her astonishment. This was caused, not by the unaccented nature of his English--for had not Lady Lenox assured them of the great pains she had taken to protect dearest Edmund from the pernicious vowels of his native land, seeing him most carefully educated in England?--nor, though she had assembled a rather formidable picture of the embittered favorite, was Ann so naive as to assume that the manner he had adopted toward Miss Parry, was at all likely to be used on such a one as herself. No, the difficulty lay in the fact that Sir Warrington, who looked to be not above two or three-and-twenty, must be the elder of her companion, whom she would have placed at nearly ten years beyond that. She could not quite accept it, and asked directly, “Not Mr. Edmund Lenox?”
He smiled a little. “So my mother has given me to understand. Have you reason to doubt it?”
“No,” said she, doubtingly; and added, “I believe I have met your brother.”
Her companion heard this confession with perfect composure, and said something suitable, which Ann did not attend to. Eyeing him from this new perspective, she saw, what had escaped her before, that there was indeed a resemblance between them, of that indeterminate sort, which often strikes the stranger forcibly, while the subjects themselves protest that they cannot see it at all. Feature by feature they were not much alike: Mr. Lenox’s hair was darker, his face thinner, his nose not as straight, and the eyes a different shape entirely; still, no one would question that they were related in some fashion. It seemed probable that Lady Lenox must find this likeness between the darling and the despised a source of perpetual irritation, and Ann determined to exclaim over it at length, if she were ever again to meet with that fastidious ducal descendant.
Mr. Lenox, having acknowledged the existence of his brother, showed no interest in talking of him, for which Ann, upon reflection, could only be grateful, as such a subject must necessarily have required a diplomacy of thought and tongue, which she knew herself to be without. Curiosity, however, was not to be contented by prudence; and, as if anxious to prove the reality of the dangers so narrowly escaped, it was not long before some thriving remnant of folly prompted her to abandon a conversation of various indifferent matters, to say,
“Before coming to town I never realized how many pretty girls there are in the kingdom. And your brother appears to have found the prettiest.”
As Sir Warrington was at the moment plainly visible to them both, standing up with Julia, Mr. Lenox could not do otherwise than acknowledge the truth of this remark, albeit he did so with a certain dryness which was not lost upon Ann.
“But perhaps you do not admire dark girls,” said she (with what casualness!) “and feel that the golden apple should be awarded to another. Have you someone else in mind?”
She could not forbear a swift glance, to see how he handled his discomfiture, and encountered a look, so very knowing, that she turned pink on the instant. Accustomed to entering a room at Julia’s side, and therefore unnoticed, she had thought herself safe in anonymity; his look told her, that this had been a vain confidence. He allowed her sufficient time in which to rue her impulse to tease, and then said coolly, “Not at all. Miss Parry is fully entitled to the prize. But in apportioning it to your friend, I think you forget that it was more correctly named the Apple of Discord.”
Ann had often thought how pleasant it would be to possess the ability of commanding hysterical fits at will, that she might be carried away, insensible, from such situations as this. But her nerves were never of the accommodating sort, and forced her to sit, most reluctantly sentient, and detecting in his words a criticism of Julia which must be answered. She scrambled after her wits, and after a moment had collected enough to challenge, “But was it not vanity, rather than beauty, that caused the discord?”
“Vanity may have provoked the war on Olympus, but it was beauty that brought about the ruin of Troy.”
Ann began to grow ruffled. “Only because it was united with the heart of a faithless wife!”
At this point Mr. Lenox revealed his true colors in full, by committing the intolerable offense, of remaining, in his turn, completely unruffled by this Hecabean pronouncement. He smiled faintly, and inclined his head, as if willing to concede the honors of the engagement to Ann; but she did not feel that the insult to Julia was fully avenged, and continued warmly, “I think you must have entirely a wrong notion about Miss Parry’s character. She is not a flirt, and has the kindest heart imaginable.”
“I say nothing against Miss Parry’s heart; I do not know it: only her face.”
“For which you would condemn her? Surely that is not fair! She can not help her looks, and is very careful not to misuse them!”
He closed his lips firmly, and looked away for a moment, as if more than half-resolved not to further the dispute. Ann was fully resolved, however, not to speak before he did, and at last he replied, “Miss Northcott, I trust you are right. But beauty is an irresponsible thing in itself, and can hardly escape being the cause of much discontent and unhappiness. No matter how carefully a fire is handled, the fact remains, that its very existence is predicated upon the destruction of any object that comes near it. I have said I do not condemn your friend; but you can hardly expect me to feel kindly toward the flame which, with the greatest goodwill in the world, is engaged in burning down my house.”
Since she could devise no answer to this, quashing enough to content her, Ann took what satisfaction she could in reminding herself, that as the endangered house no longer belonged to him, Mr. Lenox had no right to object if the whole thing became a heap of ash; and that all his noble-sounding talk on the inequity of beauty, was inspired by nothing loftier than self-interest.
They parted shortly afterward, with the minimum of polite excuses, and Ann was not so charmed with her own part in this conversation, as to feel any great impatience to recount it to a third party. It happened, however, that Julia had marked her meeting with the gentleman, and commented upon it almost immediately they were left alone that night, expressing her gratification that Ann should at last have succeeded in her design of seeing Mr. Lenox, after they had quite given up hope of it. She did not, of course, demand to be told what had transpired between them, and only allowed her curiosity the most delicate of manifestations, for Ann to appease or ignore as she wished.
There could be no question of denial. Ann did not hesitate, but told of everything, from shawl to squabble, as accurately and impartially as was possible. From the distance of several hours, she was even able to admit that Mr. Lenox had not been eager for conflict, but on the contrary, had sought several times to avoid it--giving her no one to thank for the mortifying contretemps, but herself.
“What I do not understand,” said she, at last, “is why an otherwise sensible man--at least, so he impressed me by his conversation--should be so convinced, that, out of all the gentlemen of your acquaintance, you must find his brother the most acceptable. It is not as though Sir Warrington has an enormous fortune, and he is not even a lord; not that these are things to weigh with you, but the Lenoxes might be forgiven for thinking they are: and so what has he to recommend him?”
�
��As for that,” replied Julia, “there is a great deal to be said for a husband who commands not only a baronetcy, but also an incurable sweetness of temper, and a handsome face; and the fact that his mind is like that of a nicely brought-up child of six or seven, might not even, by many women, be considered a disadvantage. He would certainly be very easily led, and never think to question his wife’s expenditures, or find fault with her behavior. If a brother can disregard his feelings, and still be the object of enormous admiration, then a wife would indeed be secure. She could treat his wishes with the utmost contempt, without any fear of forfeiting his affection and admiration. True, conjugal felicity in such a form holds no allure for me, but Mr. Lenox cannot be expected to know this, since he will not take the trouble to know me. And as for the other, it is obvious that his fears have distorted his judgement. You yourself must know, how the more one dreads a happening, the more one becomes persuaded, against all reasoning, that it is not only possible, but likely. He has allowed that vaunted intellect of his to become darkened by suspicion, and ‘in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear’!”
Though her speech appears sharp enough when inscribed upon paper, the regretful tone in which it was uttered effectually robbed it of all asperity, and rendered it a mere rueful assessment. That it was so, may be attributed to her many dances with Sir Warrington, which had done more than ruin the toes of no less than three pairs of slippers--they had also served to soften her opinion of his brother to such an extent, that had Mr. Lenox shown the least inclination to forgive her for being the baronet’s choice, Ann was tolerably convinced, that her friend would have smiled on his overtures, and probably even have granted him that dance which he had rejected with such alacrity at their initial meeting. Upon Ann’s asking what had become of her declaration that “nothing disposed her to dislike a person more than hearing them continually praised,” Julia merely laughed, and said in mock reproach, that it was not the part of a friend, “to scrape up the stupid things one may have said in the past. A poor memory, Ann--or faulty hearing--that is what is to be desired in such situations.
“Besides,” continued she, after a moment, and more seriously, “I have learned to be grateful to the man. Five minutes under his dismissive eye taught me more of myself than five weeks of flattery and nonsense. I had grown so used to consorting with those who expressed delight at every thing I said and did, that I was in real danger of believing it to be some virtue in myself, that made it so, instead of its being largely the result, of a combination of A’s--Ancestors, Affluence, and Appearance; three things which are mine, through no will or exertion of my own. Do you recall how you said at the time, that Sir Warrington presented me as if I had been a jeweled treasure, fit for a monarch? To Mr. Lenox I was no more than a ‘twinkling, tiny lustre’ fated to drop ‘from Fame’s neglecting hand’, and his eye said as much. Do not frown so, Ann! His look was not kind, nor even civil--but it was entirely honest. I am a shiny bauble, making a fine show for a brief time, but inevitably to be discarded with the advent of some newer, brighter trinket. In ten years I shall wear a cap; in twenty, I shall be wrinkling around the edges and contemplating grandchildren, and unless I marry someone of enormous distinction, or create--Heaven forbid!--an enormous scandal, the world will have forgotten me. And even if for some reason I should achieve enough fame to linger in the minds of future generations, the only consequence will be, that far too many people will write biographies and histories in which I am mentioned in terms of such hideous inaccuracy, as would provoke me to either laughter or fury, were I not safely beyond all vexation at the misrepresentation of my character. This is Vanity Fair, that intoxicating celebration, whose chief end is to glorify Things That Do Not Matter, and regret it forever. Mr. Lenox reminded me of it, and for that, at least, I must always be grateful to him.”
As Ann could not feel that the gentleman deserved quite this degree of forbearance--certainly, he did not deserve gratitude for a favor unwittingly done--she was pleased enough to think that his own fears and envyings must prevent him from ever providing an occasion where he might enjoy it; and for some time consoled her still-piqued spirit by picturing that cool young man setting himself to repel the “menacing advances” of an altogether charitably disposed bush.
**
Chapter XV
My reader may be forgiven for supposing, from the number of pages already given over to them in this narrative, that from their very first acquaintance with them, the family of Lenox engrossed a large portion of the Parrys’ thoughts; but this is to forget the inevitable disproportioning of events, which is caused by the prescience (or hindsight) of a biographer. They did indeed pity Sir Warrington, and regret very much the situation in which he found himself; but it is not reasonable to presume that they had nothing else to do than sigh over the afflictions and fancies of one feeble-witted baronet.
And so again, exercising the prerogative of my authorship, I pass silently over many days and nights full of conversation and dancing and incident, to seize upon the one happening, which, but for its occurrence, would almost certainly have seen the brothers Lenox fading, with the ending of the season, entirely from the lives, and to a great extent from the memories, of my heroine and her family.
It began in a most innocent fashion indeed, with a note sent round by Lady Thomasin, to inquire if any of her young relations wished to accompany her to hear “that young Mr. Davy” speak on the Chemical History of the Earth the following day. Now Kitty was excessively fond of lectures, (it was Mr. Parry’s suggestion that this was due to the circumstance that, while it was in progress, she was for once assured that the attention of every one around her, would be completely fixed on an object some distance from herself), but a prior acceptation of one of her great-aunt’s invitations had left her as adamant as her nature would allow, against accepting another, when that lady was to be her sole companion. I do not mean to decry Lady Thomasin, who was in many respects an admirable woman; but she was sadly unused to taking thought for any person of less independent spirit than herself, and the consequence was, that during that previous outing she had unwittingly subjected Kitty to a horrific ordeal, which the slightest care might have prevented.
The two had been making their egress from the hall, when Kitty had discovered the absence of her reticule, and immediately exclaiming over it, had implored her great-aunt to wait for but a moment while she returned to search for it. Scarcely had she taken a step, however, than she was confronted by the sight of her reticule, clasped in a unfamiliar hand of unmistakable masculinity, and being offered to her with the daunting words: “I beg your pardon, but I believe this may belong to you.”
This was frightful enough, but having received it with wisps of thanks, upon turning about, she found that Lady Thomasin, her ear being unaccustomed to her great-niece’s quiet tones, had pursued her outward path, unheeding, and was nowhere to be seen by someone of Kitty’s stature. But even this was not the crowning terror: no, that was to be laid entirely at the door of the same gentleman who had so thoughtlessly delivered up her errant property. He seemed to have no qualms about further exposing the reprehensibility of his character, and not only stood his ground, but being witness to her obvious distress, inquired, after a moment, if she sought the lady with whom she had been seated. Upon receiving some faint and agitated species of affirmation, he cast his eyes about, and soon espying Lady Thomasin over the heads of the crowd, without so much as a by-your-leave he escorted Kitty through the throng to where her ladyship stood near the door, gazing impatiently about her. At this point he somewhat redeemed himself by displaying no further interest in Kitty’s welfare, and taking himself off at once; but she was not to be so easily conciliated. She retained no impression of the physiognomy of this officious gentleman, but the memory of that brief moment of dependence upon an unfamiliar waistcoat was sufficient to keep her from venturing forth from Merrion House, without the reassuring presence of at least one other of its inhabitants.
> Clive was, perhaps, her companion of choice for such affairs, but on this occasion he was already engaged to go calling on Lord Barham with Mr. Parry on the morrow (“Oh, Kitty, I am sorry, but I cannot. Do you not realize the Honor of being allowed to go with Father? I do not care if Ali Pasha is to speak on the virtues of Pacifism: this is Lord Barham”); and Lady Frances and Julia having obligations to a distant relation who had come to town and was expected to call, it was Ann whose profession of interest unhappily persuaded Kitty of the safety of expanding her knowledge of Geology.
The lecture may have been of surpassing brilliance and lucidity; no doubt it was. But no recollection of its merits survived in the minds of either Kitty or Ann, for the disaster which overtook them at its conclusion drove all before it, like an ill-wind that scatters, in an instant, the heaps of leaves whose painstaking compilation consumed all the morning hours.
Ann was the first to catch sight of the impending disaster, and despite the panic which instantly seized upon her, she retained enough presence of mind to try to avert its descent, by turning her face away, and slipping quickly around her companions, to mince along shrinkingly in the shadow of Lady Thomasin’s abundant figure: but all for naught. The Disaster, having eyes, used them; and a voice as well.
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 10
