To Elizabeth her husband appeared to be trying not to look surprised. The gentleman’s consternation at being mistaken for a member of a college not his own struck her, however, as being merely laughable. She knew that certain colleges at the University ranked higher in consequence than others, either from being considered more fashionable, or from having a greater reputation for learning, but there was no horrifying difference that she had ever heard of between the two that had been mentioned. Nevertheless there are sentiments harboured by the male heart that are forever incomprehensible to female intelligence, and this rivalry of scholastic institutions was undoubtedly one of them.
Exerting herself to break the rather uncomfortable silence which followed, Elizabeth asked Major Wakeford whether in the course of his campaigning he had ever come so near Bonaparte as to be sensible of his proximity. She was afraid the question might sound downright silly to a soldier of experience, but she knew that as a rule one had but to mention Bonaparte for all the gentlemen present to become loquacious.
“Never,” Major Wakeford replied. “Wherever I have fought, I have always known him to be hundreds of miles away. We soldiers have to think only of our immediate task, whatever it may be.”
“I can understand that,” said Darcy. “But to the Englishman at home whose view, though deficient in many particulars yet comprehends the whole, the idea that a man sprung from the people has in a comparatively short time assumed control over vast territories, and in consequence the lives and destinies of millions of human beings, does very powerfully affect his imagination, besides affronting his sense of justice.”
“When I had time to reflect, which was seldom, I thought exactly as you do,” Major Wakeford replied. “But as another artillery officer, I confess that I admired him. His use of the arm was masterly.”
“While we stay-at-homes regard him as evil incarnate,” said Elizabeth. “You must know that we are half-persuaded that he cannot be human, for in that case how could he perform such prodigies as he has done? Whence his invincibility, if not from the fact that his uniform conceals the cloven hoof, not to mention the other distinguishing marks of a fiend—horns, and tail?”
“Excellent, upon my word!” said Mr. Acworth, laughing rather affectedly.
“But,” she continued, ignoring the compliment, “I dare say there is some good in him. I defy anyone to be wicked without one redeeming trait.”
“Most certainly,” agreed Acworth, “just as it would hardly be human to be undeviatingly virtuous. We look for a little leaven of wickedness, even in our dearest friends. The man or woman whose conduct appears impeccable must come under suspicion of hypocrisy.”
It struck Elizabeth that this was a curious sentiment to come from a clergyman. She glanced at her husband and met his eye. Evidently the same thought had visited them both.
“The question surely is which is to predominate,” said Darcy. “Even a murderer may have an amiable side to his character.”
“And there are persons who pass for being everything that is good, and yet can and do commit the most atrocious acts,” said Georgiana, speaking for the first time. “A governess I once had threw a half-grown kitten into the water to drown. She not only did that, but could stand and watch it struggle.”
Darcy turned towards her interrogatively, while Major Wakeford regarded her flushed face with interest. “That was atrocious and inexcusable,” he said. “No less barbarous than murder.”
“Cruelty remains cruelty, whatever the object,” said Mr. Acworth with a moralising air. “And suffering also,” he added in a different tone. “Indeed there is a latent savagery in the human breast which too often seeks an outlet for just such actions as the one described by Miss Darcy, for the good reason that they go unpunished, the victims having neither voices nor rights. For the protection of the law is reserved for its framers and administrators—the rich and powerful.” He spoke towards the end with such bitterness—almost venom—that Elizabeth’s heart beat faster. Darcy said nothing, but he looked indignant and his colour rose. The conversation had taken such a decidedly wrong turn that something must be done, and Elizabeth made haste to smooth all over.
“Cruelty, suffering—are not these relative terms? We all differ as much in our susceptibilities as in our aptitudes. What is tolerable to one is torture to another. If I were to confess to that which afflicts me most you would think it so unreasonable that I shall say nothing about it. But, Major Wakeford, I am sure that above all things you detest being questioned about your campaigns.”
“It depends upon the questions and who asks them,” he replied with one of his rare smiles. “But since Mrs. Darcy has discovered and published my weakness, it is surely very ungenerous in her to conceal her own.”
“Her discovery arises from a fellow feeling,” said Darcy. “There is more than one sort of campaign, and she very much dislikes being questioned about hers.”
Elizabeth laughed and exclaimed, “As for Mr. Darcy, he says nothing about his own abhorrences because they are too many. Possibly there is an arch-abhorrence, but it has a hundred competitors in the field—all striving for first place.”
“You cannot expect me to be any more candid than you are yourself.”
She let the provocation pass with a smile and a shake of the head.
“Speaking for myself,” said Mr. Acworth, “I would say that a woman who sings out of tune enrages me more than anything else in the world.”
“That is the most effectual silencer I ever heard,” said Elizabeth with mock gravity. “But I have always understood that the offenders are never conscious of their guilt and continue the outrage. You must have suffered very much, and on many occasions.”
Mr. Acworth appeared really delighted, but made a parade of his martyrdom. He cast up his eyes in a very foreign fashion, and in fact many of his gestures, such as his manner of shrugging his shoulders, recalled the antics of a Frenchman. At this point Darcy launched forth somewhat abruptly on a totally different subject, and the conversation became more general though less animated. Soon afterwards Elizabeth and Georgiana withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their wine.
In the drawing-room they discussed their new acquaintances, with more unanimity than is usual with ladies when the other sex come up for judgment. They agreed in approving of Major Wakeford and being dubious about Mr. Acworth. As a state of doubt is more interesting than certainty, it is not surprising that the latter gentleman should receive the greater share of their attention.
“There is something very strange about him,” said Georgiana, “but I cannot fix upon what it is. I can truly say that I have never seen anyone in the least like him before.”
“Then you have your wish,” said Elizabeth. “That was what you were desiring, you know. I think his strangeness comes in part from his variability. His character appears to shift from moment to moment, making him oddly inconsistent. One cannot in truth say what kind of a man he is, and for that reason should spare judgment until we know him better.”
“He does not seem to be grieving for the death of his wife.”
“Oh, Georgiana, how can you tell? He would not make a dis-play of it before strangers.” But as she spoke Elizabeth remembered that it was precisely what he had done in his first interview with Darcy. “One must not be too hasty in conjecture upon so slight an acquaintance,” she continued, “but I will hazard the guess that at all times Mr. Acworth is very much the creature of his surroundings, on which his humour will depend. If so, that would explain his apparent insensibility on first coming among us.”
“At any rate he is quite different from anyone who has ever stayed at Pemberley.”
“So, for that matter, is Major Wakeford.”
“Not so different,” said Georgiana, walking away to the pianoforte. “The difference in Major Wakeford is owing to his—his condition, which is so dreadful. I could not bring myself to look at him, Elizabeth. Is th
at wrong in me?”
“No—not wrong, provided you try to overcome it. The loss of an arm is indeed a calamity. But if he can bear it bravely, so can you.”
But the next moment Mr. Acworth and Major Wakeford were both forgotten. On reaching the pianoforte Georgiana had found a parcel containing some music she had commissioned her brother to bring from town. Partly unwrapped, it lay surmounted by the list she had made out. An exclamation from her brought Elizabeth to her side. Together they went through the pile, and below the pianoforte music came upon some songs inscribed with Elizabeth’s name in Darcy’s handwriting.
“Oh, Elizabeth, here is that Canzonetta we heard at Lady Fullerton’s party—that Fitzwilliam was so much struck with.”
“Yes, I remember—and by the Italian woman who sang it. Her voice was certainly very wonderful. But what does he propose by bringing it for me?”
“That you shall sing it, of course. Do try it, Elizabeth. There will be plenty of time before they come.”
Seating herself at the instrument, Georgiana began to play the accompaniment with inviting glances at her sister. The spell worked as it was intended, and Elizabeth first came to look over her shoulder and then began to hum the air. When she had gone through it in this manner, she was easily persuaded to go through it again, enunciating the words with a firmer command of her voice. A further repetition enabled her to give a rendering guided by her recollection of the Italian singer’s performance. The melody had a simple plaintiveness which Elizabeth, happy by nature and situation alike, enjoyed to the full, and she sang it with all the sadness it could be made to express. When she had come to the end, her voice held on the last soft note, she heard a man’s ‘Brava’ behind her, and turned in astonishment to see that, all unnoticed, the three gentlemen had entered the room together. So quietly had they come that neither she nor Georgiana could know how long they had been there. Major Wakeford was seated in a chair, Darcy and Acworth were standing some distance apart.
Mr. Acworth now approached the ladies. “I must congratulate Mrs. Darcy on a very delightful performance,” he said. “And may I say that never was intonation more true. You have indeed a charming voice, madam—not strong, perhaps, but perfectly musical; will you not give us the pleasure of hearing you again?”
Elizabeth was sensible of a tinge of patronage in his manner which surprised and displeased her. Happily she was saved from the necessity of deciding whether or not to comply by the diversionary entrance of tea. In the general conversation which ensued, Darcy asked Major Wakeford whether he was still as fond of card games as he used to be, probably with the intention of starting one later on. Major Wakeford, speaking exactly as he thought, said that while abroad he had got into the habit of playing chess with a fellow officer at odd times, and had become extremely interested in it.
“How fortunate for Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “As an occupation demanding solitude, silence and the exercise of pure intellect, you could not hit upon anything more likely to answer his notions of perfect felicity.”
Darcy always took his wife’s pleasantries at his expense in good part, and usually returned a rejoinder designed to provoke a fresh sally from her. This was so well understood between them that when no reply came she glanced at him with a challenging smile to see him gravely considering his teacup as if she had not spoken. A moment later he said to Major Wakeford, “My wife thinks we mean to desert to the library and is determined to prevent it.” As no such thought had occurred to her she was about to protest with energy when a belated understanding stayed the words upon her lips. In the presence of Mr. Acworth there was to be no levity; the domestic scene must be subdued to the hue of staidness and formality. This was a sobering reflection. She did not rebel, but she was silenced.
Had she seen what had already caught Darcy’s eye more than once that evening—Mr. Acworth’s deeply admiring gaze turned upon her, she would have been more embarrassed than ever. Mr. Acworth was seated beside her and she could not observe him unless by turning her head directly towards him, when he would either lower his eyes discreetly, or return her glance with a complaisance beaming in his countenance not so very much more than civil. That he did admire her she was aware, but most men did, and to this she was accustomed. None of them had ever transgressed the bounds of propriety, nor had Darcy before found fault with such admiration. But then all the gentlemen who resorted to their society were his friends and well-wishers, and their harmless gallantry to his wife was meant and taken as in part a compliment to himself, whereas Acworth’s goodwill towards him was by no means certain, and appeared to diminish as acquaintance lengthened, instead of increasing.
When tea was over Darcy asked his sister to play to the company. She went directly to the pianoforte, but sat there for some moments silently considering what piece to choose, and while the others waited for her to begin Darcy said to Acworth, “You are an amateur of music, I collect, and have some knowledge of the art.”
“I must confess that I have wasted rather more time with my violin than was to the advantage of other more serious studies,” he replied. “But I can hardly remember the time when it was not my constant companion.”
“It is strange that you should be the only musical member of your family,” observed Darcy. “Your brother, Lord Egbury, used to declare that he hardly knew one note from another.”
“That is so. Not one of my brothers has the least ear for anything.”
“I remember hearing when I stayed at Mentmore many years ago, that you were extremely fond of music, but I did not know that you were a performer.”
Acworth gave his host an odd, sharp look as Elizabeth, who had moved to a seat near Georgiana, could not but see. “No,” he replied, “in England a fiddle-playing young man is regarded as very effeminate, almost a skeleton in the family cupboard. The Acworths have always prided themselves on their noble indifference to the arts.”
Elizabeth said quietly, “I cannot conceive how the love or practice of art in any of its forms can be a matter for censure. You will find nothing of that sort at Pemberley.”
To this Mr. Acworth returned a bow.
Georgiana now began to play, and continued at the instrument for over an hour. Her brother and sister had always regarded her performance as remarkable, both in taste and execution, but it remained for Mr. Acworth to reveal to them how truly remarkable it was. He commenced by looking all astonishment, then he spoke with enthusiasm of phrasing, rhythm, touch and tone with a kind of affectation that Darcy found obnoxious and Elizabeth amusing. Georgiana herself looked pleased, but not quite believing, and when her brother observed that she owed her proficiency to one of the best foreign masters in town, she instantly discounted Mr. Acworth’s superlatives as decidedly overrating her accomplishment. She knew better than anyone else how much she had yet to learn, and how far she had to go before arriving within sight of that perfection which ever eluded her.
Major Wakeford was a silent, though attentive listener. On rising from the instrument, Georgiana came to a chair near him, and at this opportunity of paying his tribute he looked round and thanked her very simply. “I have never cared for such music before,” he said, “but perhaps it is because I have never heard it really well played as you do.”
After the party had separated for the night and Elizabeth and Darcy were at length alone and at liberty to say what they would, she attacked him upon the subject of Stephen Acworth.
“Upon extended knowledge I like him no better,” said Darcy.
“You said in your letter that he resembled his father who was coarse and profane and habitually unfaithful to his wife. Are you not in danger of transferring your dislike of Lord Egbury to his son without due reason—for you do dislike him, that I can see? But though he may resemble his father in person, and in much else, Stephen Acworth is not coarse. He has good manners, though perhaps they are a little overdone. He is also a man of taste and education and evidently
knows the world.”
“To my mind a man of his profession should not have too much sophistication. Education and taste I grant, his birth is indubitable, therefore I find it strange that he should lack that something which marks the gentleman—which you have in Wakeford and even in Mortimer for all his rustic upbringing.”
“Birth and breeding are not always the guarantee of a perfect product, it would seem. Do you know—” She was about to tell him of her persuasion of having seen Stephen Acworth before, but changed her mind. There was something of reserve in Darcy’s manner which piqued her curiosity and determined her to gratify it if she could before anything else. “Do you know,” she resumed, “that you appear to me to be holding something back. You say that you don’t like his face, that he is too sophisticated for a clergyman and is not truly the gentleman. But that is not all. If you ask me to believe that it is, I do not.”
“You think you are going to be very clever and worm something out of me, Elizabeth.”
“I? Certainly not. I am asking no questions but merely saying that you are not being perfectly frank. You are quite at liberty to keep your thoughts to yourself, however. Are they not your own? You did say that you would endow me with all your worldly goods—a rash promise, I have always thought—but that presumably did not include the furniture of your mind.”
“You are welcome to anything worth having,” said Darcy, vastly amused. “If I do not offer it to you without asking, it is because I am not certain of its value. However, as you desire to be particularly and precisely informed on all that at this moment is lodged in the secret recesses of my brain, I will confess everything.” He went on more seriously. “As I have said, Stephen Acworth does resemble his father to a remarkable degree, but I will affirm that it is a circumstance which has not influenced me. In any case, he cannot help it. It is true, as you observed just now, that he is not coarse, and profanity seems far from his lips. But like his father, there is that in his manner to women which displeases me. He is of that class of man who cannot look at any woman without estimating her charms as they affect his senses. You may ask how I know that in such a short time as we have spent together, but I was an involuntary witness of more than one incident on the journey, trivial enough in itself, yet indicative of levity in such matters. Wakeford commented upon it unasked, though in a very guarded manner. When it is considered that he has not long since lost his wife, and is supposed to be broken with grief, it is all the more reprehensible.”
Pemberley Shades Page 5
