“It would be great presumption on the part of a half-pay major—and maimed at that—to propose marriage to any young lady. To enter into an engagement! No, that would be inexcusable.”
“Your circumstances may improve,” she said.
“I see no likelihood of it at present,” he replied.
Remembering Lady Tyrrell’s prophecy of money coming to him, she resolved to find out the truth of it.
“Most of us have expectations, however modest,” she continued, “though a small bequest may be merely a nuisance, involving more lawyer’s business than profit. To be really worth while, a legacy should not be under ten thousand pounds—thirty thousand would be even better. There is also the question of the testator. A distant, unknown relative is to be preferred. A wealthy uncle, for instance, shut up for the last twenty years in a gloomy mansion, or an aunt—”
“I have a rich aunt,” said Wakeford, “but her money is all to go to a nephew of her late husband.”
“I would make it a law that rich aunts should divide their money among all their deserving nephews.”
“And how would you assess a nephew’s desert?” he enquired with a smile.
“That might be difficult, I admit,” she replied. “But if it were to rest on a written testimonial, I would be happy to write one for you.”
This conversation Elizabeth a little later repeated to Darcy. As she foresaw, he remonstrated with her for prying into Wakeford’s private concerns. She defended herself by arguing that if Lady Tyrrell were to put into circulation a report of wealth coming to him, it behoved his friends to know and spread the truth. To this he replied that people commonly believed what pleased them best, and often in defiance of proof to the contrary.
“All I can say is that it is a most irrational world.”
“Many of the men and women in it are.”
“It would do him good to marry,” she said. “Do not you agree?”
“The good of marriage depends on a man’s choice.”
“What I hope is that by and by he will meet with some good, sensible woman, someone as kind and unselfish as dear Jane, who will make him as truly happy as he deserves.”
“Nothing could be better,” said Darcy, “so long as you do not set about choosing the lady. I do assure you that men prefer choosing their wives for themselves.”
“So I have heard, though by all accounts it is a method that does not always succeed. Fitz, tell me, what is a major’s half-pay?”
When he told her she was horrified. “But that is indigence,” she exclaimed.
“He will succeed to his father’s estate in due course,” said Darcy. “It is not a large one—under two thousand a year I believe—and there are several sisters to be provided for.”
“But the father may live for many years to come.”
“That no one can tell. He is already well over sixty. As soon as Wakeford is able to lead an active life again I have a notion that he will consider it his duty to return home and help with the management of the estate.”
“He is the sort of man who would always do his duty, however difficult and disagreeable.”
‘‘That is his ruling characteristic.”
“How strange it is that there should be two men in a state of affliction under our roof at one time. And yet how different they are in every other respect, not least in the way in which they bear their misfortune.”
‘‘They could not well be more different,” said Darcy with some emphasis.
“Does your opinion of Mr. Acworth remain what it was?”
“I have not yet formed one,” he replied gravely. “There is something I do not comprehend, but I am persuaded that it is from lack of proper knowledge. Never have I experienced so much discrepancy between this man as he was reputed to be and as he has shown himself on acquaintance. Either he has changed very much from what he was formerly, or—”
“What is the alternative?” she asked, as he checked himself.
He shrugged his shoulders. “None that I can think of,” he answered.
It was so plainly evident that he did not wish to say anything further on the subject just then that Elizabeth forbore to press him, and began speaking of another matter. Her curiosity concerning Mr. Acworth which had slept of late was, however, revived. She had seen little of him for several days and how he spent his time she hardly knew. But from that time she began to observe him, to note his looks, his behaviour and any signs of unhappiness and ill-health. His unhappiness was soon not in doubt, but the motive was less certain, and she was disposed to agree with Georgiana that he appeared not so much afflicted by grief for the loss of his wife as out of humour with his surroundings or his company.
One evening after tea, Darcy having gone upstairs to Major Wakeford’s room to play a game of chess with his friend, Elizabeth and Georgiana sat alone with Acworth in the little drawing-room. To make amends for any remissness towards him which he might have felt, she offered him an apology for her recent neglect of his entertainment, attributing it to her preoccupation with Major Wakeford’s unfortunate condition. The effect upon him was immediate, almost startling. He smiled and begged her not to think that he had anything to complain of, and though in answer to her enquires he confessed to headaches and sleeplessness, all his vivacity of the first evening returned and he appeared most eager to converse. Elizabeth learnt for the first time that he paid an almost daily visit to the Parsonage where the Miss Robinsons had put at his disposal the late Rector’s study and all his theological books. He disclosed that he had been begged to make himself completely at home, to treat the house, in fact, as if it were already his own. Such transparent tactics were extremely diverting, and Elizabeth allowed her amusement to become visible. Emboldened, perhaps, by something more of ease in her manner than he had before experienced, he proceeded to give an imitation of the ladies in one of their famous disputes—Miss Robinson angrily haranguing and bearing down her younger sister, the latter becoming sillier and sillier and finally completely losing her head—and with such success that Elizabeth was overcome with laughter. But seeing that Georgiana, though also laughing, was half scandalized by his mimicry, she exerted herself to recover her composure and with it her dignity. Turning to Georgiana, she asked for some music.
Georgiana was very willing to oblige, and sitting down at the pianoforte, gave a spirited rendering of a set of oldworld dances. Mr. Acworth professed himself enraptured. “How rare it is,” he exclaimed, “to find a young lady able to enter into the mind of the composer and with an execution so perfectly at the command of the most exigent taste.”
After Georgiana had played again he entreated Mrs. Darcy to sing, praising her voice in terms that Elizabeth found fulsome and absurd. She could not altogether refuse, but having sung one short song, she asked him whether he did not also perform, momentarily forgetting that he had once spoken of possessing a violin. Nothing could give him greater pleasure, so he assured her, and asking leave to fetch his instrument, he departed in quest of it.
While he was gone Elizabeth had time to reflect upon the change in his aspect from gloom and dissatisfaction to joyous animation. That a little music should work such a transformation seemed incredible. She began to think that what he really desired was to be taken notice of. Evidently, in spite all his protestations to the contrary, he had felt himself neglected.
He returned carrying his violin and a sheaf of music, and for an hour or more Georgiana tried over one piece after another. From frequent attendance at concerts while in London, Elizabeth had heard many famous musicians and had learnt to distinguish their particular merits and the varying degrees of their attainment. She perceived very soon that Acworth was no ordinary performer. Not only was he completely the master of his instrument, but also he possessed that power over the emotions of his hearers without which skill alone is of little value. She listened with the fullest enjoyment, but when her
first astonishment had abated, her thoughts became busy with the man himself, trying to reconcile his unusual gifts with his birth and the sort of upbringing he must have had as a nobleman’s son. His impersonation of the Miss Robinsons had been a perfect imitation of both, and had displayed an uncommon sense of character as well as a happy invention. In the course of conversation he displayed a wide, rather than a solid education, with much diversity of reading. And yet not infrequently he said and did what was not in good taste, and betrayed ignorance of the usages of polite society. Upon any consideration, viewed in any light, he was extraordinary.
Towards the end of a piece in which great demands were made upon the principal performer, Elizabeth saw Darcy come into the room. He advanced slowly and noiselessly until he reached the hearth, where he took up his station a little behind the players, and there composed himself to listen. The music reaching its conclusion, Acworth turned towards Elizabeth and made her a low bow.
“I salute my audience of one,” he said with a smile of conscious pride.
“No, we are now two,” she replied, indicating her husband. “Mr. Darcy came in a little while ago. We have been sharing a very great pleasure.”
Darcy cordially assented. Nevertheless Acworth’s countenance fell; he looked all at once as if he had eaten the sour grapes of which he had made mention in his sermon the previous Sunday.
Chapter 6
Over a week had passed since the arrival at Pemberley of Major Wakeford and Stephen Acworth, and the presence of these two very dissimilar guests was become established and familiar. The Darcys were now looking forward to welcoming other visitors who were to begin arriving early in June. The party when assembled was to include Elizabeth’s sister, Jane Bingley and her husband; her uncle and aunt from London, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, her youngest unmarried sister, Kitty Bennet, and perhaps her father. Of the last’s joining them there was yet no certainty; but she had sent him a pressing invitation, reminding him that it was many months since they had met, and she was in good hope that he would come.
The prospect of meeting once more all these dear friends of her girlhood was delightful, and promised much happiness, but her anticipations were thrown all awry when one morning Darcy received a letter from his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, proposing herself and her daughter for two weeks from the 9th of June. No news could have been less welcome at such a time, but for her husband’s sake she tried to make light of it. She could even smile on looking through Lady Catherine’s letter, for her ladyship wrote with the same peremptory vigour as she spoke.
“The Gardiners will be here,” she said. “They can take care of themselves, but won’t Lady Catherine be affronted at being asked to consort with two such undistinguished citizens of London?”
“I trust she will behave with ordinary good breeding,” replied Darcy.
“But that is what you can scarcely depend on. Perhaps you had better warn her whom she will find here.”
“I cannot and will not apologise for anyone whom I invite to stay under my roof.”
“She is to come then, and take the consequences. On the whole it is just as well that there will be other people here at the same time. The undiluted society of Lady Catherine might go to my head, and then who knows what would happen.”
“You deserve great praise for being as patient as you usually are,” said Darcy seriously.
“That is indeed encouragement to go on behaving well,” said she, laughing and caressing his hand.
The course of events had been such as to drive all recollection of Rachel Stone out of Elizabeth’s head, and with it her undertaking to speak to Miss Robinson about the change she had directed in the girl’s employment. She was even unaware that Rachel was in the house until one day, coming from the nursery, she saw the new maid approaching her along the passage with a pile of linen in her arms. Instantly she dropped a curtsy and stood aside for her mistress to pass, but Elizabeth stopped to ask her some questions about her family, that she might form some opinion of her character, as well from her appearance as from her replies.
Rachel answered very respectfully, but her gaze was too unabashed and her manner too confident for her age and situation. She was a stout and well-grown girl of fourteen years, and with her black curly hair, bright rosy cheeks and dark eyes, was rather handsome. In spite of her simple maid’s dress she was likely to be singled out for notice; her quick roguish glances, the carriage of her head, her perpetual smile—all invited attention.
Thus much Elizabeth saw and could not feel easy about. She resolved, however, to make further enquiries of Mrs. Reynolds, and on the next occasion of seeing the housekeeper, she asked her whether she was satisfied on the whole with Rachel’s behaviour since coming into the house.
“I would not go so far as to call her a bad girl, ma’am. That she is not, but she might very well be better. I dare say she will behave as modest and pretty as the other maids do when she has been here a little longer, and learns to keep her place as she should.”
“Have you had to reprimand her, then?”
“Well, ma’am, to speak the truth, I have had to tell her a few things—such as being seen and not heard. She is a great talker at all times and wanting to know everybody’s business. ‘A girl of your age to take such liberties,’ I said to her only yesterday when I was having a little talk with Baxter, and turned round suddenly to find her listening. Oh, ma’am, I did give her a proper rating. And then, if you’ll believe me, the very next thing Mason found her in the picture gallery, looking at your portrait. ‘And who are you,’ said I, ‘to be looking at pictures? Even if you could understand them, which you cannot, they are no concern of yours. Do not you how that they are only for the gentry?’ And then after speaking rather crossly, I told her how I had gone into service at the age of fourteen, and had always done what I was bid and minded my manners, and in that way had rose to what I am now.”
“With such a good example before her she should improve,” said Elizabeth, repressing a smile.
“She ought to, ma’am, but I have observed that young people do not always take kindly to good examples.”
From what Mrs. Reynolds had said Elizabeth inferred that she did not think very well of Rachel Stone—in fact, thought badly of her. But having taken her stand against Miss Robinson on principle, she was determined to abide by her action, however awkward the consequences. In anticipation of what Rachel might do, of how she might turn out, she observed that a girl who needed so much supervision ought not to be sent away among strangers, but watched over by those who knew best her failings.
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” replied the housekeeper. “As I said to her, she ought to think herself very fortunate to be where she is. And I will say for her, ma’am, that she is quick and clever with her needle. When she is older and has learnt the ways here she might do for a waiting-maid, for she has the right sort of hands, and even now can tie a bow as well as ever I saw.”
Later in the day Elizabeth spoke to her maid, Mason, about Rachel.
“I hear that you found her in the picture gallery,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” Mason replied in shocked tones.
“What excuse did she give?”
“That she had lost her way, ma’am. But I hardly think it was true, for if it had been so, she would not have been standing and looking at the pictures, as I found her.”
“Surely she ought to know her way about the house by this time.”
“One would think so, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Reynolds says that she is quick and clever for her age, in which case it seems most unlikely that she should have been so stupid in this particular instance.”
“If I may make bold to say so, ma’am, I do not think she is at all stupid. I fancy she knows very well what she is about.”
Mason’s voice was so grave that Elizabeth, really disquieted, felt it necessary to find out everything she
could relating to Rachel that she might have nothing to learn from Miss Robinson. She therefore pushed her enquiries to the limit of propriety as between mistress and maid. Although Mason was guarded in her replies, Elizabeth collected that Rachel was impatient of discipline, expressed her opinions with great freedom, was inclined to take liberties with the upper servants, and most improper of all, would engage in conversation with anyone of the other sex, though previously unknown to her. Such an awkward character was disclosed, in fact, that Mrs. Darcy had secretly to admit that if she had known more of Rachel Stone beforehand, she would not have had her in the house.
After some further thought, she took the unusual step of summoning Rachel to her presence. The girl was brought the next morning to her dressing-room by Mrs. Reynolds, who remained there at her mistress’ request. She felt the expediency as well as the propriety of the housekeeper’s being present, although she would have preferred to speak to Rachel in private. Rachel’s rosy cheeks were scarlet and her eyes wide and gleaming with excitement, but she did not appear at all awed. She looked about her at the beautiful furniture, the flowers and ornaments and silk hangings. Such grandeur she could never have seen before, and her wonder swallowed up every other sensation.
Elizabeth spoke to her gravely but kindly. “You know, Rachel,” she said, “I took you into my service because your mother begged it of me, not because I asked for you. You ought therefore to be all the more diligent and dutiful instead of which I hear that you are not always obedient and are apt to be above yourself. I am told, however, that you can do your work very well when you choose. It should be your aim so to improve, both in your work and your conduct, that you may in time be thought of well enough to be put to higher duties. From henceforth I shall hope to hear nothing but good of you.”
Pemberley Shades Page 7
