Elizabeth laughed. “You know, Papa, you will end like Diogenes by living in a tub.”
“There are many worse places. The accommodation is so limited that it prohibits intrusion.”
“Has not Kitty been staying until now with the Collinses at Hunsford?”
“She has. And to save her the trouble of unpacking her trunks on her return here, we set out for Pemberley the very next day.”
“That was rather hard upon Kitty, for she hates travelling.”
“But she loves change,” said Mr. Bennet. “Between ourselves she has been crossed in love—at least so your mother informs me. Your mother is very enraged with Charlotte Collins about it. It appears that she gave her sister Maria Lucas all the opportunities for engaging the affections of a certain young gentleman that should have been Kitty’s; for, as your mother pointed put in more words than I can remember, Charlotte Collins’ prospective enjoyment of the Longbourn estate puts her very much in debt to the present owner and his family—especially the latter.”
“You appear to have listened to Mamma, at all events.”
“My dear,” said her father, “as you yourself ought to know, there is no escaping the pertinacity of a spouse.”
Elizabeth smiled but faintly. “But, Papa,” she said, “it is stale news that Maria Lucas is engaged to a clergyman. I have known it these three weeks.”
“That may be so, but in your mother’s mind it is still fresh. If you could get Kitty settled in a matrimonial situation suitable to her looks and lack of fortune, I should be infinitely obliged, for I get sick of hearing of her rights and wrongs.”
“Then you must prepare yourself to see a great deal of company, for it is not possible otherwise.”
“Fiddlestick,” replied her father. “You and Kitty can see as much company as you choose without dragging me by the heels.”
On reaching the house Elizabeth went upstairs to see her sister. Kitty was lying down on her bed with her eyes closed and a handkerchief soaked in aromatic vinegar held to her forehead. She opened her eyes as Elizabeth came to her side, and sat up to kiss and be kissed, but sank back again immediately afterwards, looking haggard with headache and fatigue. In the three years or more since Elizabeth had been married, Kitty had, however, much improved in looks and manners, and from being thin and pale, with a peevish expression, she had grown into a slender, pretty girl with an air of delicacy and languor. She was neither clever nor well-educated, but she had learnt how to talk to different sorts of people and could make a little matter go a long way in keeping up a conversation. In general, her behaviour was of the most exemplary propriety.
Having enquired after her comfort Elizabeth would have left her again to continue her repose, but Kitty begged her to stay, so she sat down beside the bed prepared to chat for a little while. “You made a long stay at Hunsford,” she observed.
“There was no getting away,” Kitty replied. “I wanted to return home at the end of the six weeks for which Charlotte Collins had invited us, but Maria insisted on staying. She was determined not to go until she had secured Mr. Bullock, and so she hung on and on until she got him. And then Mr. Bullock, though invited to Lucas Lodge, could not immediately leave his parish, and Maria would not quit Hunsford until the date of his journey could be fixed.”
“Was he really so wavering and uncertain as you make him appear?”
“He is so extremely dull that I do not think any notion of marriage entered his head until Charlotte put it there. In fact, he is the stupidest, backwardest young man I have ever known. However, he will be a husband for Maria, and of course the Lucases are pleased enough, and Charlotte is delighted that Maria will be living within three miles of her. For I can tell you that Charlotte is not at all happy since Lady Catherine has taken such a dislike to Mr. Collins. He is always in a bad temper, and Lady Catherine is insupportable.”
“Did you see anything of Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh?”
“Not above once or twice. Charlotte and Mr. Collins are not often invited to Rosings now—only when Lady Catherine can get no one else for a game of quadrille—but she will call to see Charlotte now and again about something or other in the parish, and find fault with her and give her orders that I wonder Charlotte can bear it. Now I know what it is to be a clergyman’s wife, I would not marry one for all the gold in Arabia.”
“Poor Charlotte, her lot is indeed uncomfortable. When you did see Lady Catherine, how did she behave to yourself?”
“She seemed very angry with me for being your sister. Indeed, to hear her you would think it was a great impertinence on my part. The first time she called at the Parsonage after I was there, she asked me some questions about my age and place in the family, and then she said I could not hope to make so great a marriage as you had done. She said I was not so very ill-looking, but that I lacked your arts and allurements.”
“They evidently made a great impression on her,” said Elizabeth laughing. “She will always believe that they cheated her out of a son-in-law.”
“Charlotte says Lady Catherine has never forgiven you for marrying Darcy. Is not it strange, Lizzie, that Miss de Bourgh has not been able to get a husband? I am sure Lady Catherine has tried all ways. And then she is so rich. One would have thought that with all the money she has, and what is coming to her, she could marry whom she pleased, even now when she must be nearly thirty. But she is so small and sickly looking and has such a cross expression, that who would look at her? And Lady Catherine has aimed so high for her that she has probably missed some chances. Charlotte says that at one time she would not consider anyone less than a viscount, but now she would be glad to marry her to any ordinary gentleman. There was talk at one time of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Of course he is only the younger son of an earl, and has not much money, but no doubt Lady Catherine would be glad to get him for her daughter. He used to come regularly to stay at Rosings, Charlotte says, and now he never does—at least he has not stayed there for the last two years—and Charlotte’s opinion is that it is because he does not wish to be inveigled into marrying his cousin.”
“That is only conjecture. Colonel Fitzwilliam is a man of the world and perfectly well able to take care of himself. It is besides by no means certain that Lady Catherine would make the attempt.”
“But you cannot deny she is capable of it, for now she must be very nearly desperate. This last twelve months she and her daughter have been here and there—London, Bath, Brighton, Ramsgate and other places. They were to start on a round of visits when I quitted Hunsford.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, by this time thoroughly tired of Kitty’s ill-natured gossip, “they are coming here on a visit in about ten days from now.”
“Oh, Lizzy,” cried Kitty, “why did you not tell me before?”
“I did not think to. I only knew it myself a few days ago. What difference would it have made had you known sooner?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I must say I hate the very sight of Lady Catherine. My comfort is she will take no notice of me beyond ‘good morning’ and ‘good night.’ But what can they be coming here for? Does not Lady Catherine detest you?”
“I think it very likely that she does, but she still has an affection for Darcy and Georgiana.”
Kitty closed her eyes and turned her face on her pillow in such a very suffering manner that Elizabeth offered to leave her alone. But Kitty hated to be alone at any time, and her headache, being of the nervous variety, engendered a strong desire to be talking. And beyond every motive in strength and urgency she had suddenly remembered that she had something to impart of such singular interest that further delay was not to be thought of.
“Pray, do not go just yet, Lizzy. It is such a comfort to have someone to speak to, and I have a prodigious deal to tell you. You cannot conceive what it is to travel with Papa. There he sits, as mum as a post, reading in one of his books, and pretending not to hear a wor
d one says. We were talking of Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh, were not we? Well, there is something I must tell you, if you will promise not to repeat it to anybody else—not even Darcy. For I was vowed to silence, and you know it would be very wrong if anything came out through me.”
This was the second time that day that Elizabeth had been urged to concealment from Darcy, and she replied with some indignation, “You may be quite certain that my husband can keep a secret as well as yourself. He is not interested in spreading tales.”
“Well, come to think of it, I daresay he would not like to mention it, for it concerns his own cousin, Miss de Bourgh. I must tell you that Charlotte had it from a Mrs. Bevan who was wife to the rector before Mr. Collins. Mr. Bevan died and she went away to live in another part of the country, but there are some ladies, the Miss Fanshawes, who live in a pretty cottage outside the village, and she keeps friends with them and now and again comes to stay. Well, the last time she was here she told Charlotte in strict confidence that when Miss de Bourgh was about eighteen or nineteen she fell in love with a nephew of Mr. Bevan’s that used to live with his uncle and aunt. He was an orphan and had been left so much money for his education and no more, and as he had no liking for the Church and was inclined to be rather wild, Mr. Bevan was going to put him into the Law. Mrs. Bevan said he was a fine, tall handsome young man and very lively, and in those days Miss de Bourgh was rather pretty. Of course they used to meet at church and at Rosings, and sometimes Mrs. Jenkinson, the companion, and Miss de Bourgh would come calling at the Parsonage, but Mrs. Bevan declared that there was never anything at all particular in their manner to one another that she could see, and to this day she cannot think how they contrived to meet in secret as they must have done. And so it might have gone on some time longer; but one day Mr. Bevan was going to Rosings on some business and walking by way of the grove instead of the carriage road because the sun was very hot, when suddenly he came upon them standing under a tree. He was holding her hands and talking and she was smiling up at him. I dare say that when Mr. Bevan walked up to them there was a fine scene. Mr. Bevan was very angry with his nephew and sent him away the very next day, and made him promise that he would never by any method whatever communicate with Miss de Bourgh, for if he did he would inform Lady Catherine. Mrs. Bevan says she was sure her nephew did not. He enlisted as a soldier and went to the war and was killed. And from that time Miss de Bourgh became what she is now.”
As Elizabeth did not at once reply Kitty turned towards her impatiently and asked, “What do you say to that?”
“I think that if what you tell me is true it explains much that has hitherto suffered a wrong construction. I have not liked Anne de Bourgh because she has never been at pains to be even tolerably civil to me, but I have observed that she behaves with indifference to everyone alike, and as if she were wholly occupied with herself. I do not believe that any more spiritless being could be found, but if her feelings suffered such a blow in her early youth as would appear, it is hardly to be wondered at. In any circumstances to be the daughter of such a mother must have been a severe trial. I do hope that you will say nothing further on the subject to anyone else.”
Having unburdened herself thus fully, Kitty had very possibly the less temptation to be indiscreet. She lay silent, her thoughts already wandering in another direction. Presently she said, “It seems quite an age since I saw Georgiana. I asked her to write to me, but she never has. Is there any likelihood of her becoming engaged yet?”
“Not the slightest.”
“Does she intend never to marry then?” Kitty asked incredulously.
“I do not know. She may think of marriage in a few years time.”
“A few years! Does no one pay court to her?”
“No one, unless it is Mr. Mortimer. But even he is becoming hopeless.”
“Who is Mr. Mortimer?”
“Another clergyman,” said Elizabeth mischievously.
“Then I am not surprised.”
“But he is not in the least like Mr. Collins—or Mr. Bullock, either, from your description. He has an estate five miles from here about as large as Longbourn, and he lives on it like any other country gentleman. Georgiana cannot tolerate him, but you might find him very agreeable. He is indeed a most amiable young man, though not clever. I fancy he is only waiting for some young woman to be ordinarily pleasant to him to fall madly in love with her.”
“He can wait as far as I am concerned,” said Kitty with great indifference. “I am sure I do not vex my head about young men any more than Georgiana does. Seeing Maria Lucas ogling at Mr. Bullock gave me quite a disgust for that sort of thing.”
Shortly afterwards Kitty began to show signs of having talked enough for that time, and Elizabeth could withdraw to her own room for rest and reflection. Her meditations were not of the most tranquil, for when she thought of Acworth she was filled with misgiving, and when she recalled her passage of arms with Miss Robinson her conscience upbraided her. In the one case she felt that she had disengaged herself from an unpleasant situation with dignity unimpaired, whereas in the other she had given way to provocation when she should have exercised patience.
Time passed and she began dressing for dinner. Rather earlier than usual Darcy entered to see if she were ready. As Mason was still attending to her mistress he took up a book that was lying on the dressing-table and turned its pages in discovery of what his wife had been reading. She had a taste for poetry and praised the new school of poets, while he still remained doubtful of their value and considered that certain poets of the past century had reached the summit of their art. But his action was mechanical, testifying only to a habit of mind, and when he had glanced at the first stanzas of a poem entitled “The Ancient Mariner” he let the book fall on his knee and rested his eyes on Elizabeth.
It had not escaped his observation that she was uncommonly flushed when he met her in the wood with Acworth. Not only was she flushed, but other traces of perturbation were visible to an eye instructed in all her moods and aspects. She had met his glance with one of candour, and he was perfectly satisfied that she would tell him anything he ought to hear as soon as she had the opportunity. Acworth had also been under scrutiny in the course of their walk together as far as the house. Distaste for the man made conversation with him a trial, but silence would have been a mistake, and so Darcy had exerted himself to talk. Although Acworth had responded as common civility directed, it was evident that he was in a state of extreme excitement and high resentfulness. His eyes glittered unpleasantly and his manner bordered on the discourteous. It looked, indeed, as if the rencontre with Elizabeth’s husband had been the reverse of pleasing to him. All this Darcy perceived without appearing to notice anything extraordinary in his companion’s behaviour. Only one interpretation presented itself, but until he heard what Elizabeth had to say he preferred not to accept it.
It was not long before Elizabeth dismissed Mason. As soon as the maid had quitted the room she looked round, her dark eyes wide with disquiet, and said, “Fitz, dearest, I fear I have irrevocably offended Miss Robinson.”
This was so far from his expectation that he looked at her in silent astonishment. “What have you done?” he asked, recovering himself and beginning to smile, “or more pertinently, what did you say?”
She told him briefly of her action in regard to Rachel Stone. “I still maintain that it was justified,” she said, “but of course I should have spoken to Miss Robinson much sooner. The truth is that all that has taken place of late—Major Wakeford’s accident and other things—made me forget. I called at the Parsonage today to explain, but Miss Robinson was not in the least conciliatory. She was what she usually is—rude and brusque, and she so angered me that I was provoked into a stiff retort. But really I see nothing to laugh at! Surely you must be aware that all intercourse with the Parsonage is severed for the time being.”
Darcy was seldom moved to laughter, bu
t this revelation, so totally at variance with what he had conceived to be the cause of his wife’s silence and abstraction struck him with the overpowering force of the incongruous and absurd. Subduing his hilarity, he asked her again what she had said. “Was it so very bad?” he enquired.
“I cannot remember the exact words I used, but I spoke with the perfect plainness which is all Miss Robinson can understand. I represented to her that it was no longer her business to interfere in parish matters, that she was arrogating to herself an authority that she did not possess. After I had spoken you could have heard a pin drop, and that poor, unfortunate Miss Sophia seemed on the verge of fainting. I can assure you it was a terrible moment, and I could have bitten out my tongue.”
“To quote the Psalmist, ‘the fire kindled and then you spoke.’ Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!”
“I have not your calm, your deliberation, your power of crushing with a look. But what is to be done?”
“Done? Nothing for the moment that I can see. You were perfectly right in acting as you did, though perhaps a little indiscreet in the way of doing it. In any case it is not for you to give way. You and Miss Robinson will no doubt meet at the Church door next Sunday, and curtsy coldly to one another. As the season advances the salutations will become slightly less distant, and by Christmas you will be able to command yourselves sufficiently to speak. But,” recollecting himself, “by that time Miss Robinson will probably be honouring another church door.”
Mention of the church door brought up the idea of Acworth. “Where did you meet Acworth?” he asked, with affected nonchalance.
Pemberley Shades Page 10
