Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  They were standing before the single window which illuminated the room and, from being very high up in the house, gave an extensive view of open, rolling country towards the south. Mortimer was engaged in pointing out various objects in the landscape of local interest, and was earnestly communicative of everything he could think of to say about them. Perhaps never before had he found so attentive a listener as he did in Miss Kitty Bennet. Elizabeth felt herself to be entirely forgotten. The strange and novel sensation was not unwelcome as it encouraged the indulgence of a strong desire to steal away unobserved. Having put the plate back in its place on the shelf she walked quietly out of the room, a backward glance assuring her that the two young people remained wholly unaware of her retreat.

  She went downstairs with a perfectly good conscience in search of the seclusion and rest she longed for. Mrs. Gardiner, she assumed, had accompanied Georgiana and Acworth to another room along the passage. As she passed through it to the head of the staircase she listened for their voices, but could hear no sound of them, and from that she concluded that they had gone to another part of the house. She did wonder whether they had returned to the ground floor as she was doing, but continuing her way thither she arrived in the hall to find it as silent and deserted as she could wish.

  There were not even any servants to be seen, and on opening the door of the parlour where the meal had been served she saw that the table had not yet been cleared. A door in the opposite wall probably admitted to another sitting-room. She could not remember whether she had entered it on the tour of the house, but she thought not. She turned the handle, the door opened and she looked into a small, rather dark chamber pervaded by a faint odour presently recognisable as proceeding from the fumes of tobacco and beer commingled on numberless past occasions, and reminding her of arrival in inn yards at the end of a day’s journey. The room had a look of shabby comfort and everyday use from the objects scattered about it. A pair of boots stood on the floor in front of a chair, a gun had been left lying on a table. Elizabeth concluded from what she saw that this was Mortimer’s own private retreat, that no one would intrude upon her here, and sitting down upon the windowseat, she opened the easement and gazed out upon the refreshing scene formed by the lake and the trees scattered about the park.

  The sky was now overcast by clouds, not a breath of air stirred the foliage, and the dark green water of the lake gave a melancholy tinge to the surroundings. The solitude and silence for which she had craved began to be felt too intensely for pleasure, and she began to wonder where her husband and the others with him had gone to. While she looked to this side and that, Major Wakeford came into view, walking slowly with his head bent towards the ground. Reaching a bench under a tree near the edge of the lake he sat down upon it and for several minutes remained motionless and, as it seemed to her, staring in front of him. He was too far away for her to see his countenance, but his perfect stillness spoke an intensity of thought; and then, the sudden movement with which he rested the elbow of his one arm upon his knee and covered his eyes with his hand, the extreme of dejection.

  Fixed by a spectacle she could not understand, Elizabeth watched him with growing surprise and disquiet. If the signs of unhappiness did not deceive her, from what could such unhappiness proceed? Until the last week he had appeared really cheerful, on easy terms with everyone in the house, and ready to share in those pursuits and pastimes which a gathering of young people, all intimate together, serves to promote. But now, reflecting upon his behaviour during the last few days, she recalled fits of abstraction, silences maintained while others talked, a look of heaviness and dullness amid their laughter. In all this she had not seen anything to rouse apprehension of serious trouble, and cudgel her brains as she might, she was still unable to recollect any particular circumstance which could have been so very painful to his feelings.

  The only idea which occurred to her as providing a not unlikely explanation of the matter was that, no longer beguiled by the novelty of his surroundings and the cheerful animation which pervaded the Pemberley scene, he suffered once more from the melancholy in which Darcy had found him. The explanation did not satisfy her and on further reflection she repudiated it, for she could now assign the alteration in him to a certain evening when others besides herself had remarked upon it, although at the time she dismissed it from her mind as having no real significance. Nor did it appear much in keeping with his known courage and fortitude that he should relapse into his former depression for no better reason than a change of temper.

  Casting her mind back to that evening, she remembered Acworth saying to Georgiana, “He did not like our music, and for some people to dislike is to be displeased.” At the time she had felt the observation to be both impertinent and inapt, but she now wondered whether it had not been nearer the mark than she had been willing to concede, whether in fact the intimacy thus disclosed between Georgiana and Acworth had not displeased him. It could scarcely be doubted that he had no high opinion of Acworth, in which case he must view Georgiana’s consorting with him alone so frequently, as had transpired from certain remarks and admissions, with strong disapprobation. Yet that could hardly account for his continued loss of spirits.

  An increase of headache brought on by so much exertion of thought suspended further cogitation, and she leaned her head against the window-pane and closed her eyes. Ideas continued to spring up in her mind but were repelled as baseless. Was Georgiana partial to Acworth? Had Wakeford been inclined to fall in love with Georgiana? Opening her eyes again, it was to see that Wakeford had disappeared; his place on the bench had however been taken by her husband and her aunt.

  They were evidently deep in conversation and she wondered what was engaging their attention until she remembered that unlucky business transaction which was detaining her uncle in London. Mrs. Gardiner had probably some message for Darcy relating to its progress or lack of it; for such was her interest in her husband’s concerns, and such his confidence in her understanding and discretion, that there was little he did not impart to her. While Elizabeth watched them, feeling a sense of injury at not knowing what was being said, they rose from the bench and began walking towards the house. But when they reached the flagged space before it, instead of entering the front door they turned and paced up and down still talking, though so far away that most of what they uttered was inaudible.

  Mrs. Gardiner’s voice could never be heard except faintly, but Darcy’s clear, slow accents were distinguishable in words whenever he came within a certain distance of the window where she sat. Such phrases as “I had not suspected this further obstacle” or “a situation demanding the utmost circumspection” were plainly applicable to nothing more interesting than some such matter as the sale or acquisition of land or house property on which Darcy was employing her uncle. But when she heard him say “he showed no surprise when taxed with it, but rather relief,” this construction was by no means so plausible. Straining her ears for the next snatch to be caught, her curiosity grew mightily with the next sentence she heard fall from his lips. “Nothing must come into the open if my plans are to go forward.” She could endure to be mystified no longer, and, putting her head out of the window, she called to them.

  Darcy turned immediately and came towards her, followed by Mrs. Gardiner. He said nothing until he reached her when, looking through the window, he saw that she was alone. “Whatever are you doing here by yourself?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I might as well enquire what you have been talking about,” she retorted. “I came away from the others believing my aunt to be still engaged in chaperoning. I had no idea that she had a rendez-vous with her nephew.”

  She laughed as she spoke, but she thought that Mrs. Gardiner looked rather confused.

  “Mrs. Gardiner has brought intelligence from your uncle of a nature that he did not care to entrust to the post,” said Darcy calmly.

  “Is that all?” she said in simulated surprise. “Do you
know I have been watching you for this long while and imagined you to be hatching some plot. A more promising pair of conspirators I never saw.”

  She looked to see her husband change colour or betray some other sign of compunction, but he maintained the most perfect composure, and she added, “It was all about this business which is keeping my uncle in London so long, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Darcy simply. “Unfortunately it is delaying him longer than he expected. You are pale,” he continued, observing her with some concern. “Do you feel tired? Have you been over-exerting yourself?”

  “Very probably, for such a tender plant as I am supposed to be,” she answered dryly. But the headache which she had temporarily forgotten returned in full force and she found herself unable to press home the attack. “To be perfectly candid I should like to be going home,” she confessed.

  “It is time we all did,” he said, looking up at the sky where the clouds hung low and threatening. “There is a storm coming up; we ought to be off as soon as possible. Where are the others who were with you? Where is Mortimer?”

  Elizabeth told him, as she believed, that Mortimer, Acworth and the two girls were still ranging the house. Only then did she remember that Acworth and Georgiana had separated from Mortimer and Kitty, for from supposing them at first to be accompanied by Mrs. Gardiner she had given no further thought to their whereabouts. The idea that they had gone off alone together gave her a twinge of uneasiness, but she kept it to herself, since the event might prove them all joined together again.

  Mrs. Gardiner offered to go in search of Georgiana and Kitty, while Darcy was to find Mr. Bennet, Bingley and Wakeford and bring them back to the house. Hardly had he set off than Mr. Bennet and Bingley appeared walking towards him, and behind them, though from another direction, came Major Wakeford. Elizabeth beheld him approaching with anxious enquiry. To her relief, as he came up, she saw him looking very much as usual and no graver than was habitual with him.

  With everyone gathering for departure, she got up from the window-seat and made her way into the hall. There she met Kitty and Mortimer coming downstairs and looked up into their faces with a gaze more questioning than she intended, and certainly not importing what they thought it did. Mortimer instantly went very red, but Kitty merely smiled. On being asked whether they had not met Mrs. Gardiner, Mortimer was for going back to look for her, when the lady came into view on the stairs. She had gone east instead of west at the top of the stairs and thus had missed the young people until the sound of their voices below brought her after them.

  It was now necessary to enquire for Georgiana and Acworth. “Have they not been with you recently?” Elizabeth asked, knowing perfectly well they had not.

  “Not this hour or more,” Kitty answered unconcernedly. “We supposed that you and they and my aunt had all gone away together.”

  “Then where can they be?” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner. “Mr. Mortimer, are you sure they are not upstairs still?”

  Mortimer ran upstairs again, and while the others waited below he could be heard opening and shutting doors and calling Acworth by name. In the meantime the gentlemen had all come into the hall from outside, and having heard from Mrs. Gardiner what Mortimer was doing, they stood and waited for him to reappear, bringing with him the missing members of the party. Elizabeth was in a state of perturbation she could hardly keep from becoming visible. A disappearance so complete was in itself sufficiently disturbing, but she felt also the indecorum of the proceeding, and persuaded that Acworth must have manoeuvred it for no worthy purpose, blamed herself for most culpable negligence. She should never have quitted Georgiana’s side. Her eyes stole to her husband’s face and beheld him looking amazed and displeased. It was no comfort that her father was with difficulty keeping his countenance. Bingley, after fidgeting from one foot to another, went off to hasten the saddling of the horses and the bringing round of the carriage.

  After what seemed an intolerable length of time, though it really was not more than a few minutes, Mortimer returned alone and quite bewildered.

  “They are nowhere in the house,” he pronounced. “I have looked in every possible place. They must have gone out onto the grounds.”

  Darcy thought it unlikely. “In that case one or other of us would certainly have seen them,” he said, and looked at Bingley and Major Wakeford for confirmation.

  “I have not seen either of them,” said Wakeford steadily and quietly.

  Going to her husband Elizabeth told him all she knew, explaining that the exploring party had kept together until the china closet had been reached, after which it had scattered. But here Mortimer, visited by a sudden and hopeful idea, broke into her account of how, owing to Mrs. Gardiner’s departure, Georgiana and Acworth had been lost sight of.

  “They may have gone up the tower,” he said. “Acworth did question me about it, I recollect, and I told him that a fine view could be got from the top if one had the patience to climb so far. But I warned him that the steps were worn and slippery in places, so I did not believe he would attempt it.”

  In reply to a question from Darcy he added that the way into the tower from the house was now completely closed and that entrance could only be gained from an outer door.

  “Let us by all means ascertain whether they are there or not,” Darcy said, with a calm which masked some considerable anger. “If you do not mind leading the way, Mortimer, I will follow you.”

  The two of them went away directly, and a moment or two later Major Wakeford decided to go after them. Mr. Bennet, who saw nothing to be concerned about except the state of the sky, stood in the doorway contemplating the signs of the impending storm. Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner remained standing near the foot of the stairs. Mrs. Gardiner, fixing her eyes on Elizabeth, seemed about to speak from some uncommon anxiety, but Elizabeth, fearing some criticism of Georgiana, implied if not open, implored her with a look to say nothing in the presence of Kitty.

  Thus an interval passed in uneasy silence. Retracing in her mind all that had occurred in their passage through the house, Elizabeth recalled a door on the topmost floor which, on being opened by Acworth, had disclosed a steep flight of steps. He had enquired of Mortimer whither it led and was told only to an attic. Acworth had appeared instantly to dismiss the idea of mounting it, but now her suspicion of the man inclined her to see him deliberately misleading those about him in the pursuit of some scheme of his own. In Mortimer’s absence it was not possible to know whether in the course of his search he had gone up to the attic or not, but she believed the chances were he had not in the conviction natural to him that no lady of delicate and dainty habits would expose a spotless white muslin dress to its murk and dust. For an instant or two she was undecided whether to go there herself, or to wait for the men to come back from their ascent of the tower, until urged by a sudden increase of alarm she declared her intention to her aunt of trying one place she knew where Mr. Mortimer might not have thought to look.

  “I had better go alone,” she replied in answer to Mrs. Gardiner’s offer to accompany her, “for if my husband returns before I do, you will be able to explain the matter to him.”

  She had not gone far upon her errand when a clap of thunder reverberated through the house. Shaken as she was, she kept on her way. A glance through a small window as she passed it showed the trees in the park lit up by a sulphurous glare and dashed by a violent wind. The heat and an oppression in the air made her quite breathless as she ascended the many stairs up the house; her knees began to tremble, her heart to palpitate, and had she consulted these various unpleasant sensations she would have turned back. Nevertheless she toiled on until the last flight of stairs was surmounted and she had reached the door of the attic. It was ajar, and only a slight push was needed to swing it further open and enable her to see into a place as dim as a cavern. Pausing on the threshold to recover her breath, she could hear Acworth’s voice, but where she stood neith
er he nor Georgiana was visible to her.

  “You astonish me,” Acworth was saying. “How you can endure the frivolity, the emptiness of the life you lead here I am unable to comprehend. You have powers vouchsafed to comparatively few, and you waste them upon people who can neither understand nor appreciate them.”

  Georgiana made some reply which Elizabeth could not catch and Acworth proceeded:

  “It is a duty you owe to society to cultivate so great a talent as you possess. Here at Pemberley you have not the opportunity—”

  “I do not know that I wish to cultivate it further,” Georgiana interrupted.

  “Not wish to? Why not? But you need not tell me. It is contrary to your notions of how a lady such as Miss Darcy should comport herself. Your friends would disown you, you would be forever disgraced in their eyes if you were to devote yourself to any serious pursuit, instead of being content with a smattering of accomplishments. You may not believe me, you may even credit me with unworthy motives, but I tell you in very truth that it tortures me to see you waste yourself as you are doing. Pemberley—what is it? It is an idle beauty, a trivial, heartless elegance, a decaying order. I would save you from it. Before it is too late, leave it. What is to prevent you? Money you have in your own right, you would never starve as some have done.”

  “It is altogether absurd to speak of such a thing,” said Georgiana impatiently. “My brother would never sanction it.”

  “Your brother—no! He would condemn you to some thickheaded squire of a husband—to misery, to degradation. If I were your brother, how different would be your lot. You would know the happiness of honest endeavour, you would live among people who disdain luxury as unworthy to be compared with the delights of poetry, of music, of all that ministers to the heart and soul of man. Think, Miss Darcy, I implore you—”