Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  For the next half-hour every eye was riveted upon Acworth as he executed prodigies of sleight of hand, each surpassing the last in the power of amazing and mystifying the beholders. All were spellbound, not excluding Elizabeth, who found his hands as expressive as his features in evoking sensations appropriate to the turn of the performance—whether of suspense, admiration or surprise. When at last in a moment of talk which arose between him and Bingley she looked round to speak to Jane, it was to discover Georgiana gone from the table and, on a further survey, from the room. She asked Jane whether she had seen her go and received an answer in the negative. Nothing further was said just then and perhaps ten minutes passed while Acworth repeated his last performance at Bingley’s request. Suddenly Kitty observed unconcernedly, “What a long time Georgiana is away. It must be half-an-hour since she went.”

  Elizabeth now remembered that during dinner she had seen Georgiana sitting with downcast eyes looking strained and wretched. The necessity of attending to a lively conversation between Bingley and her father, lest the latter should express himself in a manner requiring tactful glossing over, had immediately obliterated a mere impression until the present instant. The conviction arose in her mind that something had occurred to make Georgiana more unhappy than ever. But before searching for its probable cause a plausible explanation of her sudden and silent disappearance must first be thought of and related. A headache, though a convenient sort of ailment, was so hackneyed that it might be seen through. An attack of faintness? No, for that could never have passed without visible symptoms of distress, a hue and cry for smelling salts and a bustle of ministrations. A neuralgia then, akin to a headache, but more excruciating, a more specific and therefore more convincing illness. The neuralgia was imparted to Jane in an undertone, not so low that it could not be generally heard.

  Jane expressed sorrow and sympathy; Bingley was quick to echo her concern. Mortimer, glancing at Kitty, said he trusted Miss Darcy would soon recover from such a painful complaint. Kitty said she thought Georgiana looking very ill these several days and it was to be hoped she was not going into a decline. Acworth looked genuinely grieved. “She is a being who would suffer as exquisitely as she enjoys,” he said half to himself. Anne de Bourgh alone appeared unmoved.

  It was enough to make the author of the neuralgia believe in it herself. But from all that had passed before her eyes she knew that Georgiana’s suffering was not of the body, but of the mind. Something must have wounded her feelings beyond endurance, something so closely locked in her heart that it could never be learnt from her own lips. In the meantime conjectures were better suspended.

  By the time Lady Catherine noticed her niece’s absence, Georgiana’s neuralgia had been established in every other mind and had even been located at a certain spot in the right temple. Imagination and some verbal distortion had thus played their part. Major Wakeford alone said absolutely nothing but looked very grave and thoughtful. Lady Catherine expressed herself anew in the desirability of a change of air and the invitation to Rosings was again issued, and in a tone of command.

  “I will take no denial,” she said with an imperious look at Elizabeth. “As we are not returning until after the ball, no obstacle can now exist.”

  Although Elizabeth hated the very appearance of submission to dictation, she could not but be sensible of the probable benefit to Georgiana of a change of scene at this juncture, and she hastened to make all proper acknowledgments on her sister’s behalf short of vouching for her acceptance of the invitation.

  A little later the Darcys’ guests separated for the night and Elizabeth could gain the privacy of her own room. At leisure to think over all that had passed during the evening she became so uneasy that she dismissed her maid until rung for, and made her way to Georgiana’s door. She knocked gently though distinctly, but received no answer, and presuming Georgiana to be asleep made no further attempt to gain admission. Nevertheless her uneasiness remained, and feeling totally unable to rest she gave way to the desire of having instant conference with her husband and went downstairs in good expectation of finding him alone. When visitors were in the house to occupy much of his time during the day, he not infrequently stayed up an hour or more attending to his correspondence after everyone else was upstairs, and tonight he had told her that having a letter to write for early despatch on the morrow he might be rather late in retiring. She hurried to the library and found him there as she had anticipated. But he was not alone. Major Wakeford was with him.

  They were standing close together in the middle of the room and facing one another in a conversation which they broke off as soon as she entered. The constraint and embarrassment in Wakeford’s face told her that some personal matter of a serious, and perhaps painful nature, had been under discussion. An apology for interrupting rose to her lips, but before it could be uttered Darcy took a step towards her and spoke first.

  “I am glad you came, Elizabeth,” he said gravely. “Wakeford has just told me that he must return to Devonshire without delay. He is to leave here early tomorrow morning.”

  Elizabeth’s astonishment for a moment rendered her speechless. She stared at Wakeford in bewilderment, then at her husband as if doubting her ears. “Surely this is a very sudden decision,” at length fell from her.

  “It is perhaps sudden in announcement,” Wakeford said, avoiding her gaze and looking down. “But the necessity is of longer duration and must not be withstood. For some time I have felt that my duty lies at home. My father needs me; I hear in every letter of his declining strength. Thanks to your care and kindness I am no longer a useless clod; I can assist him in the management of his estate instead of being the burden I was formerly.” After a slight pause he continued, “Do not think me ungrateful. I shall ever feel the impossibility of repaying the benefits I have received at your hands.”

  There were signs of some inward and incommunicable distress as he spoke; his voice was harsh, though subdued, his face flushed and his mouth compressed. He finished abruptly and bowed his head, apparently unable to say another word. Elizabeth sought her husband’s eyes and they looked at each other in a silent colloquy which taught her that he comprehended the matter as little as herself.

  “I owe you every apology,” Wakeford presently resumed. “This abrupt announcement—this hasty departure. It must seem very strange—very inconsiderate.”

  “We are only sorry that you are obliged to go away,” said Elizabeth quietly. “We shall all miss you extremely.”

  Wakeford turned away as if unable to encounter her gaze.

  “I have urged him to stay, if only for some days longer,” said Darcy. “He needs no assurance how greatly we value his society. But of course we must not seek to persuade him against his own sense of duty.”

  After another short silence Elizabeth began brief enquiries about the arrangements for the journey. Wakeford replied that his packing up had been done earlier in the evening and that he proposed, with Darcy’s permission, to start after an early breakfast. The first stage of the journey was a long one if he was to arrive at his destination at the end of the second day.

  It was on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue to ask if his family expected him so soon, but an intuition that the question would be an awkward one for him to answer stayed her. There was in fact nothing to be said except a repetition of what had gone before. After another awkward moment or two Wakeford withdrew, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth at liberty to say what they chose.

  “What can it mean?” she cried as soon as they were alone. “There must be more in this than he would have us know. Have you the least idea?”

  Darcy shook his head. “He told me no more than what you heard him say,” he replied.

  “How exceedingly awkward he looked, too. In fact he has been most unlike himself latterly, but more particularly since yesterday. At Clopwell—” she broke off as the recollection of his dejected behaviour beside the lake struck upon her wit
h the force of a shock. She had not spoken of it, for the circumstance had been driven out of her mind by succeeding events, but now she related it with every assurance of faithfully representing what she had seen.

  “It may be true that his presence is desired at home, but only the most urgent reason could decide him to go at such very short notice. Do not you think so yourself? One would imagine—”

  “I have scarcely ever known imagination to hit the mark,” said Darcy. “And where the case admits of so many different interpretations it is better not employed.”

  “You are altogether too cautious. How much evil and unhappiness have proceeded from a lack of imagination.”

  “Have your say then, or I shall be accused of monstrous cruelty.”

  “Well, one would imagine that he was suffering from some affair of the heart that had gone badly. Let us suppose that he had proposed to a woman who had rejected him. Would not that be a motive for instant departure?”

  “It might be,” replied Darcy, “although I should have given Wakeford credit for more self-control. But whom would he propose to?”

  “True, there is only Georgiana, for Kitty is appropriated by Mortimer. But Georgiana! Fitz, can it possibly be that? She, too, has been behaving very unaccountably of late. You must have observed yourself how pale and melancholy she has been looking. This evening she vanished from the room without a word and I had to invent an excuse for her. How else could I explain her absence? And have you forgotten what you told me about her returning to the house with Wakeford this afternoon, and how they appeared as though they had had some violent disagreement? It has crossed my mind more than once that he was jealous of Acworth, that he resented her apparent preference for Acworth’s society. Depend upon it, that is what has happened. He has proposed, and she has refused him.”

  “It is not very likely,” said Darcy.

  “How not likely?”

  “Wakeford is a poor man and his sense of honour is such that he would not propose to a woman of fortune.”

  Elizabeth paused to consider his statement. “No,” she said soberly, “I must believe that. Such scruples are absurd, I think; but that is neither here nor there. But there is the appearance of estrangement still to be accounted for. How is it to be explained? Can it be that he remonstrated with her about Acworth—about their being found together in the attic at Clopwell, and that she resented it?”

  “It is possible, but scarcely probable,” he answered. “Georgiana’s disposition is too mild for resentment of reproof. She is, on the contrary, afraid of giving offence, almost of a too tender conscience.” He went on to tell Elizabeth of his conversation with his sister earlier in the day, and her declaration of her absolute indifference to Acworth. “That she was not indifferent had been my fear,” he confessed.

  “It was also mine,” she said. “Well, it is some comfort to know that she is safe from that quarter. But are not we as much in the dark as ever—or are we making a great deal out of trifles? Am I to speak to Georgiana, or leave her to herself? I believe I can answer for you in advance. You will say that it is better not to interfere.”

  “I do say it,” he said with a smile. “But you have her confidence, and if there should be anything on her mind she will tell you of her own accord. Is not that your experience?”

  “Generally speaking, it is. But as you are so fond of saying, there are exceptions to every rule. In a word, I will make no promises, but be guided solely by circumstances. And since I have warned you beforehand, you cannot quarrel with me.”

  “Heaven forbid,” said Darcy. “I have neither the time nor the inclination for it. Quarrelling is a sort of entertainment for people who have nothing better to do.”

  This was the end of their conversation. Elizabeth would willingly have gone on talking, but Darcy still had his letter to write, and she left him in peace to get it done. In spite of continuing perplexity about Georgiana she went away lighter in heart for having confided it to his ear. Reposing in his calm and steady judgment, and sensible of his deep affection, his warm solicitude for her happiness, nothing could dismay her very much while he was at hand to counter every adverse circumstance which might threaten the comfort and well-being of their family life.

  Chapter 17

  Major Wakeford quitted Pemberley the next day at an early hour. Only Darcy and Elizabeth were downstairs to see him off. After he had eaten a hurried breakfast he enquired for the chaise, evincing an anxiety to be away with all speed. The chaise with his luggage, safely bestowed and secured, was in fact already at the door, and he had but to enter it. But now there occurred a short delay, for as he, with his hosts, was crossing the hall, the post happened to be delivered and there proved to be a letter for him.

  The superscription denoting extreme urgency, he opened it at once. As he read the brief contents, his countenance altered. He was not the man to exclaim or show emotion in the presence of others, but some conflict of feeling was apparent before he could repress it. Folding the letter again he said with great gravity, “It is fortunate that this reached me before I had started. I am summoned to another destination, to Gloucestershire. My aunt, Mrs. Chalmers, is very ill indeed—cannot live long, the writer says—and is asking for me.”

  The change of plans which the letter produced entailed little in the way of discussion, for the route now to be taken followed the same direction and differed only from the former in curtailment by about a third of the distance. Its cause, however, required something to be said of hope for a happier outcome of Mrs. Chalmer’s illness than the letter indicated. The Darcys expressed everything that was proper, consolatory and kind, but as soon as the chaise moved off and its occupant was out of earshot, Elizabeth exclaimed, “it must be the aunt whose fortune Lady Tyrrell so obligingly bequeathed to him. If only that could be true. But there is another nephew with better claims, alas! Major Wakeford made that perfectly clear.”

  They returned to the breakfast-parlour to await the rest of the party who might be expected shortly to begin appearing. At each arrival the account of Major Wakeford’s sudden departure had to be gone through, and Elizabeth found that in referring its motive to the news of his aunt’s serious illness, and her desire to see him, it was at once placed in a light which gave it the aspect of an obligation fulfilled in the only possible way. What she or Darcy would have said lacking the explanation so timely provided there was now no need to consider, but it would have tasked all her ingenuity and his scrupulous regard for veracity.

  In varying degrees of surprise, concern or philosophy was the intelligence received. Lady Catherine declared that it showed commendable respect on the part of a nephew for the wishes of an aunt; Jane, struck by the despatch of his going, saw in it the impulse of a truly affectionate heart desirous of shortening suspense by immediate action. Mr. Acworth, his features expressing derision, observed that a wealthy relation stretched upon a bed of sickness was likely to prove an irresistible magnet. He spoke low so as to be heard only by Georgiana who sat next to him at the table, but Elizabeth caught his words and the look of contempt with which Georgiana listened to them. She alone had had nothing to say on the subject although she attended to everything that was said by others. Pale and heavy-eyed as she appeared, Elizabeth fancied that her prevailing sensation was one of relief.

  But Major Wakeford and his journey to his aunt was soon forgotten in the agitation excited by events of another kind. On gaining her sitting-room Elizabeth sent word to Mrs. Reynolds that she was at leisure to speak with her on household matters. On the housekeeper answering the summons it was immediately apparent that something of an extraordinary nature had occurred. With every endeavour to preserve a decent composure the poor woman could not subdue the evidences of her distress and concern. Before Mrs. Darcy had time to utter a word she burst into speech.

  “Oh, ma’am,” she cried, “there has been an accident to one of the maids and unfortunately it is Mason. She wa
s going down the back staircase in the west wing, and just where it turns and is rather dark she fell over a broom which had been left lying there, and I do fear that she has broke her leg.”

  Elizabeth’s first thought was to enquire whether Mr. Reed, the apothecary who attended the servants in any ailment, had been sent for. Mrs. Reynolds was able to satisfy her on that head—she had taken the liberty of despatching one of the grooms. Elizabeth was truly concerned for Mason; she was not very young and therefore the more likely to suffer from the effects of the great pain she must be in.

  “But how could such a thing happen?” she asked. “There must have been very gross carelessness on the part of someone.” She had been on the point of saying “or wickedness,” but checked herself.

  Mrs. Reynolds looked most unhappy. “I am sure I do not know, ma’am,” she replied. “I have questioned everyone who was about at the time and can make nothing of it. Such a thing has never before happened in all the years I have been in the House and I do assure you that I feel the disgrace to myself more than I can express. And poor Mason is so put out, ma’am. The first words she said when we took her up were, ‘But who is to dress madam if I cannot be there?’”

  The circumstance of a broom left lying across the turn of a staircase roused suspicions which Elizabeth could not dismiss, however unpleasant, for she was like Lady Catherine in this, if in nothing else, that she would not, if she could help it, be ignorant of anything which occurred in her own house. A few questions elicited, if not much, enough to strengthen her secret belief that the accident to Mason was premeditated, and the name of the culprit therefore sprang to her mind. Whether Reynolds had suspicions of her own she refrained from asking.

  “I have been thinking what is best to be done, ma’am,” said Reynolds. “Miss Georgiana has lately been sharing Billing with Miss Bennet. Mason did say that Rachel Stone was proving herself a likely girl under direction for serving and such like, and perhaps Miss Bennet would not mind doing with her so that Billing could wait on yourself and Miss Georgiana. But I hardly know whether that would do either. It is a puzzle to be sure.”