Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  “The man who came here representing himself to be Stephen Acworth is a natural son of the late Lord Egbury by a foreign opera-singer, known to his associates as Horace Carlini.”

  “That explains the something foreign in his manner and appearance,” she interrupted excitedly. “It was what I could never understand. Did not you remark it also?”

  “Yes, from the very beginning of my acquaintance with him. His mother, I believe, was French. She died, however, when he was scarcely seven years old, and Lord Egbury placed him at school with a clergyman in Kent to whom Stephen had been sent for his early education. There he went by the name of Horace Acworth and was supposed to be a nephew of Lord Egbury’s. In this way the two boys grew up together, and became much attached to one another in spite of many divergences in character and taste. But these would be less marked in childhood. When he was seventeen Stephen left his tutor for Oxford, and Horace was given the opportunity of going there likewise to prepare for one of the learned professions. But this opportunity he refused. Stephen Acworth told your uncle that from his earliest years Horace had displayed an uncommon gift for music, and young as he was when taken away from the surroundings in which he had lived with his mother, he wished to return to them and exhibit himself in public as a performer on the violin. Lord Egbury, most foolishly and wrongly, as one must think, let him have his way, and gave him the allowance of a younger son to assure his independence. You can imagine what happened. He fell among people who introduced him to all the vices of the town, and encouraged him to squander his money in every sort of extravagance and excess.”

  “What else was to be expected?” said Elizabeth, with some indignation. “His father must certainly be held to blame for it. He was in the highest degree responsible for his downfall.”

  “You will think so all the more when you hear what followed. Lord Egbury died suddenly without having made any testamentary or other provision for him. No doubt he intended it, but put off the business until too late. Horace thus found himself penniless and without any regular employment. In this predicament he applied to Stephen for help—to the only member of the family who would acknowledge his existence, and admit his claim to compassion. As the innocent will, Stephen took upon his own shoulders the responsibility of the guilty party; he sought to make reparation for the evil his father had wrought, by assisting his brother to live, while urging him to reform his degraded mode of existence. You must not think he would have given your uncle any such account of himself; he spoke only of his deep concern for his unhappy and much injured brother and his desire to help him. It seems that Horace’s life in town had brought him among members of the acting profession for which he had discovered some talent. He believed that his best chance of self-support lay in this direction, and Stephen, willing to believe it also, by one means or another obtained for him an introduction to Mrs. Siddons.”

  “So he became an actor! No wonder he deceived us as well as he did. He may even have got some enjoyment out of it.”

  “At first, perhaps, but not when he discovered what he had undertaken. However, to continue. For some time he got on well and appeared to be on the way to establish himself. Then suddenly and unaccountably he fell back into his old courses, was dismissed from the theatre, and took to living how he could with what assistance Stephen was able to afford him. After his—Stephen’s—marriage this was perhaps no longer possible on the same scale, but however it may be, Horace resorted to habitual gaming, borrowed money here and there on the strength of a pretended allowance from the Acworths, and accumulated debts running into thousands of pounds. At length, as was bound to happen, his creditors no longer believed his tales and lost patience, and in the extremity he found himself he procured a large sum of money from a moneylender, having forged the name of a colleague of the theatre to a note of hand, thus incurring one of the severest penalties prescribed by the law.

  “At this time—last May—Stephen had come to London after the death of his wife. He was aware that Lord Egbury had written to me and was expecting me to call. He was already sickening for the fever which was to threaten his life, but his indisposition was attributed to grief and the state of his health was not understood. In the meantime Horace had taken refuge in the house for fear of arrest. His hope undoubtedly was that Stephen would be able to extricate him from his difficulties, or at least the worst of them. But Stephen’s condition rapidly worsened and he became unable to understand anybody’s business except in the most general sense. He assured Horace that he would do what he could when he was better, but Horace was desperate, and in imminent danger of discovery. Matters had reached a pitch of extreme urgency for him when I called at the house. As Stephen was now confined to bed he asked his brother to see me and explain his inability to wait on me. It was thus that the temptation to impersonate Stephen arose and proved irresistible. What the ultimate consequences would be he does not appear to have considered. It was enough that a temporary way of escape was provided.”

  Darcy paused and Elizabeth said reflectively, “It is a most extraordinary tale. I suspected something wrong, some sort of deception, but never for one moment what you have told me. I suppose you had all this from my uncle.”

  “Part of it I had in letters from him, but a great deal more was communicated to me by your aunt after her arrival here. Your uncle did not think it prudent to commit to paper so much that was extremely confidential.”

  “So that was what you were talking about at Clopwell, when you and my aunt were walking up and down in front of the house!”

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “And I was not to know. But why, pray?”

  “My only thought was to spare you embarrassment. Had you known what you know now, you could not have borne to continue meeting and speaking to him as you had to without finding it very disagreeable.”

  “No, that is true. I could not. It would have been dreadful. But how could you tolerate his presence among us after you had found him out? Why did you not send him away immediately? Or did you not confront him with it at first?”

  “As soon as I knew for a certainty that he had impersonated his brother without the latter’s connivance—for that had to be taken into account as a possibility—I did have everything out with him. He confessed to the deception with a wealth of excuses as you may imagine, and appeared to expect instant dismissal. But I had promised Stephen Acworth in answer to his own request that I would give his brother safe asylum until his affairs were so righted that he could return whence he came. Entangled as they are, and even bringing him within the arm of the law, much still remains to be done. Your uncle has undertaken the business for Stephen Acworth, who has given him power of attorney in all that relates to it, and is to send word as soon as Horace Carlini, as he prefers to call himself, can with impunity show himself abroad in London. But Lady Catherine upset all calculations and by the openness of her designs made it impossible for him to stay here a day longer. It was therefore arranged between us last night that he should depart early this morning and remove to a distance of twenty miles where he would be unknown but still accessible when the promised intelligence arrives. He confessed that he had scarcely any money, having got through what his brother supplied him with at their last meeting, so I advanced him sufficient to maintain himself in the meantime.”

  “You have treated him with really tender consideration. I hope he is grateful.”

  “He professes to be, though I must confess that charity was not my only, or even my first motive. For the sake of everyone involved, nothing of all this must leak out. But you know, Elizabeth, as soon as I knew him for what he was I began to like him better. I began to understand Stephen’s concern for him.”

  “But should you not say that Stephen Acworth’s concern reflects more credit on himself than on his brother?”

  “Most certainly, he appears most nobly and worthily throughout the whole transaction. But as regards Horace, I have lived lo
ng enough in the world to see that there is only a hair’s breadth between vice and virtue.”

  “You still have the power to astonish me,” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Do you really condone what he has done?”

  “No, I do not condone that, but I am able to support Stephen Acworth’s view that he was sinned against—at any rate in the beginning.”

  “In other words, you have forgiven him for his outrageous behaviour to yourself.”

  “That is the only thing one can forgive,” said Darcy, smiling.

  “Then I am absolved from such magnanimity. Beside you I am hard and implacable. And the worst of it is that the world will never know you for what you are because it does not become your wife to publish it. It is too much like boasting.”

  “I am quite content that it should be so. My happiness, thank goodness, does not depend on public applause. I am domestic, unambitious, and live but for the enjoyments of hearth and home—no very heroic character.”

  “It is a subject about which we cannot possibly argue; we can only flatly disagree. Tell me, is Lady Catherine to know the truth?”

  “Not at present. I do not think it can be safely entrusted to her.”

  “On that head we do agree. But the living! Is Stephen Acworth disposed to accept it after all?”

  “I am happy to say that he has accepted it. Though we have not met, we have learned to know each other, perhaps better than through years of ordinary acquaintance. It is not yet certain when he will come, but his arrival cannot be long delayed now.”

  Elizabeth drew a deep breath. “What a load is off my mind,” she said seriously. “I have not felt so happy these several weeks. It is true that there must still be daily encounters with Lady Catherine, but even they are numbered. As for the Miss Robinsons—I must not openly rejoice, but how I do. And yet I begin to be sorry for them. What a contrary thing the human heart is.”

  “When it is the heart of Elizabeth Darcy,” said her husband.

  Chapter 21

  Mortimer was now so thoroughly at home at Pemberley that he came and went as he pleased, and in whatever society he found himself spoke out whatever came into his head without restraint. As his ideas were seldom of striking novelty, his observations commonly attracted but little attention, but now and then he had the good fortune to make everyone who was near enough to hear him listen to what he said. This always afforded him great satisfaction, for it encouraged him to feel that he was making progress in the art of conversation.

  In the evening of the same day of Acworth’s quitting Pemberley the party gathered in the saloon round the teatable had fallen into one of those silences that become more binding the longer they last. Even Lady Catherine remained fixed in thought unutterable, while Elizabeth, who was seldom at a loss to set conversation flowing, gave in momentarily to the languor which usually follows upon an over-excitement of the nerves. A full minute had passed when a slight movement on the part of Darcy betokening an endeavour to say something, however trivial, was arrested by Mortimer’s suddenly observing that two departures from the same house in much the same manner within a fortnight was very singular indeed.

  “The country folk hereabouts say, ‘If twice, then thrice,’” he added.

  “Oh, pray don’t repeat what such people say,” said Kitty, excessively shocked that they should be mentioned at all in the elegant surroundings of the saloon.

  “But they are often proved right,” Mortimer persisted. “I could tell you a thing or two from my own knowledge.” And undeterred by the shade of disapprobation on the fair face of the lady beside him he proceeded to relate some hair-raising stories of the horrid happenings connected with such ill-omens as of birds flying into houses, the breaking of a mirror, and seeing the new moon through a window.

  “Misfortune can always be depended on to occur when required,” said Mr. Bennet, “while prognostications of good commonly fail to produce it, at least in my own experience. How often have the certain signs of money coming to me preceded the receipt of a heavier bill than usual. Superstition is for strong minds; weak ones had better flout it.”

  But in spite of ridicule or of what anyone could advance in disproof Mortimer stuck to his point, and his steadfastness was rewarded by complete and striking confirmation, for the very next day Lady Catherine received a letter from Mr. Collins of such disastrous import that no sooner had she read it than she ordered her carriage and directed the packing of her trunks.

  The letter, the greater part of which was read aloud at the breakfast table, informed her that a thief or thieves, assisted, it was feared, by a newly engaged footman, had broken into the house during the night and stolen a large quantity of valuables. The wretches having got away with their booty without disturbing a single member of the household, discovery was not made till the following morning. A thorough search of the whole house, conducted, it appeared, by Mr. Collins himself, accompanied by the housekeeper and butler, had disclosed many precious articles vanished, including some of the oldest and choicest wine in the cellar.

  Wounded in all her feelings as a lady of rank, the mistress of a great estate and paramount authority in her own parish, Lady Catherine exhibited a spectacle to constrain pity and awe. But her presence of mind deserted her not, and her majesty of deportment was rather increased than sunk by this stroke of outrageous fortune.

  Darcy at once offered to accompany her to Rosings and placed himself unreservedly at her disposal in all that required to be done. At first she would not hear of it and categorically declined assistance. She was fully accustomed, she said, to deal with any and every matter that might arise in the house or on the estate—she believed she was the equal of any gentleman in the country. In the end he prevailed over her reluctance and she was brought to concede that his advice and support could be of importance to her. It was therefore settled that he should go.

  Elizabeth very naturally assumed that Anne de Bourgh would travel with her mother, but when Lady Catherine rose from the table to go upstairs to prepare for the journey, Anne merely left her chair for another near the window.

  “Are not you coming, Anne?” said her ladyship in some surprise. “I can assure you there is not a moment to lose. We quit the house within an hour.”

  “There can be no necessity for me to come, Mamma,” replied her daughter. “You know I cannot support the fatigue of travelling post as you will do. I prefer to stay at Pemberley.”

  The sharpness of her tone in speaking and the look of mingled fear and obstinacy upon her features was such as to strike everybody unpleasantly. Elizabeth suspected that this was the first time in her life that she had so much as proposed a course in opposition to her mother who, completely taken aback by the novelty of her daughter expressing so very decidedly a will of her own, could only stare in astonishment. To ease the uncomfortable feeling produced, Mrs. Darcy interposed with the civil hope that Miss de Bourgh would continue at Pemberley as long as it suited her.

  “And besides, Mamma,” said Anne coldly, “you would not wish me to miss the ball.”

  Lady Catherine had in fact forgotten that it was to take place and in little more than a week hence, but mention of it had a certain effect upon her. Of late, owing to other plans occupying her mind, she had ceased to look upon the ball as an occasion for matrimonial schemes, but she could notwithstanding reflect that there is no harm in having more than one string to one’s bow. Further reflection might also persuade her that in all the business to engage her attention on arrival at Rosings Anne, helpless, nervous and irritable, would be better out of the way for the present. She therefore acquiesced in her staying at Pemberley with more grace than might have been expected.

  In the bustle of preparation for the journey Elizabeth had no time for speech with her husband until he was about to enter the carriage beside his aunt.

  “Dare I remind you of the ball?” she asked. “Dare I hope that you will be back in time for it
?”

  “You can count on me for that,” he replied, “even if I have to return to Rosings afterwards. You do see, my love—don’t you?—that my aunt has a claim upon me—that I could not do otherwise.”

  “Oh, yes, I see it perfectly. I am the most reasonable being in the world, I believe. Adieu, my dearest. Be sure you write very soon and tell me everything.”

  The absence of Darcy from their midst unfavourably affected the spirits of those left behind, or would have done, had not the removal of Lady Catherine gone far to console them. But Mr. Bennet positively regretted her loss as a bereavement, and said he did not know how he was going to support life without her.

  “She is a most admirable lady,” he asserted. “What spirit, what pertinacity, what invincible self-complacency are united in one person! Not only to be always right, but to know it so well—that I do applaud in her. Her discrimination of character—so just—and her scorn of surrounding opinion make her a most valuable adjunct to any society so blest as to contain her. I could almost wish I were in Mr. Collins’ shoes.”

  On the subject of Acworth, to which he recurred now and again, he was no less emphatic.

  “That is a very astute fellow indeed. He will make his way in life—there’s no question. A man who can get round women without apparent effort, as he does, will be always in clover.”

  Elizabeth wondered what her father’s true opinion would be if he knew all. But it had been settled between her husband and herself that upon several considerations the imposture ought not to be made public, but disclosure strictly confined to those persons actually concerned to know the truth, as the need for it was proved and on condition of their preserving the utmost secrecy. In particular it was seen to be necessary that Lady Catherine should be informed very fully as soon as possible in view of the project she had formed of an alliance between her daughter and the supposed Stephen Acworth, a duty which Darcy intended discharging at the first opportunity. The prevention of an open scandal was principally desirable in the interests of the real Stephen Acworth on his appearance in the place where he had been impersonated, but almost equally so for the sake of the fair fame of Pemberley House. Howbeit Darcy was most anxious to minimise the effects of the imposture upon the person chiefly liable to suffer from them, and apart from Lady Catherine whom it behoved to know everything, he believed that only so much as would account for the substitution of one Mr. Acworth for another should be divulged, even to members of the family circle.