Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  Her first sight of him in the vestibule of one of the London theatres she now remembered, although beyond a passing vexation it had no significance for her at the time. With Sir William Lucas and his daughter Maria she had that day come to London from her home in Hertfordshire, and after spending the night at her uncle’s house in Gracechurch Street, the party was to travel the next day into Kent to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Collins at Hunsford Parsonage. In the evening her uncle and aunt took them to see Mrs. Siddons in a performance of Henry VIII. After the play, while they stood in the vestibule waiting for their carriage, she turned involuntarily to see a man gazing fixedly at her. She removed her eyes immediately, but her brief glance showed the stranger wearing the sort of hat and cloak affected by members of the acting profession, and although the large brim of his hat half concealed his features she recognised him as having taken a small part in the play she had just seen. Her aunt at that moment made an observation drawing off her attention and the incident had passed out of her mind into complete oblivion until Acworth recalled it to her. Her sensation of having seen him before on his arrival at Pemberley was now explained, and equally her inability to recollect where she had seen him, for who would have discovered the strange looking young man of the hat and cloak in his latter guise of a soberly clad young clergyman.

  How long she sat occupied with these and other thoughts she hardly knew, but at length, fearing it must be getting late, she rose up and hurried through the wood. As she came out under the open sky the view of the great house standing amidst its lawns and gardens calmed the agitation of her spirits; as she approached its walls her courage revived, and when she had passed through the doorway into the quiet and safety of home she felt as though awakening from a frightful dream.

  Chapter 22

  A week went by and the day of the ball arrived. From an early hour Elizabeth began to look for Darcy’s return, but morning and noon passed away without bringing him. She had no fear of his not keeping his word to be with her in time to receive their guests, as her faith in his ability to overcome every obstacle that might hinder his progress could not falter. In tranquil expectation, therefore, of seeing him at any moment appear before her, she sat during the afternoon in the little drawing-room with her aunt and Jane and Georgiana engaged in needlework. The ladies were embroidering a set of infant’s caps, each employing her own invention, and they were comparing designs and deciding that Georgiana’s was the best when the butler entered and approached his mistress.

  “Is your master come?” she instantly enquired.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied. “It is Major Wakeford. He is in the library.”

  Astonished beyond measure at this unheralded return, and wondering whatever it could portend, Elizabeth quitted the room and hastened to the library. One glance at Georgiana had told her very little, having revealed only a head bent rather lower than before over her work, thus concealing any change of countenance. Fortunately the perfect delicacy and discretion of Mrs. Gardiner and Jane could be depended upon to spare her the embarrassment of a train of conjectures to account for Wakeford’s unexpected arrival, though neither was aware of her having any particular interest in the matter.

  It was strange to see Major Wakeford standing in one of his remembered attitudes and looking very much as if he had never gone away. That first impression soon passed; there was a change in him. His aunt must have died; he was in mourning. He seemed nervous—almost as if uncertain of his welcome. Elizabeth greeted him warmly; she explained that Darcy was absent but was immediately expected home, and then said with a smile, “I trust this means that you have returned to stay with us for a further period.”

  “You are all kindness,” he replied, “but I do not know whether I ought to accept your invitation. I reached Bakewell rather more than an hour ago, and engaged a room at the inn for this coming night. Before leaving Bath I wrote to Darcy. Am I right in supposing that he has not yet read my letter?”

  By a standing arrangement Elizabeth was empowered by Darcy to deal with all letters which came for him whenever he was away, but one or two, delivered since yesterday she had left on the writing table with seals unbroken since he would so soon be at home to dispose of them himself. These she took up to show Wakeford, and one of them he was able to claim as having been written by himself.

  “I wrote to him announcing a material change in my pecuniary circumstances,” he said. “My aunt died about an hour after I reached her house. I had no expectation of benefiting under her will beyond, perhaps, a small legacy, but in point of fact she has left me the greater part of her fortune. Why she chose to alter the disposition of her property no one knows—certainly not myself. It is true, however, that her other nephew already possesses a considerable property of his own. But that is neither here nor there. Today I am in a very different situation from what I was when I last had the pleasure of seeing you, and although I cannot boast of much else that would recommend me as a suitor for the hand of his sister, I have less diffidence now in seeking Darcy’s permission to pay my addresses to her.”

  He delivered this speech with his customary soldierly directness, but Elizabeth thought she could detect the signs of deep feeling, both in his voice and in his countenance. Her first sensation was of joy, her next of doubt whether he was not too late, whether, as Georgiana had said, she had not indeed starved to extinction her former attachment.

  “I cannot, of course, speak with any authority for my husband,” she said with considered gravity, “but I can go so far as to say that he is chiefly desirous that Georgiana should be truly happy in any choice she may make.”

  “Yes,” he answered, looking down. “That is what I have asked myself continually on the journey hither. Could I make her happy? Equality of fortune is not everything. I am deeply conscious of that.”

  “Am I right in supposing,” Elizabeth asked after a rather awkward pause, “that it was your lack of fortune only which deterred you from coming forward before?”

  “Yes,” he replied with a look of anxiety that touched her. “Only that, I assure you. I felt that poor as I was, maimed and unable to follow any profession, it would be very wrong in me to seek to engage the affections of any young lady, still more so one who might be expected by her relations to make a great match.”

  “You are very modest,” Elizabeth said gently. “Indeed I wish you well.” But she wondered whether the old-fashioned formality of his style would prove sufficiently persuasive in wooing a girl who was not thoroughly predisposed to accept him. She could not imagine that he had the least idea how to set about the business in such a manner as to bring it to a successful conclusion and longed to give him a word of advice or warning. She did not however feel justified in speaking at all decidedly on a subject that held so much perplexity to herself, and to pass from it she began to tell him of the ball that was to be held that night. She had not got out more than a sentence and a half when the door opened and Darcy came into the room.

  He had been informed by Baxter of his friend’s presence in the house and showed no inordinate surprise but sincere pleasure. After the first salutations had been exchanged, some hesitation or reserve in Wakeford’s manner began to raise a question as to the real motive of his return which could not be directly asked, but became the more palpable in Darcy’s studied avoidance of any enquiry likely to be construed as angling for information. At length, interpreting a glance from Wakeford at herself as giving her permission to speak for him, Elizabeth told her husband briefly of the change in his circumstances and his object in returning to Pemberley.

  Darcy masked any astonishment he might feel and gave his consent readily but without much encouragement. “My sister must speak for herself,” he said, “for this is a matter in which I should by no means attempt to influence her.” But on learning that Wakeford purposed returning to the inn at Bakewell he pressed him to take up his quarters at Pemberley and allow a servant to be sent for his luggage. Wa
keford made some slight demur on the score of his inability to take part in the ball, but soon yielded to no more than a little persuasion.

  After some further, rather laboured conversation Wakeford, doubtless perceiving that his host and hostess might wish for some private talk on a subject of such high importance as a proposal for Georgiana’s hand, asked leave to retire to the room that was to be assigned to his use. No sooner were Darcy and Elizabeth alone than she began immediately.

  “What actually is your opinion, Fitz?”

  “To be perfectly candid, much as I like and respect Wakeford, he is not what I had in mind for Georgiana.”

  “I thought as much. But is there anyone else whom you do think good enough?”

  “I cannot say that there is. However, as I think I made clear, I would by no means stand in their way. But what of Georgiana?”

  “That is uncertain. As you know, she thought herself at one time to be in love with him. We know now that he went away because he became aware of it but felt he could not in honour propose marriage to her, and believing as she did that he was indifferent she determined to cure herself. She told me that she had done so—that she no longer cared for him, but she may be only deceiving herself.”

  “As I see it,” said Darcy, “Wakeford can but ask her. It must be left to her to make up her mind whether to accept or reject him.”

  “What you really mean is that there is to be no pleading of causes. You suspect me of being sympathetic towards Wakeford.”

  “If he cannot plead his own cause, no one else can do it for him.”

  “No one is wise when they are in love. Need I remind you of your own stupidities?”

  “Be just. You did not always behave so very intelligently yourself. When you hated me you drew me on, and when at last you changed your mind you showed it by a persistent avoidance of my eye and the most chilling silence.”

  “That proves my point.”

  “I do not think so. Our feeling for one another was strong enough to triumph over our own stupidity, if you like to call it such, and make all clear between us.”

  “And the upshot of all this is that it is best not to meddle between two persons, even when they don’t know their own business.”

  “They probably know it better than you or I do.”

  “At any rate,” said Elizabeth seriously, “I must tell Georgiana why he has come. That is not to meddle, I hope. I defer to your superior judgment, my love, for that relieves me of all responsibility. A strong, decided character like yours thoroughly enjoys responsibility, whereas the weaker vessel, like myself, gladly gets rid of it. And so I look to you to take care of your cousin this evening and see that she is provided with partners and everything for her comfort. I do not think she is very well today. She is pale—that is, paler than usual—and seems nervous. What an odd creature she is. How did you leave Lady Catherine?”

  “Not very well, either. The state of affairs at Rosings has been a severe blow to her. Her spirit and determination are still admirable, but I could see her struggling against fatigue.”

  “Did you tell her the truth about—Acworth?”

  “The name he commonly goes by is Horace Carlini. Yes, I did. It was neither an easy nor a pleasant talk. At first I had hard work to convince her that her erstwhile favourite lacked even respectability of character. When at last I succeeded her indignation at being deceived, as she termed it, knew no bounds and she upbraided me for having misled her. It is strange that a true explanation of why I acted as I did—out of consideration for Stephen Acworth’s feelings and to enable him to give Carlini one more chance to redeem his character—should sound lame, but so it was. She said that to have kept her in ignorance of the facts was an affront to her understanding.”

  “You should have told her for her own consolation that you kept your wife in the same dark ignorance.”

  “I should have done no such thing,” retorted Darcy. “Like yourself I give no handles to Lady Catherine.”

  Elizabeth laughed, but grew pensive again almost immediately. There was Georgiana to be prepared for what awaited her, and so it behoved her to separate again and reluctantly from the dearest of companions. She went away to find Georgiana, and discovered her in her own room in retreat from the mere possibility of meeting Wakeford before she was ready for it.

  Her first question, “Oh, why has he come?” spoken almost angrily, gave the measure of the dread she felt. There was no indifference here, but whether her former regard had not turned to a settled repugnance was not so certain.

  As once before to Darcy, Elizabeth related the great change which had occurred in Wakeford’s fortunes, his application for her hand in marriage, the reasons which had formerly kept him from declaring his sentiments and his earnest desire to make them known to her now that the chief obstacle to their union, as he conceived it, was removed.

  “I hold no brief for him,” she said. “Only ourselves know truly why we act as we do. But in justice to him I would say that he sincerely believed that he did what was right in holding off before.”

  “Oh yes. I know that for him duty and honour are first and foremost. But isn’t it honour that moves him now? If he had felt any real regard for me would he have humiliated me as he did? Wasn’t it in the highest degree cruel? He must have known how ashamed of myself he made me feel. For that I can never forgive him, nor could I feel any confidence in him ever again.”

  “Everyone is prone to error, and in love especially people commit follies and blunders. I don’t wish to advise you, however, Georgiana, but to prepare you for what cannot very well be avoided. You do not wish to run away from him as if you had really done something to be ashamed of. I myself should call it a noble impulse which the event has justified. You must summon your pride to sustain you—the pride of a Darcy. The ball will befriend you, for you must dance all the time, which he cannot. I doubt whether he is able to, and in any case his aunt having so recently died would make it improper for him to do so. You will meet at dinner, but we shall all be there and I will keep him talking to myself. From his point of view he could hardly have chosen a worse time for his venture. The advantage will be all with you, and without much exertion and little or no awkwardness you can make it apparent that you wish to have nothing to do with him. I should not wonder if tomorrow he goes away quietly without importuning you at all, having read his dismissal in your manner. But you know, I shall feel sorry for him, for I cannot help liking him.”

  The effect of Elizabeth’s representation of the case was to make Georgiana much less agitated than before. She listened to every word, appearing to reflect deeply. She still looked somewhat troubled, but Elizabeth could see that she had recovered sufficient command over herself to behave in Wakeford’s presence with due propriety and tolerable composure.

  “Very well,” she said at length. “I will see him and even speak to him if I must. But there is really no alternative.”

  “I am afraid not,” said Elizabeth. “It is a thing that must be done and got over.”

  She stayed no longer, for time was advancing, and she must commence dressing for the ball, in itself a ceremony of care and art. While Mason was arranging her hair she was moved by the reflection that no one else would ever do it so beautifully to wonder whether Rachel Stone was equal to all that Miss de Bourgh required for a special occasion and to speak her doubt of it aloud.

  “She thinks she is equal to anything, ma’am,” Mason said in a tone which spoke of affront having been taken. “Just before we were to go upstairs she told Billing and me that she wanted no interference or instruction from either of us. She said—excuse the expression, ma’am—that Miss de Bourgh would not have us poking our noses into her affairs.”

  “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth in a manner to convey the very strongest reprobation of such impertinence. But what Mason had told her decided her against going to Anne’s room in case it might be r
egarded as an intrusion, and as soon as she was ready she went instead to fetch Georgiana that they might enter the saloon together.

  They were the last of the party to appear, everyone, including Major Wakeford, being there before them. The terrible moment when Georgiana must acknowledge his salutation arrived and passed. They met, they spoke. Georgiana’s face blanched as he came before her, and his had not much more colour in it. They moved apart again immediately, and fortunately Mr. Bennet, who had been wandering round the room in one of his incommunicable meditations suddenly drew everybody’s attention to himself by coming to a halt before the ladies where they stood in a group together and ejaculating, “Ha, a veritable rainbow.”

  The description was not inapt. Mrs. Darcy was in pale yellow, with diamonds sparkling in her dark hair and round her throat, Mrs. Bingley in green, Mrs. Gardiner in violet, Georgiana and Kitty in white, as became young girls, and Anne de Bourgh in crimson. As Elizabeth had told Darcy, Anne was not looking at all well, and her heavy-eyed indifference was in strong contrast to the glowing cheeks and vivacious glances of the others. Even Georgiana was now as flushed as before she had been pale.

  At dinner Wakeford sat beside Elizabeth and a flow of conversation was tolerably well maintained between them. After one of the slight pauses that now and then occurred Wakeford said quietly but with such distinctness as to be heard at the other end of the table,

  “So Acworth is now at Bakewell.”

  “At Bakewell?” Elizabeth exclaimed, hardly able to credit her ears. Simulating indifference she enquired, “Did you then meet him there?”

  “Yes, I met him at the entrance to the inn. He told me he had quitted Pemberley and was staying there for a day or two, but would soon be off to London.”