Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  Darcy continued,

  “He said that Anne had come away with him in the full knowledge of the circumstances of his birth and his present difficulties, and in fact hinted that the proposal to elope was initiated by her as he would not have dared to suggest it. This is very possibly true in the sense that by laying siege to her affections, and afterwards playing upon the infatuation he had inspired, he led her on to utter the decisive words. However it may be, from what was said, and what I observed for myself, I formed the conclusion that there was really no option but for them to be allowed to finish what they had begun, and so tomorrow I shall accompany them over the border that I may be able to testify to the marriage having taken place in my presence. This I do for Anne’s sake. But there could not truly be any fear that Carlini would risk the loss of so valuable a prize as he has obtained.

  “As soon as the ceremony has been performed I shall go straight to Rosings. The task of breaking the news to Lady Catherine cannot be otherwise than extremely disagreeable, but it must be done. How long this part of the business will detain me is at present in doubt. Lady Catherine may expel me from her presence forthwith; on the other hand, she may consider that she has a right to use me in any way that occurs to her, for which there is some foundation.

  “Adieu, my beloved. Be very sure that I shall not stay away from you and Richard a moment longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  Several more days went by. One morning Elizabeth received two letters by the post. One from her husband she opened first and learnt that he was now at Rosings, and had just come from a most painful interview with Lady Catherine who, as was perhaps only natural, blamed everybody but herself for what had happened. Her rage against Carlini was boundless, and she had declared her resolution of never allowing her daughter to enter her presence again. Her chief lament was that the de Bourgh estate could not be alienated from Anne, since she deserved to be left without a penny.

  “There appears nothing I can actually do for her,” Darcy concluded. “But she will not hear of my going, and until she has to some extent recovered from this truly outrageous stroke of fortune I do not see that I can.”

  The other letter was in a handwriting Elizabeth did not recognise. She opened it with only casual wonder as to its contents and read as follows:

  I address you across a gulf which no action of mine could have rendered more unbridgeable than it was already—a gulf willed and widened by yourself. Yet while life shall last nothing can ever erase your image from my heart, and my dying breath shall whisper your name. I once told you that cheated of one love, I could console myself with another. It is not true. You have taught me the last lesson of constancy. At your shrine I end my pilgrimage.

  When you have read these words destroy them. I know that they will remain imprinted upon your memory for evermore.

  —Horace Carlini

  Her cheeks flaming, her heart racing, she tore the letter up into the smallest possible pieces, and then burning them in the grate, saw to it that they were utterly consumed. Afterwards she wondered whether she should have kept the letter to show to her husband, but the thing was done. Never, she thought, could she bring herself to repeat what had been written—to Darcy, to Jane, or anyone else. “Is this a last attempt to sow discord, misunderstanding between my husband and me?” she thought. “Madman that he is. But he is safe, he knows that no retaliation is possible. The spoils are his.”

  As often when her feelings were agitated beyond control, she burst into tears, and as usual when she had cried a little, she felt better.

  Sunday came and Monday passed, but brought no further tidings from Rosings. The house was peaceful though dull, lacking the presence of its master and the animation of expected events. Elizabeth had taken upon herself, after consultation with her aunt, to give the other members of the family circle an account of Carlini’s proceedings up to the time he had been sent away from Pemberley. Further than that she did not think it expedient to go until the consequences of the elopement had taken shape out of the uncertainty which still invested them. Mr. Bennet refused to be amazed, saying that he had expected some queer business from the first moment of setting eyes upon the young man, and Bingley, after he had got over the first effects of the revelation discovered that he had thought the same. Jane could find nothing but pity in her heart for a being so misguided, while Kitty could find nothing hard enough to say about him. Mortimer spoke last.

  “He always struck me as not being quite the gentleman,” said he. “That was what puzzled me more than anything else, because, you see, he was supposed to belong to a titled family—in a proper manner, that is. But now everything that I did not like is explained.”

  On Tuesday morning Georgiana and Mrs. Gardiner were walking upon the lawn in front of the house when, casting their eyes towards the eminence from which the road wound down to the bridge, they saw a carriage approaching. It was still some way distant, but only a few moments’ scrutiny was needed to assure Georgiana that it belonged to Pemberley, that, in short, it was bringing Darcy home.

  “It is my brother,” she cried. “Oh, where is Elizabeth?”

  Leaving her companion to follow more sedately, she ran back to the house and after a breathless hunt through several rooms found Elizabeth at length, and drew her to the front door just as the horses could be heard pulling up with a clatter of hooves and a jingling of harness. They were in time to be standing on the steps, Mrs. Gardiner with them, when Darcy alighted.

  He had not come alone. Behind him stepped forth Mr. Gardiner, an unexpected sight most joyful to his wife, and only less so to his niece. But before the first ecstatic words of delighted surprise had fallen from their lips, a third gentleman got out of the carriage and required to be greeted.

  On first beholding him Elizabeth almost visibly started. For one moment she thought that Carlini had incomprehensibly returned to Pemberley. She saw a slight, dark-complexioned young man with black hair and lineaments such as Lady Catherine would have described as tracing the Acworth family countenance. Then she observed that the eyes regarding her were blue instead of black, and that the features, less marked than Carlini’s, were expressive of a character both firm and gentle. Even before her husband spoke his name on making him known to her, she was conscious that she was looking at last upon Stephen Acworth. In another moment the likeness to Carlini had dissolved never to reappear.

  Another beside herself had nevertheless shared the first impression. Turning to look at Georgiana who now came forward, she saw her gazing at the newcomer dumbfounded, almost incredulous. Recovering herself, she merely curtsied and drew back in rosy confusion.

  They all next went into the house. Refreshments for the travellers were brought, and while they partook of claret and cold meat, the ladies sat down with them to encourage their appetites and ply them with questions. There was much genial conversation and a general sense of a happy reunion.

  The first moment that Elizabeth could speak to Darcy privately, she exclaimed, “My dear Fitz, he is perfectly charming.”

  “I thought that you would say that,” he replied. “Fortunately he is not only charming, he is—but why should I deprive you of the pleasure of finding it all out for yourself. It would be too cruel.”

  ***

  Within a reasonable period, allowing for the usual formalities to be observed in such cases, Stephen Acworth entered upon his incumbency of the living of Pemberley, and took up his abode at the Parsonage. There for a time he lived alone, attended by a few devoted servants whom he had brought with him from Mentmore. In general he appeared cheerful, though with spirits subdued by all he had suffered of loss, illness and anxiety, and before long the Darcys were able to witness a steady improvement in his health, and could rejoice that he was become thoroughly at home in his surroundings and happy in their society.

  The advent of a second Mr. Acworth upon the scene so soon after the disappearance of the first ga
ve the busybodies of the parish much to say, but as nothing could ever be learnt which might throw light upon the obscurity enveloping the subject, such gossip as spread about died away for want of matter. The Miss Robinsons, enlightened by Darcy as to the first Mr. Acworth’s true character and cautioned by him to keep it to themselves, were able to refrain from mentioning him, though one day Miss Sophia, finding herself alone with Elizabeth, confided to her that Sister and she had been dreadfully deceived in a certain young man. “How little we thought,” said she, “when he used to come visiting us, and was so agreeable, that all the time we were nourishing a viper.”

  After assiduously but fruitlessly searching for a house to satisfy their demands for every imaginable convenience, the sisters found one in the most select part of Lambton which, though far from answering all their requirements, was the least unsatisfactory of any they had seen. The rooms, to be sure, were rather small for their large furniture, but by perseverance and contrivance they succeeded in squeezing it all in to the last piece. At Lambton they found a circle of acquaintance who deferred to their importance, and thereafter were not often seen at Pemberley.

  For some time little was heard of Anne and the man she had married. But by degrees, through one channel or another, enough leaked out to give the Darcys a very fair idea of how they were going on. It was learnt that they were residing in a fashionable quarter of London, and Carlini, unable to give up the company of his former associates, now behaved as their patron and made his house a place of resort for musicians, actors and poets, among whom some were already famous. The extravagance of his hospitality earned him all the notoriety he could desire, and at the opera, the theatre or the concert-room he was become a familiar and striking figure. Of Anne not much could be ascertained. It was said that the delicacy of her health forced her to live very quietly, and she was therefore seldom to be seen in public places.

  Lady Catherine continued to reside alone at Rosings in a state of implacability towards her daughter and her daughter’s husband. But after a year and a half of estrangement Anne became very ill, and believing her life to be in danger, begged to see her mother. A child—a son—had been born. She recovered, but the idea of a grandson worked a revolution in Lady Catherine’s feelings, and not only did she consent to be reconciled with her daughter but extended her forgiveness to Carlini on condition of his taking the name of de Bourgh. To this he offered no objection, and although he would never agree to settling down as a country gentleman, he was prevailed upon to spend a few weeks at Rosings every year during that part of the summer when no concerts were being given and the theatre and opera houses were closed.

  As in the past, the Darcys kept up their custom of going to town for several weeks of the season, but whether young Mr. de Bourgh took care to avoid an encounter or that he moved in a different circle, they never saw him at any of the entertainments they attended. One day Darcy, walking in Pall Mall, met him coming towards him in the company of a friend. Mr. de Bourgh, talking loudly and with a display of animation, passed him without the flicker of a glance in his direction.

  Kitty Bennet was married to Robert Mortimer in the autumn following the formation of their engagement. In spite of Lady Catherine’s injunctions she did return to her native Hertfordshire for the wedding, which went off with all the éclat bestowed by the presence of the Darcys and the Bingleys, to say nothing of innumerable other relations and friends. Felicitations on the excellence of the match poured in on the Bennets from every side, and their superlative luck in marrying off three out of their five daughters so very advantageously was a principal theme of conversation in Meryton drawing-rooms and parlours for several weeks.

  Major Wakeford sold the property at Bath bequeathed to him by his aunt and returned to his father’s house in Devonshire. On his father dying shortly afterwards, and his succeeding to the estate, he continued to live there with his mother and three unmarried sisters. He himself never married, but the continuance of the estate in the family was secured by the marriage of his younger brother whose wife presented him with several sons and daughters. Darcy and he exchanged letters from time to time, but Wakeford never stayed again at Pemberley.

  Georgiana was destined to remain at Pemberley for many years. At the end of two years she married Stephen Acworth and moved from her brother’s house to the Parsonage. From the first moment of meeting they had felt drawn to one another, and the mutual sympathy discovered at the beginning of their acquaintance ripened imperceptibly into a true and tender affection. They were alike in many respects, but principally in being of a greater refinement of sensibility and delicacy of mind than the ordinary run of men and women, and if they shared a fault it was in their disinclination for any society but their own or that of the family at the Great House.

  About six months after the famous midsummer ball a second son was born to the Darcys. They had hoped for a daughter but it was not to be. Elizabeth had never been one to sigh for long over what could not be helped and she soon consoled herself with the reflection that Grenville would make a better companion for Richard as they grew up than a sister. She had yet to learn the inexhaustible resource of little boys in contriving and carrying out all manner of mischief. Fortunately Darcy, though an affectionate parent, was not a weak one, and when the young rascals went too far they were summoned to his presence, and there were taught at his hands the salutary uses of chastisement.

  After one such correction Richard said stoutly, “Mamma, Papa did not really hurt me—at least not very much.”

  Like his father he could not bring himself to say what was not exactly true.

  Finis

  About the Author

  D.A. Bonavia-Hunt was born in London, the daughter of a gifted clergyman, and educated by a governess and in private schools. She lived with her brother, the Vicar of Stagsden, Bedfordshire, in the English countryside during the time that she wrote Pemberley Shades.