It was boredom, and not devotion, that induced her to attend the evening service at the church. She felt her motives to be much less than admirable, and what no Christian should entertain: to go to church because she really had nothing else to do! However, when she entered it, the ancient building seemed to welcome her like a friend. It was very different from the church at Rosings, which was a handsome, modern building; but it was a church, it had sheltered others in anxiety and loneliness before her. The monuments on the walls reminded her of her father's memorial; people here, too, had loved, had grieved. She prayed for her mother, and felt reassured.
As she was leaving, an elderly woman, simply dressed but obviously a gentlewoman, came up to her and asked if she was Miss de Bourgh. When she replied that she was, the lady said, “My name is Caldwell. I knew your father. My husband and he were great friends, and I met you when you were a very small child; your parents brought you on a visit to Pemberley.”
She enquired after Lady Catherine, and said “My friend Mrs Endicott told me that you were here, and about your situation. I think I should have known you anywhere; you have a great look of your father. We liked him so very much, we were greatly saddened by the news of his death. Now, Miss de Bourgh, what can I do, or what can my husband do, to make things more comfortable for you while you are here?”
Anne did not know what her mother would have thought of this, for Lady Catherine never made any new acquaintance, and always refused to meet new people; but the lady had known her father; it must be proper. And there was one thing she wanted very badly. Hesitantly, she asked if Mrs Caldwell could lend her a book. Any book! or if none were available, a newspaper; she would return it tomorrow, and go to a lending library, but for tonight she had nothing. Poor Anne thought to herself that she would read a cookery book, or a dictionary, if nothing else were to be had.
“If that is all,” Mrs Caldwell said, “we shall be delighted; my husband has a large library, and I am very fond of reading myself. Our home is quite close by, and you may come and choose for yourself. But Mrs Endicott is staying with us, and I do not know if you and your mother would wish for her acquaintance. The Endicotts are not people of rank; her husband is a publisher and bookseller. If you prefer, tell me what you like, and my maid shall bring a few books to the hotel, so that you may choose something.”
“Distinctions of rank are thought to matter greatly,” Anne replied, “but Mrs Endicott was kind, and that matters more. My father told me he read a book by a French writer who said that savages are more noble than we are, because they do not care about such things. That is, I tried to read it; I think that is what it said. In any case, I would be happy to make Mrs Endicott's acquaintance.”
“My dear, that is just the kind of thing your father would have said.”
The Caldwells lived in a respectable-looking stone house, on one of the streets near the church. Anne found herself in a spacious apartment, its walls crowded with books, looking out onto an enclosed garden. In it, Mrs Endicott was sitting with two men, shaded from the last rays of the sun by a big copper-beech tree. Mrs Caldwell called them in, and introduced her husband and her son. Mr Edmund Caldwell was a stocky, youngish man, not handsome, but with kind, bright eyes.
“I remember your father well,” the elder Mr Caldwell told her. “He was passionately interested in stones—he loved the fossils in our hills—and we wrote a great many letters to each other.” Anne was looking at several very big fossils, skillfully mounted, standing on tables and shelves. “I think there are some specimens like these in the library at Rosings,” she ventured, “there are several cabinets of smaller ones, too, and many of them have the word 'Derbyshire' on the labels.”
“We collected them together,” Mr Caldwell said. “We had some wonderful days in the hills. You came with us, Edmund; and young Fitzwilliam Darcy. I can see him now, scrabbling about with his hammer, so serious. He looked up to you, Edmund, then, for he was only eight years old, and you were ten; and that handsome little fellow, George Wickham, came along, but he did nothing, just ran about, he never would apply himself. You were only three, Miss de Bourgh, but your nurse walked you out to meet us, a little toddling thing in a pink dress.”
His wife said. “I remember it well. She wanted to do everything that the others did, and picked up a pebble from the roadside, and brought it to you, saying 'Look, Mr Caldwell, this is a beauty!'” She smiled at Anne.
“All stones are beautiful,” said Mr Edmund Caldwell. “Yes, they are; even those by the roadside. They have colours in them, they have gleams, they have traces of the fire wherein they were made. They will shine, if you cut and polish them.
“Look, Miss de Bourgh,” and he picked up a small platter made of blue stone. “Look, see the patterns in this, see the swirls of colour. This is the blue john, our own Derbyshire stone. It is found nowhere else in the world. It is fragile; it will smash easily. But how beautiful it is!” and he smiled at her.
“It is indeed,” Anne said, and smiled back at him, holding the little dish in her hand.
“We have a property up in the hills,” Mr Caldwell said. “The soil is too thin to do much farming, and my son had the idea of developing a lead mine, which is doing very well.”
“Yes, the lead mine is doing well,” Mrs Endicott said, “but are you making anything from the little blue john mine?”
“Well, it makes no money,” said Edmund Caldwell, “but I believe beautiful things can be made from this stone, if we can but learn to work it. It is an amusement—or should I say, a passion?”
“Now Miss de Bourgh, you must choose a book,” Mrs Caldwell said. “Would you like a novel, or something more serious? Miss de Bourgh has been reading the French authors,” she told the others.
“I did, a little, but I find reading French very hard, too hard for pleasure.”
“And their terrible ideas,” said Mrs Endicott.
“No,” said Edmund Caldwell. “They have wonderful ideas, about liberty and equality.”
“But look at the dreadful things they have done. Such wicked people. Their ideas must be wrong.”
“But, excuse me,” Anne said. “Are we right to condemn the ideas, because some of the people did wicked things? We all know what it is to have good principles, but not do such good things as we know we ought.”
“One idea they have, which I support with all my heart,” said Edmund Caldwell, “and that is, liberty. Slavery is wrong, tyranny is wrong. Nobody should be allowed to tyrannise over any other human being.”
“But is it right, to protest it by violent means?” asked Mrs Endicott.
“Come, come,” said Mrs Caldwell, “Miss de Bourgh came here for something to read, not an argument. We argue all the time, Miss de Bourgh, in this house. There is only one provision: that nobody is allowed to get angry. Now, Miss de Bourgh, would you like a novel?”
“I am not in the habit of novel reading. My mother does not approve of them, and there are very few in our house.” As she spoke, she was looking along the shelves, and took down a volume: An Enquiry into the Original State and Formation of the Earth by John Whitehurst. “I have read this; it is in my father's library.”
“I know it,” said Mr Edmund Caldwell. “It was not published recently, but it is very good, and there is a great deal in it about our county.”
“Do you know,” said Mrs Endicott, “that in a short while a great map will be published, of all the British Isles, showing the rocks that lie underneath, in every place? And he will buy it, will you not, Edmund?”
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “Whatever the cost, I shall buy it.”
“Come, try a novel,” Mrs Caldwell said, smiling at Anne. “Do try. There can be no harm. You want something a little lighter to read before you go to sleep.”
“If you give her the last one you lent to me, she will not sleep at all,” said Mrs Endicott. “She wants no Horrid Mysteries, or midnight frighteners.”
“No, no,” said Mrs Caldwell. “I have one here th
at is very pretty, and harmless. Now, where is it? On this table here, I think, for I put it down the other day…”
While she hunted for it, Anne looked further along the shelves, and found a small pamphlet: An Account of some Curious Derbyshire Rock Formations by Edmund Caldwell. Publisher: John Endicott.
“Oh!” she said. “Did you write this, sir? I would dearly like to read it.”
“You may keep it, Miss de Bourgh,” said its author. “We have a good number of unsold copies.”
“Oh, come,” said Mrs Endicott. “It did not sell at all badly.” “
No, but we can certainly spare one for Miss de Bourgh.”
Meanwhile, the elder Mr Caldwell had been looking through an untidy writing desk. He now came toward them, with an envelope in his hand.
“This is something that you may like to see, my dear,” he said, sliding out a letter, and holding it out to her.
The paper was not new. Anne saw the address, She saw the first words “My dear Caldwell, I was so pleased to receive your letter,” and knew her father's hand. She could see him, sitting at the desk in his library, writing, while she sat close by in a big armchair, playing with her doll. She felt the tears rising to her eyes, she felt her face convulse; she began to cry, and found that she could not stop.
Chapter 6
A young lady who faints may awake chivalrous sentiments in gentlemen; a young lady who weeps engenders only a strong desire to be elsewhere. By the time Anne was recovered enough to look up, both Mr Caldwells had disappeared. Mrs Endicott was holding her hand, Mrs Caldwell was proffering a clean handkerchief, and a maid was bringing in a tea-tray.
“Oh, what must you think of me?” was her first exclamation.
“We think that you have had a dreadful two days, and are tired and distressed,” was Mrs Caldwell's reply. “Now, Miss de Bourgh, here is a cup of tea; do you drink it, and then you shall wash your face and feel better.”
The tea did make Anne feel better, and then she found that Mrs Endicott's carriage had been ordered to take her back to the hotel. In spite of her protests, she was glad of it. When they got outside they found that it was needed, for the sultry weather of the past few days had broken, and a heavy rain had begun. Both ladies went with her, bringing a number of novels; and saw to putting her to bed, and the ordering of a bowl of bread and milk. She felt much more comfortable, but her mind was still in great distress.
“Mr Caldwell, oh, poor Mr Caldwells. What a terrible thing for me to do. I must have made him feel so dreadful,” she lamented.
“He is only sad for you,” said Mrs Caldwells, who knew that her husband was, in fact, saddened and distressed beyond measure. Anne knew it, too. Tired as she was, and late as it was, she must not allow her friends to leave, without at least trying to put the matter right. An idea came to her.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that Mr Caldwells would allow me to keep the letter? It chances that, since I was always at home, my father never wrote me a letter. I have nothing in his writing, which is why I was so overcome. It would mean a great deal to me, to have it.”
“My dear!” exclaimed Mrs Caldwells joyfully, “it will make him so happy. I can answer for it—he will be delighted.”
The two ladies left, promising to call the next day and take her for a walk to see the beauties of the surrounding countryside. Anne lay back and closed her eyes. What a pleasant thing it was, to be with people who talked about books, and ideas; and who argued but never got angry! She remembered Edmund Caldwells, smiling at her over the little stone platter; the thought came into her mind that Mr Edmund Caldwells had smiled at her very agreeably indeed.
She found, it seemed only a few minutes later, that she had slept the night through.
Monday dawned with some improvement to Lady Catherine. Her assistants assured Anne that she would sleep a great deal, and was best not disturbed, for the time being.
The rain had stopped, but the roads were still wet. Mr and Mrs Caldwells arrived, and told her that Mr Edmund had returned to his home to attend to his business. “He spends a great deal of time with us,” said his mother, “and I think the reason is, that he has never married. He says that he has never seen the woman he wants to marry, and that the lead mine, and the quarry, must come first with him, and I suppose it is very right that they should; but I should like to see him with a good, kind wife, and some little children of his own.”
Mr Caldwells, smiling affectionately, handed over to Anne her father's letter. She thanked him again and again, and put it away, as a treasure to be kept for life. “I would not deny myself the pleasure of waiting on you, my dear,” he said, “but I do not propose to stay; the weather is not suitable for a walk, all the field ways will be swamped, and the ladies have had the idea of taking you into the warm bath.”
Anne felt doubtful.
“There are only ladies there during the morning hours. It is very harmless, and very pleasant,” said Mrs Endicott.
“And health-giving,” added Mrs Caldwells. “I am sure good Dr Lawson will approve, for he always recommends it. Come, Miss de Bourgh, you will enjoy it, I am sure; and if you do not like it, we will undertake to bring you straight back, at any moment you choose.”
The bathhouse was large, cavernous, and rather ill-lit. It seemed very strange, to be in such a place, and then to be so strangely dressed, but the smiles of the other ladies reassured her—and indeed, they did all cut such comic figures! It was impossible not to be amused, and they all started laughing together. She entered the water timorously, Mrs Caldwells holding her hand, but was at once conscious of the extraordinary warmth, and the feeling both of comfort to her limbs and reassurance to her mind. She began gently moving about, enjoying the sensation of the water flowing about her. “How wonderful it is!” she whispered.
“And how strange to think,” said Mrs Caldwells, “that this flow of warmth, of comfortable, gentle warmth, comes from those terrible fires deep within the earth!”
Her enjoyment was such that she kept asking for a little more time, and they actually had to insist on her coming out at last. She thought it was a long time since she had felt so well.
The sense of well-being stayed with her throughout the day.
Lady Catherine awoke toward the end of the afternoon. Her attendants were pleased with her progress; sitting up in bed in her lace wrapper, she was fully able to converse. She was, as Mrs Williams had predicted, well enough to be cross; and she availed herself of the fact to be very cross indeed. Anne had to relate the history of the previous evening and of the morning—or as much of it as she thought her mother needed to hear. She said nothing of her tears, or the letter, only that the Caldwellss had taken her home to borrow a book, and taken her into the bath.
Lady Catherine was not pleased. “Caldwells? Caldwells? Who are these people? I have no recollection of ever meeting anybody of that name. Sir Lewis was in the habit of making odd friends; but that does not mean that his wife and daughter are obliged to know them. We may have been acquainted, very slightly, but twenty years ago—you are talking about twenty years ago. I certainly have no recollection of any letter of condolence from them, when Sir Lewis died. These people are probably trying to use your situation to claim a connection. Here you are alone in the place and unprotected, and they want to profit from it. As for Mrs Endicott, I recollect her perfectly, and am quite sure that that was what she was doing: she is certainly one of those people who will do anything to get acquainted with a person of rank. You are to have nothing more to do with them, Anne.”
Anything more unjust, Anne could not imagine!
What was she to do? Never, in her life, had she disobeyed her mother; always, her mother had decided what was right and what should be done.
Suddenly, she recalled Mr Edmund Caldwells's remark: “Nobody should tyrannise over another person.” What would he think, if he saw her putting up with injustice to his parents, only because she was afraid?
Taking a deep breath, and in rather a trem
ulous voice, she said, “As far as you are concerned, ma'am, you are free to reject the acquaintance; but I am not. These people have been kind to me, and I do not believe they did it from any idea of advantage or flattery— they are not in the least like poor Mr Collins. But I have accepted their friendship, I have indebted myself to them, and it would be wrong—it would be unjust—to turn my back on them now.”
She waited for the sky to fall in.
But to her surprise, her mother only said, “Well, well; but I will have nothing to do with it. I will not receive them.”
“Very well, ma'am.”
As for Anne's letter to Pemberley, it was quite unnecessary, she said; she would have written in due course. There was no need of money; she had banknotes and a letter of credit in her jewel-case.
One thing, and one thing only, had pleased Lady Catherine: the Master of Ceremonies had called, and though of course she had not been able to receive him, he had left compliments, and the promise of any assistance she might require—any assistance! Anything!—and the library subscription list, together with the list of those who had attended Saturday's assembly.
She was reading both with interest: “Lady Southwell, the Honourable Henry and Mrs Willington, Doctor and Mrs Rigsby, Captain Stephens, the Reverend Marcus Appleby… That is very well for so small a place, and the season hardly begun; and they tell me the Duchess of Stilbury is expected almost any day, with her brother, Lord Francis Meaburn. You might do very well here, Anne, if you will but pay attention to a more proper kind of people.”
Darcy and Anne Page 3
