Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  Miss Robinson looked at him, but seemed not to have heard.

  “Mr. Mortimer says that all could be done very well by a curate, and that it is quite the thing nowadays for a rector to reside away from the parish.”

  “I do not remember Mr. Mortimer saying that, Sister,” Miss Sophia said in some surprise.

  “I beg you will not interrupt, Sophia. It was the day you stayed in bed with a cold caught by going through the rain to see Mrs. Finch. You would go in spite of all I could say, and she was not at home, so back you had to come through the rain, and got your feet wet.”

  “Whatever Mr. Mortimer may have said on the subject is hardly to the point,” said Darcy slightly raising his voice. “I am exceedingly sorry to add to your distresses, but you must allow me to be the best judge of what is for the good of the parish. The personal convenience of individuals—though friends—cannot weigh with me in comparison with that. Mr. Mortimer is all that is amiable, but he has no serious interest in a clergyman’s duties, as he would be the first to avow.”

  “But surely, Mr. Darcy, there would be no objection to engaging a curate. A young man of no particular family and used to poverty would not want to be paid very much. He could lodge with some respectable, clean village woman.”

  “A curate,” said Darcy firmly, “whether under Mr. Mortimer or anyone else, will not do for Pemberley. I must ask you to accept that as final and unconditional. As regards to another residence for yourselves, I do not wish to make any stipulation except as to removal within the usual period—I believe three months—observed in such cases. Any facilities that I can give are entirely at your service.” He rose as he spoke for he was afraid that unless he ate his words nothing further could be said that would not call for repentance in a calmer mood.

  “Indeed, yes,” faltered Miss Sophia, looking thoroughly frightened. “I do not think that poor Papa had any opinion of curates either. If they are so poor, as they always are, they cannot be gentlemen, and that is a pity. It is very unfortunate that Mr. Mortimer has so little liking for making sermons. But there are so many beautiful ones written already that there is no need for him to put himself to any trouble. I am sure there are more than twenty volumes alone in Papa’s study, for he would often take a paragraph from one of them to fill up what he had written himself. But of course whatever Mr. Darcy thinks is right should be done. Only as to Yew Tree Cottage, it would not take the half of our furniture unless by building on—”

  “Do not talk such nonsense, Sophia,” cried her sister. “By the time Yew Tree Cottage was large enough we should be in our graves.”

  Darcy, studiously polite, but also inflexibly determined to retract nothing of what he had said, now took his leave. Miss Robinson curtseyed with indignant ceremony. As the butler was ushering him to the front door he could hear her voice uplifted in castigation of poor Miss Sophia who had not yet learnt the wisdom of being silent, and never would.

  Chapter 2

  In moments of extreme emotion, especially of wrath or mortification, a gentleman in possession of a wife will rightly claim all her attention while he unburdens himself to the uttermost with that perfect freedom of expression which is his prerogative as a husband. The duty of a wife on such occasions is to listen, and when all has been said, to make observations of a consolatory nature, confirming the gentleman in his good opinion of himself and his bad opinion of all who thwart or vex him, and finally restoring him to good humour.

  On reaching home, Darcy went in search of Elizabeth, expressly to acquaint her with all that had been unfolded during his visit to the Parsonage. As she was not in any of her accustomed places in the house, and none of the servants could say where she had gone, he went upstairs to his sister’s sitting-room, hoping for information. Georgiana was seated at the pianoforte, and deep in the study of some very intricate music which she was reading for the first time, neither heard nor saw him until he had spoken twice over.

  “Elizabeth?” she then replied. “She was here not very long ago. She did not stay a minute—I believe she said she was going out into the grounds. Perhaps she is walking with Richard.”

  “Have you no recollection at all where she said she was going?”

  Georgiana thought for a moment or two and at length answered: “She asked me my favourite colour for a rose, and now I remember that she was going to see some new sorts of roses McGregor has grown which are coming into bloom in one of the greenhouses. She said he had asked her to name them.”

  This gave a probable direction to Elizabeth’s whereabouts, and after lingering another moment or two looking at Georgiana’s music and advising her not to study too hard, he went off in good hope of soon finding his wife. Making his way through the flower garden, he came upon her walking there attended by the Scotch head gardener. Both of them were surveying the severely pruned stumps of rose-bushes in a long bed with the deepest interest. While he was still some distance away Elizabeth looked up and gave him a smile of welcome. As soon as they were face to face something of urgency and constraint in his demeanour warned her that he had news to tell, that it would not wait, and that he was impatient of McGregor’s presence. The old servant doubtless saw it likewise, for gravely saluting his master and mistress, he walked away to another part of the garden.

  “What is the matter?” Elizabeth asked when they were alone. “You look disturbed. Has anything happened?”

  “You shall hear,” he replied, and while they paced slowly towards the terrace in front of the house he told her of all that had taken place at the Parsonage. He could repeat almost word for word the speeches of Miss Robinson, but the incoherencies of Miss Sophia must be left to Elizabeth’s imagination.

  “It is impossible to conduct a conversation where none but oneself observes the rules of logic,” he said. “I did my best to make myself plain, but I doubt whether they paid me the compliment of believing me. All I know is that Miss Robinson became very angry.”

  “That is a foregone conclusion,” said Elizabeth. “What a delightful scheme they have hatched up, to be sure. But I cannot believe that Mr. Mortimer is privy to it. And yet—is the Clopwell estate at all encumbered, do you know?”

  “Between ourselves, I think it may be. Mortimer’s brother was spendthrift and negligent, and Mortimer himself is too easy and indolent to retrieve what has been lost. But I am certain he is no schemer. He has his faults, doubtless—as we all have—but guile is not one of them. If he really desired the living, he would ask me for it outright.”

  “Are you so sure?” Elizabeth asked with a smile. “You are not so approachable as that implies.”

  “You are implying that I am a very disagreeable sort of person.”

  “Not at all, dearest, but you can be more intimidating than you probably know.”

  “Then I could wish I had been able to intimidate Miss Robinson into a more reasonable frame of mind. Argument is not enough; nothing will persuade her but action. Seriously, Elizabeth, the matter has gone on too long, and something must be done.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, up to now you have done nothing but reject one applicant after another.”

  “Not one was in any way suitable. They all desired to be comfortable and rich, and to have as little to do as possible. I begin to think that the kind of man I have set my mind upon must be sought before he can be found. I must prosecute enquiries farther afield than I have done hitherto. No stone must be left unturned . . . There is Richard. He does not look as if there were much amiss with him.”

  Walking slowly, they had traversed the length of the terrace and reached the western end as Richard’s pony carriage guided by a young groom and attended by two nurses came into view round the corner of the house. The heir to Pemberley was about two years old, large, fair and handsome—in short, a thorough Darcy. He set up a clamour on seeing his parents and raised himself up in his seat in his impatience to be lifted out of it. No sooner had he got
his way than he ran to his mother and walked a few steps holding her hand. But that could not satisfy him long, and he demanded next to be hoisted to his father’s shoulder. He was already remarkable for the activity of his mind, his clear comprehension of what he wanted, and his directness of action in trying to get it. His parents affected to regard him as not extraordinary, but were secretly persuaded that he was probably more beautiful and intelligent than any other child that had ever been born. Like all much noticed and admired children he was tyrannous in exacting attention from those around him, and his amusing antics, his engaging attempts at intelligible speech, his adventurous impulses—as when he started to crawl between the fore and hind legs of his pony—caused such a diversion of ideas as to transport them to the remotest distance from the cares and vexations of church patronage.

  At length the little boy was taken indoors and Darcy and Elizabeth left the terrace and strolled across the lawn towards the river which wound through the valley between the wooded heights enclosing the park.

  It was that period of the day when the air is balmy after long hours of sunshine. The green of grass and trees was enriched with deepest gold, enhancing the beauty of a scene which held everything to charm the eye and tranquilise the mind. Elizabeth looked about her with delight at familiar objects of which she could never tire.

  “I am not altogether easy in my mind about Georgiana,” said Darcy, breaking the silence. “She is apt to spend too much time at her instrument. While she was under tuition it was no doubt right and proper—in fact, I encouraged it. But now it begins to verge on eccentricity, making her dreamy and unsocial.”

  “That is the result of permitting the free exercise of a real talent,” answered Elizabeth. “You have done quite right and should not repent.”

  “Nevertheless there is a due proportion to be observed in all things.”

  “There is none in the dispensation of gifts, my dear Fitz. You must admit that Georgiana is gifted beyond the ordinary.”

  “I fear that I remain unconvinced. She is twenty and should be thinking of marriage.”

  “That she is twenty and not thinking of marriage or young men surely argues an exceptional young woman. You ought to be thankful, for with her simple, ardent nature she might so easily fall in love with quite the wrong sort of young man, in defiance of every rational consideration and normal prospect of happiness. If she is to marry, she would be happiest with a man much older than herself who would be ready to give everything and expect nothing in return—nothing, that is to say, that she did not yield of her own free will. But where such a man is to be found I do not know.”

  “Nor I,” said Darcy with a smile. “Most men are selfish beings, and marriage often makes them more so, though it should have the contrary effect. Has it ever struck you that Mortimer is partial to her?”

  “It is so apparent that Georgiana is beginning to be annoyed by it.”

  “He is a very good, honest fellow, yet I cannot imagine her settling down with him. Nor would it be the most desirable match in the prudential view. The family has declined in importance from what it was several generations ago.”

  “I like him very well,” said Elizabeth, “but principally because there is nothing in him to dislike.”

  “And Georgiana?”

  “She is not so tolerant of nonentity as I am become.”

  “Pray what does that mean?”

  She laughed and slipped her hand inside his arm. “Something so extremely complicated that it can only be unravelled at leisure. In other words, I am not sure what I do mean.”

  “That is one of your fictions,” said Darcy. “You do know perfectly well, but you like to tease me. Well, I am willing to oblige you. I am teased and you are amused. Are you now satisfied?”

  “Not at all. You have left me with nothing to say.”

  “Another fiction.”

  They were now walking beside the stream, and Darcy fixed his eyes on the water. “There should be some very tolerable fishing for your uncle when he comes in June,” he observed. “He and your aunt hope to arrive on the seventh or eighth of the month, so Mr. Gardiner wrote in his last letter.”

  “Yes, and the Bingleys and their children should be here by the fourth. My sister Kitty may come shortly, though I am not sure of the date. When I last heard she was still at Hunsford where she has been staying with the Collinses.”

  “The Collinses!”

  “I fancy that Kitty is in training for a clergyman’s wife under Charlotte Collins since Maria Lucas found a husband in a neighbouring parish. But of course Mr. Collins takes all the credit for that.”

  “Mr. Collins will always appropriate every good thing to himself.”

  “Then I wonder he has not applied for Pemberley. But no, nothing could exceed the advantages of Hunsford in his eyes, nor compensate for all the pains and labour he has bestowed on making the Parsonage a model of comfort and convenience. And how could he ever tear himself away from his beloved patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

  “She is perfectly welcome to keep him, but I am under the impression that she is not so well pleased with him as formerly.”

  The next day after breakfast Elizabeth was in the hall reading a letter when Darcy came out of the library to look for her.

  “Here is an odd thing,” he said. “We were talking only yesterday of Mr. Collins, and this morning a communication has come from him.”

  “Mr. Collins? What does he say? But I can guess. Do read it to me, however.”

  “You had better read it for yourself. I fear I cannot do justice to the rotundity of his phrases.”

  The letter was as follows:

  Honoured and dear Sir,

  Having received intelligence that the Rectory of Pemberley is presently vacant through the decease of the former incumbent, whereof I had unhappily remained ignorant until this forenoon, I take up my pen most respectfully to make application for the said benefice to be conferred upon me, upon favourable consideration of my special and peculiar claims to your notice, at the same time assuring you of my fervent gratitude and steadfast desire to serve you should you deem me worthy to hold and enjoy it.

  As I have had the honour aforetime of officiating before you in Hunsford Church, it should be unnecessary for me to recommend myself on the score of either eloquence or delivery. Some years have passed, unfortunately, since you had the opportunity of judging my performance, but I can confidently assert that it has not in the interval suffered any deterioration in matter or expression, and I hereby state that it shall ever be my first aim and dearest object to inculcate in my humbler parishioners that respect for your illustrious person which is due to high lineage and great possessions, both by frequent and earnest exhortation, and by the constant example of a studied deference on my own part in all our personal intercourse.

  I understand that the income from the living is eight hundred a year, a figure not much above that derived from Hunsford. My reasons for desiring to change my present abode are, however, briefly these. I have every confidence that your patronage will avail to procure my further advancement in the Church, the more so since my connection with your amiable lady, my cousin Elizabeth (née Bennet), will suggest to you the propriety of such steps as will attain that end. It will also be to the advantage of my children to be brought up in the vicinity of your own son, thus laying the foundations of a connection from which considerable benefits may be expected to accrue hereafter. Finally, through my cousinship with Mrs. Darcy, and owing to other circumstances which it does not become me to mention, I fear that I have lost that unqualified approbation with which your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was wont to distinguish me. That I have endeavoured to support with all meekness and patience that withdrawal of her favour, now limiting our intercourse to the most distant civilities will not, I think, argue any want of desert on my part, but a truly Christian fortitude. There is, however, no
merit in resignation where evils can be remedied, and in this persuasion I appeal to your sense of justice as well as to your compassion for such alleviation of my lot as lies in your power. Hoping therefore to receive a favourable reply to his communication, and ever praying for the continued health of yourself and your lady, I beg to subscribe myself

  Your Humble and Obedient Servant,

  —Wm. Collins

  Elizabeth smiled more than once as she read this effusion, notwithstanding its tactless references to herself which testified to the writer’s incurable stupidity. The scarcely veiled allusion to Lady Catherine’s resentment at her marriage with Darcy was not likely to forward his cause, and how he could think it would passed comprehension.

  If, however, he did sincerely believe that Lady Catherine’s displeasure with him proceeded from a conviction that he had taken a hand in promoting the marriage of her nephew, whom she had designed for her own daughter, with a portionless young woman of no particular family related to himself, he might consider that nephew to be under an obligation to him with some show of reason on his side. Remembering that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had been in almost daily contact with Mr. Darcy that spring now four years ago when she was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Collins at Hunsford Parsonage, and he was staying at Rosings Park, it was not an unwarrantable conclusion. And although a reconciliation had been patched up between aunt and nephew, Lady Catherine had never forgiven her niece-in-law for the frustration of her dearest hopes, nor by the same token, that young woman’s cousin.

  All these ideas hurried through her head even while the sentences of the letter passed under her eyes. Having read through to the end she looked up at her husband and asked, “How could he only just have heard of the vacancy? It was published in the newspapers at the time of its occurrence, I suppose.”

  “The how or the why does not much signify,” Darcy replied. “He must have missed seeing the notice, and Lady Catherine of course would not deign to mention it.”