“I am rather surprised that Lady Catherine has not proposed Mr. Collins to you of her own accord. If she is really so tired of him as appears, it is strange that she should neglect an opportunity of getting rid of him.”
“She may write yet. But in that event I should reply that the recommendation comes too late.”
“What?” cried Elizabeth, all amazement. “What on earth do you mean?”
Darcy smiled and, glancing at the servant who kept his station not far away, said, “If you will come into the library where we shall be more private, I will explain.”
Elizabeth rose with alacrity and preceded him to the door of the library. When he had closed it behind them, he went to the writing-table, and took up a letter lying there.
“I had this at the same time as Mr. Collins. It is from an old schoolfellow—Lord Egbury of Mentmore in Yorkshire—and is written on behalf of a younger brother, Stephen Acworth.”
“Is this brother known to you?”
“Only by repute. I was at Eton with Lord Egbury—George Acworth as he was then—and the second son Walter; but Stephen never came there. I did stay once at Mentmore Castle, but he was away with a private tutor, so I have not at any time set eyes on him.”
“Then you are not really intimate with the family.”
“No. George and Walter Acworth were not very particular friends of mine and I do not know why I was invited to Mentmore. I went there and did not much like it. The old Lord Egbury revolted me with his coarseness. He set his sons a shocking example of drunkenness and profanity, and besides treated his wife shamefully, making no secret of his infidelities. The two elder Acworths were good-natured and dull-witted, but from what Lady Egbury told me of her youngest son Stephen I formed the opinion that he was of a wholly different stamp from his brothers—gentle, retiring, serious, and studiously inclined.”
“And in flight from coarseness and profanity he took orders?”
“It was understood that the family living was to be nursed for him until he was of an age to hold it. After I left Eton I saw no more of the Acworths and heard nothing more until it was reported that the eldest son had succeeded to the title and estates on the death of his father. And now after these many years he asks me to do him a favour. About a year ago Stephen married, he says, and his wife has lately died. Lord Egbury describes him as overwhelmed with grief, and expresses the fear that his reason may give way under it. Change of surroundings with some occupation is prescribed, and hearing by a side wind that the living of Pemberley is still vacant, Lord Egbury requests it for his unfortunate brother.”
“But how can you accede to his request without some positive assurance as to his brother’s suitability? You have never seen him and know nothing but what you have heard. Hearsay is no very reliable guide.”
“True, madam, that has struck me as forcibly as it has yourself. Hearsay is certainly not enough. And so I propose making Stephen Acworth’s acquaintance before offering him the living. Lord Egbury mentions that he has left Mentmore and is staying at the family town house in Cavendish Square.
“You mean that you will go to London?”
“There is no alternative, I fear. I shall stay not an hour longer than is necessary for the prosecution of the business, for I abominate being at Berkeley Square without you—any place, for that matter. I would not go if I did not expect to find in Stephen Acworth the very person I have been looking for, and so have this long-drawn-out uncertainty put to an end.”
“When shall you go? Do not forget that the Vernons are dining with us tomorrow.”
“No, I had not forgotten. Unless anything unforeseen occurs to prevent me, I shall travel the following day.”
“Let us hope that Mr. Collins in the meantime does not arrive in person to throw himself at your feet, or that Lord Egbury has not discovered another and healthier locality for his brother.”
“As to Mr. Collins, I shall forestall him by replying at once. Lord Egbury’s ideas and wishes I can by no means influence, but I do remember of him that once he took a notion into his head, it was not easily dislodged.”
“Has it struck you,” asked Elizabeth, “that a man whose reason is staggering is not in a fit state to take up the burden of a parish?”
“That is my principal reason for wishing to see him. Egbury may have exaggerated his condition, however. There is a passage in his letter which interests me very much, coming from him. He says—here it is—‘I feel sure that my poor brother would have a great deal in common with yourself. He has suffered much at Mentmore from having no one to converse with on the sort of subjects he prefers. Unlike the rest of us he is a greater reader.’”
“That does quite unconsciously convey the character of Stephen Acworth,” she said, “for it implies a comparison with yourself. It is both a compliment and a recommendation. I do not think Lord Egbury can be quite so stupid as you make him out.”
Darcy smiled and made some light rejoinder from which Elizabeth inferred that he regarded that matter as virtually settled. It was unlike his usual cautiousness which often held him in long and anxious debate upon a question before coming to a final decision, and she who was impatient of all such deliberation was the more relieved and pleased. The uncertainty to which he had alluded had gone on far too long, and was already showing evil effects. Miss Robinson had begun to scheme and plot to continue at the Parsonage, and Mr. Mortimer was becoming tiresome to Georgiana. Elizabeth’s enjoyment of her lot was therefore no longer unqualified, and she wished for it to be restored with the least possible delay. She desired, in fact, as we all do, to be forever perfectly happy.
Chapter 3
Nothing occurred to prevent or put off Darcy’s departure for London on the day appointed. Mr. Collins made no untoward appearance, nor was Lord Egbury visited by second thoughts on the desirability of Derbyshire as a place of residence for his brother. The last commissions given and the final adieus said, Elizabeth saw his carriage go off and disappear among the trees with a sense of being deserted for those particular pleasures which cannot be enjoyed in the country. For though he was gone on business, it could not fully engross his time. At this season all the theatres were open; Mrs. Siddons was playing at Drury Lane; there were concerts to be heard, and exhibitions of pictures to be seen.
The days passed and Sunday came. Elizabeth and Georgiana drove in customary state to church and occupied their seats in the family gallery. The service over, Mr. Mortimer hurriedly doffed his surplice and hastened to the church door to meet Mrs. and Miss Darcy. It had become established that he spent the interval between the morning and afternoon services at Pemberley House, but Darcy’s absence created a doubt in his mind as to Mrs. Darcy’s wishes, and after the usual civilities had passed, he ventured upon a question which should resolve it. Elizabeth assured him that she looked for his returning with them, whereupon his countenance cleared and he thanked her with visible relief and gratification.
The young man was at this time in the full mood of his enjoyment of an unrequited passion. He kept his eyes most perseveringly fixed on Georgiana whenever he was not obliged to direct them upon someone else, and listened with bated breath to the least word that fell from her lips; while Georgiana as perseveringly ignored his glances and maintained a gravity and stiffness of manner towards him as far removed from complaisance as any young woman could contrive. In so gentle a creature, ever anxious to avoid giving pain, it was the more remarkable and spoke either a general determination against love, or a special aversion for the gentleman.
The Miss Robinsons, next to the Family in consequence, had now come out of church and must be spoken to. Elizabeth walked beside Miss Robinson down the path towards the lych-gate, where the Pemberley carriage was drawn up. Georgiana, Miss Sophia Robinson and Mr. Mortimer came behind, while the lesser residents, farmers, tradespeople and villagers streamed through the porch in their wake and spread out over the churchyard to wait
until the equipage had driven off. Elizabeth acknowledged the salutations of the people who stood nearest her as she passed them, and having satisfied Miss Robinson’s curiosity concerning Darcy’s absence from church, and parried a question as to the nature of the business that had taken him to London, she entered the carriage. Georgiana and Mortimer followed her.
The drive back to the house passed without very much being said beyond observations on the fineness of the weather and the forwardness of the season. Mortimer was too much engaged in watching for a sign of relenting on the part of Georgiana to ask any questions of his own about Darcy’s journey; but while they sat in the dining-parlour eating their cold meat, Elizabeth thought it only fair to give him a hint of what was impending. He took it very quietly, without evincing surprise, and if his ingenuous countenance clouded a little, it was probably owing to the reflection that he would soon no longer come riding over to Pemberley so frequently as in the past month or two. His involuntary glance round the room showed what he was thinking.
Elizabeth went on to give the account of Mr. Stephen Acworth she had received from Darcy. Mortimer listened dejectedly, no doubt comparing her summary of super-excellent attainments with his own shortcomings.
“I knew Darcy would be uncommon hard to please,” he said at length. “He is all for scholarship. He likes a man who can string together Latin tags by the dozen.”
“I am sure that is not at all my brother’s idea of scholarship,” said Georgiana very decidedly. “He says that a man of real learning never displays it in that manner.”
This was Georgiana’s sole contribution to the conversation. After she had uttered it she cast down her eyes and appeared lost in thought. Mortimer looked dumbfounded. Elizabeth laughed and said immediately, “Mr. Darcy would never inflict too learned a theologian upon us, nor at least one who could not bring himself down to the level of our less instructed understandings; for we poor females, though without Latin or Greek, have also souls to be saved.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Mortimer very seriously. “What is wanted at Pemberley is a quiet gentleman-like man who is not too clever, but clever enough. I daresay that with all his learning this Mr. Acworth will not set himself up too much above the rest of us.”
After the meal was over and there was no further necessity for remaining at the table, Georgiana escaped to her own apartment and Elizabeth, maintaining the custom when Darcy was at home, went out with Mortimer on a tour of the gardens and stables. Mortimer admired everything he saw, but especially the horses.
“I shouldn’t wonder if Darcy has not some of the best horses in the country. Why don’t he breed for racing? I should in his place.”
“He has no interest in the sport.”
“I daresay not. His mind is set on higher matters. You know, Mrs. Darcy, he used to be held up to us as a model of what a young man should be, and we didn’t much like it. But he is vastly changed since he married; you wouldn’t know him for the same. That is one of the effects of having a wife, I suppose.”
“And what do you suppose are the effects of having a wife?” enquired Elizabeth, unable to refrain from drawing him out for her own amusement.
“If I am to speak for myself, I think it would do me a great deal of good. You can see without my telling you that I am an awkward, backward sort of man, and though you may not believe it, I often feel at a horrid disadvantage in the presence of ladies. True, I am not uncomfortable with you, for you know how to put a man at his ease. But with others! Sometimes I have not a word to say for myself, and then when I do think of something that comes naturally, I am afraid to say it for fear of displeasing female ears. For men, I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Darcy, talk very differently among themselves. When the wine goes round, out come words and expressions you would not like to hear. Now if a man has a wife, he will get into the way of accommodating his speech to her taste. And then a wife orders the house in such a manner that her husband has to mind his behaviour, which is what he should do. When I go home after visiting at Pemberley where there is order and elegance in every part, I think what a difference a lady in the house would make.” He paused at last, but after a moment said solemnly, “I don’t think I should make a bad husband either.”
“I am sure you would not,” said Elizabeth warmly.
“It is very handsome of you to say so, Mrs. Darcy, for after Darcy I must seem monstrously stupid and countrified. I wish others could think so too.” He heaved a great sigh, and looked at her with eloquent eyes.
“Perhaps someone will one day.”
“But there is only one I would like to think so.”
“You know, Mr. Mortimer, the first choice of our hearts is often a mistaken one.”
“I was afraid you would say something like that. Then you think there is no hope for me.”
Elizabeth made no disclaimer and they proceeded in silence until he burst out anew.
“I know I am not good enough for Miss Darcy.”
“It is not that at all,” she said gently. Truly sorry for his disappointment, she began to depict Georgiana as an extraordinary girl who cared for nothing but study and was indifferent to the society of any but the members of her own family. By some exaggeration of these traits she hoped to convince him that he had fixed his heart upon a very unpromising object, in the belief that he was not the man to nurse for long a one-sided attachment. But Mortimer, who was of a sanguine temperament and rebounded from each blow with like force, began to argue his own case with more ardour than cogency, until his hostess, though still commiserating him, lost patience and longed for the seclusion of her dressing-room. For in spite of all that the romantic novelists have written, nothing can be so dull to the onlooker as a respectable love. When the clock over the archway to the stables was heard striking the half-hour after two, a reminder that it was time to be preparing for the afternoon service, she felt an exquisite relief.
The following Tuesday her impatience for news from her husband was at last satisfied. He had written on his arrival at Berkeley Square promising a further letter when he had seen Mr. Acworth, and she came to breakfast from a survey of her flower garden to find it awaiting her. Eager to learn all that he had to tell she opened it forthwith, but saw that he had written at such length and so closely that a much more careful perusal would be required than was possible at the table. The first sentence informed her that he would reach home on the morrow, and this important question answered to her satisfaction, she cast a hurried glance over the rest of the page and then at the last one, and set the letter aside to be read in private and at leisure.
Georgiana had likewise heard from her brother, though briefly, and she looked up from her own letter and said, “Fitzwilliam has found nearly all the music we asked for, and now he is to hunt the bookshops. He says the spring fashions for women are ugly beyond words. Have you, too, a letter from him, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, and there is so much packed into it that I have not had time yet to read it properly. I collect, however, that he is returning tomorrow and bringing a visitor with him.”
“A visitor! We have had none these six weeks, and how pleasant it has been.”
“True. But this is no ordinary visitor. I believe that the new Rector of Pemberley is to be introduced into our midst.”
“Is that all? There must be a new rector in any case, and we cannot escape his being introduced to us. How I wish we could make the acquaintance of some person unlike any we have known before. If only Fitzwilliam would bring us a musician, or a poet, or an actor of genius. But he would never do it because such people are not of our station and cannot be admitted to our society. And yet I am sure they must be on the whole more interesting than the people who do stay here, or come calling.”
“That is very possible,” said Elizabeth. “But you should remember that acquaintance does not only consist in interesting conversation, and the kind of people you mention, with some exceptions
no doubt, lead irregular, and often disreputable lives.”
“Do you know, Elizabeth, I have observed that when my brother is absent, you talk just as he would on any debatable subject. But when he is here, you fly to the opposite opinion. If he had said that musicians and poets and actors lead disreputable lives, you would have maintained the contrary.”
“As to that, my dear Georgiana, you seem not to have observed that your brother frequently makes a statement with the sole object of provoking an argument, and if I did not immediately dissent from him, he would think I was either ill or out of humour. Besides, you are to remember that the simplest statement—as about the weather or somebody’s taste in dress—is so highly controversial, and so many divergent opinions can be rationally advanced upon the same subject, that it is well nigh impossible to decide what is true.”
“At that rate,” said Georgiana, with more acuteness than most of her acquaintance would have given her credit for, “you cannot believe what anyone says, and your own statements least of all.”
Elizabeth smilingly admitted the impeachment. “You see what comes of having to talk willy-nilly whenever you or your brother fall into one of your silences in dull company. One must say something, so long as it is not instantly detected as nonsense.”
Breakfast over, the sisters separated, Georgiana to go to her sitting-room and her pianoforte, Elizabeth with her letter to the library. Here, sitting at the writing-table, with the letter pages spread out in front of her, she was soon immersed in what Darcy had to say. Her cursory survey, lighting upon a word or two here and there in his small and even handwriting, had by no means taught her what was to be unfolded, and she now learnt that she was not only to receive Mr. Acworth, but another visitor as well.
“I am happy to say,” Darcy wrote, “that the business which brought me to town is now concluded so far as it can be, and I shall leave London early tomorrow—Wednesday—expecting to be with you in the afternoon of the next day. This is slow travelling for my natural impatience to be at home; but as I am bringing Mr. Acworth on his journey hither, it is not fair to one in his state of health to hasten the journey unduly. There will also be a third person in the carriage—Major Wakeford—whom I have induced to return with me to Pemberley for a long stay.
Pemberley Shades Page 3