“You have heard me speak of Francis Wakeford, I know. He is a cousin of ours on my father’s side, and on several occasions spent his school holidays here. We were of the same age, shared the same tastes and became firm friends. After he entered the army we saw one another only infrequently, but this happened without any fault on either side. He subsequently went abroad with his regiment, and I ceased to hear from him, except once after my father’s death. I replied, but never knew whether my letter had reached him. Thus matters stood when two days ago I heard by mere chance that he was in town, in lodgings in Upper Seymour Street. My informant, a fellow officer of the same regiment, told me that he had been severely wounded in action, losing an arm, besides sustaining an injury to the left leg which rendered him very lame, and that in consequence he was invalided out of the army on half-pay. At the first opportunity I sought him out. His condition as described had in some measure prepared me for some change in him, apart from that wrought by the passage of time, but I must confess that on first seeing him he appeared so altered as almost to defy recognition. At thirty-two he is prematurely grey, his face seamed with lines and bearing the stamp of all he has suffered. But there is always that in persons with whom we have been truly intimate which survives all physical change, and after we had been talking together a short while, the Francis Wakeford I had known as a young man returned once more to view.
“I stayed for some time talking with him, and he seemed so cheered that although he spoke of his desire for solitude, I became convinced that his need is for companionship. I asked him what he was doing in London among strangers when he could be better cared for in his father’s house. He replied that his surroundings had most cruelly reminded him of tastes and pursuits he could no longer indulge, and that the commiseration his state excited in his mother and sisters, so far from soothing him, served only to augment his wretchedness and weaken his self-command. When you have read thus far I know you will not blame me for pressing him to come to Pemberley and remain as our guest for as long as he chooses. He had not previously heard that I was married, and professed to be greatly surprised at the news, whereupon I told him that when he saw you he would no longer wonder. To conclude, I know that between us we shall find the means to rescue him from his present dejection of spirits and restore him to a happier frame of mind.
“And now to turn to Mr. Acworth. I find it difficult to express in few words what I think of this man, or perhaps it would be truer to say that I am at a loss to know what I do think. As you will recall, I was prepossessed in his favour by the good report I had of him formerly, the truth of which there was no reason to doubt since it came from those who had no motive for deception. Everyone at Mentmore spoke of him with praise and affection. Having now for the first time seen him in the flesh, I cannot say that he pleases me; but it may be that the discrepancy between the creature formed of my imagination and the actual man accounts for my disappointment. It will not do to give way to first unfavourable impressions, for he may prove to be one of those men who never do themselves justice before strangers. We must not judge him, therefore, until closer acquaintance has revealed more of his character.
“Having conceded this much, I can speak the more frankly. I have always flattered myself on being able to form a tolerably correct estimate of a person at a first meeting, particularly when it has for its purpose some business which demands candour on both sides. Mr. Acworth had a great deal to say, he spoke well and his sentiments were all that they should be, yet I found myself at every turn questioning his sincerity. Methought he did protest too much. Even if he had anything to gain in the pecuniary sense by exchanging the living of Mentmore for that of Pemberley, there could be no disgrace in avowing it; but he laboured the point that all he desired was a change of scene and a new direction to his thoughts. This is self-evident, and need only have been touched upon, instead of which he was copious in self-disclosure. That perhaps, Elizabeth, is at the bottom of my distrust. I cannot comprehend how he could speak of his inmost feelings to a man he had never seen before and can know next to nothing of, as he did to me.
“At a second interview which took place, this time at my house, although he had previously expressed the strongest desire to come to Pemberley, he begged that any decision affecting permanent residence might remain in suspense for at least six weeks. My original intention had been to allow a fortnight at most, on consideration of all the evils which a longer delay might produce, and had I consulted my own inclination it would have been strictly to adhere to it. But his request, though inconvenient, could not be judged unreasonable, and I agreed to a period of what might be called mutual probation, not to be extended beyond the six weeks desired, and terminable on his side beforehand on any new circumstance arising. In this I was moved as much by a sense of obligation to his brother who had approached me in the name of friendship, as by his own unhappy situation. Whether I have acted wisely in my own interest time will show. Expediency might point to another course, but on the whole my conscience approves what I have done.
“Well, now I have written out all my mind to you, and feel the clearer for it. Could I have acted otherwise? At the worst some time will have been gained, for I shall not in the meanwhile give over enquiries in other quarters. Acworth will, of course, stay with us for the present, and you will have ample opportunities of studying his character in all its intricacy. It is doubtless as complicated as you could wish; but that will be all in its favour, for, it will spur you on to solve the riddle, if such there be.”
The remainder of the letter dealt with purely personal matters. At the end Darcy had added this postscript:
“Stephen Acworth bears a striking facial resemblance to his father, the late Lord Egbury. That may be the reason why I do not take to him.”
Having read all that her husband had written, Elizabeth knew not what to think except that uncertainty must continue—no very happy reflection. Francis Wakeford she was thoroughly disposed to welcome warmly. His character and disposition as portrayed by Darcy left no room for doubt and she was eager to play her part in his restoration to health and better spirits. With regard to Stephen Acworth she was sensible of the misgivings imparted by Darcy, but also felt a lively curiosity. She knew her husband’s mind too well to suppose for a moment that the several impressions made upon him by this man had not been long and carefully pondered before being committed to paper. He strove always to be generous, rather than exact and impartial in his estimate of any person, the more so as he knew himself prone to dislike a new acquaintance upon sight. Yet that he should have gone to the interview with Stephen Acworth, prepossessed in his favour, prepared to be cordial, and came away dissatisfied was extraordinary upon any supposition save that of good reason. Her second reading of certain phrases in no way varied this conclusion. Such sentences as—“I find myself questioning his sincerity at every turn—he was copious in self-disclosure”—could admit of only one interpretation.
The rest of the day was full of those occupations and engagements which hinder recollection. As on every Tuesday, soup and dumplings were dispensed to the sick and aged poor of Pemberley, and a cluster of men, women and children stood at a back door waiting for their empty basins to be replenished. Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, and Baxter, the butler, were in attendance; Elizabeth moved among the people, talking to them, ascertaining their needs and their difficulties. Young as she was, and of a sphere beyond their knowledge, the villagers had discovered that however freely they spoke of their troubles, she never rebuked them, but understood immediately whatever they wished to say, even though words failed them. And when Mrs. Stone, a widow with a large family of children, said, “I ask your pardon, ma’am, but Miss Robinson have told my Rachel as she is to go into service with Mrs. Bridges at Kympton,” she comprehended without questioning that the poor woman was begging that Rachel should not go to Mrs. Bridges, but should be taken into service at the Great House where she herself had been a serving-maid. This indeed
was what Mrs. Stone and the fourteen-year-old Rachel did hope for. Mrs. Bridges had the reputation of being a very harsh, strict mistress, but how could they gainsay Miss Robinson? When Elizabeth promised to speak to Miss Robinson herself, informing her that she considered she had a prior claim to Rachel’s services, the poor woman could hardly express all her gratitude and went away overjoyed.
This fresh instance of Miss Robinson’s highhandedness made Elizabeth extremely indignant. That, as the late rector’s eldest daughter, she should have assumed the airs and authority of a patroness during the many years Pemberley had been without a mistress was to be understood, though deplored; but that she should continue to give the law to the parishioners, when she no longer had any standing but that of sufferance, was intolerable. Mrs. Darcy determined to act in such a way that Miss Robinson should no longer remain under any misapprehension of her intention to put an end to this state of affairs.
When all the people had gone away she had some conversation with Mrs. Reynolds about Rachel Stone.
“You wish her to be taken into the house, ma’am?” said the housekeeper. “Her mother was an excellent needlewoman and could act maid when required. I hear Rachel is good with her needle, good for her age, that is, and she could be put to work in the linen-room.”
There was something in Mrs. Reynold’s aspect that spoke disapprobation, and Elizabeth said at once, “What else do you know of the girl?”
“Well, ma’am, no harm exactly. She is a fine well-grown girl of her age, and looks older and behaves older than she is. It is a pity, ma’am, that the children have no father. Sarah Stone is what I would call weak with them. Rachel must learn to mind her manners when she comes here.”
“I dare say she will do tolerably well under proper guidance,” said her mistress. It was thus settled that Rachel Stone was to enter service at Pemberley House as a serving-maid.
Elizabeth awoke next morning with a sense of the liveliest expectation. Never before during the whole three and a half years of their married life had she and Darcy been separated for so long, and on this day of his return, the hours which must elapse before he came seemed insupportably slow. It struck her that he might arrive sooner than he had given her to expect, so although she had at first intended to call at the Parsonage during the morning and beard Miss Robinson upon the subject of Rachel Stone, she gave up the project and resolved not to go beyond the grounds immediately surrounding the house. She kept, in fact, to the terrace where she spent some time with Richard and listened to some new words he had learnt to say. The child seemed well enough, but a rash on his neck and arms prompted her to consult Mrs. Reynolds. The housekeeper gave it as her opinion that the spots were an effect of the great heat they were having, and then, for it did not need much to set her off talking, she gave her mistress a history of all the complaints suffered by Darcy and Georgiana during their nursery years. Coughs and colds and biliousness had afflicted them both, and at one time Miss Darcy had been a prey to constant sickness. Unripe apricots were the cause, and after the most minute enquiry it was discovered that they had been taken from the greenhouse by her brother, then a boy of twelve or thirteen, and conveyed to her secretly. On being questioned he had confessed to it all.
“For I never knew Mr. Darcy to tell a lie,” declared Mrs. Reynolds, “and what he did was in ignorance and the affection of his heart for his little sister. But, oh, how relieved we all were! A little senna put everything right, and I would not wonder, ma’am, but what a small dose would be good for Master Richard.”
At three o’clock, Elizabeth being then indoors, the arrival of a carriage was heard. But, alas, it brought callers—a mother and two daughters. They stayed fortunately but twenty minutes and then departed. Towards four o’clock she went into the breakfast-parlour to look for a book missing from the library which she thought might have been left lying on one of the window seats. The book was not there, but she stood awhile at the window looking out, and her eyes roved over the prospect of lawn, and river, and wooded slopes beyond, and as far as the avenue of beech trees on the extreme left from which the carriage-road issued on its descent into the valley. In the same instant that her eyes reached this point, Darcy’s carriage came into view and down the steep incline towards the river. Now it had crossed the bridge and, though she could see it no longer, as she darted into the hall she could hear its approach. By the time it had drawn up with a clatter of hooves upon the gravel she was standing at the top of the flight of steps outside the entrance.
Darcy got out first, but there was only time for a look and a smile before he turned to assist someone inside the carriage to alight. Elizabeth next saw a man, not much less tall than her husband, neither handsome nor plain, neither dark nor fair, but tanned by exposure to every sort of weather. An empty sleeve was pinned to the breast of his coat; he mounted the steps to the door with a decided limp. His face was grave and careworn, but on being presented to her by her husband as Major Wakeford, his smile transformed as it illumined his countenance.
She said a few words of cordial welcome to him and then turned to receive her second guest. Mr. Stephen Acworth stood before her, very dark, spare, of little more than middle height. His darkness was indeed to the degree of swarthiness; as he removed his hat his hair was seen to be black and curly. His nose was large and aquiline, his mouth wide but not unhandsome in its curves. His dark, sunken eyes had a bright intensity of gaze. As Elizabeth gave him her hand, because she had given it to Major Wakeford, he bowed over it with an excessive gesture of gallantry.
She recalled afterwards that there had been the light either of curiosity or recognition in his eyes—she could not determine which—as he approached her. In the agitation of the arrival, of having to command the variety of emotions it called forth and to appear most completely mistress of the occasion, she did not discern it until later when she had time to think over every minute circumstance of the introduction. For what chiefly struck her at the moment of first beholding him was her instant conviction of having seen him before, though the when and the where escaped recollection, and try as she would, could not be brought to mind.
Chapter 4
The late arrival of the travellers gave Elizabeth no opportunity for any private talk with her husband before they were all to meet at dinner. She was therefore unable to relate her astonishing conviction that Mr. Acworth’s physiognomy was not that of a complete stranger. The few minutes they might have had alone together on descending to the hall, there to await their guests, were interrupted by Georgiana who followed them almost immediately. In her shyness of the strangers she was about to meet, she kept as close to her brother and sister as possible. Darcy could only ask Elizabeth whether she had received his letter, and she could only reply with an expressive look that indeed she had, before. Mr. Acworth also made his appearance from the staircase and came towards them. She was then in a position to judge whether the long journey with its enforced intimacy, the opportunities it gave of close observation, and its leisure to discuss almost every subject under the sun, had in any degree softened Darcy’s opinion of the young man. It was instantly apparent by the change in his demeanour from happy, domestic ease to dignified gravity that no such alteration had taken place.
At dinner, with Major Wakeford and Mr. Acworth on either side of her, so that she had continually to look from one to the other, she could not but mark the contrast between the two men, which was so complete that it could truly be said that whatever the one was, the other was not. Major Wakeford was serious and quiet; his expression varied little; he had the austere aspect of a man of action who is also a thinker. When he spoke it was in the fewest possible words and was directly intelligible, admitting of only one significance. He was as spare of movement as of speech; he made no fuss of his maimed condition, and showed no self-consciousness in accepting the assistance which the loss of an arm made necessary.
Mr. Acworth, on the other hand, was seen to be of a naturally vi
vacious temperament. He had a quick-glancing eye, a mobile mouth, and his whole countenance reflected every passing thought and emotion. Elizabeth had the continuous impression that every look, every movement, and that very many of his speeches were the result of previous deliberation and were so designed as to produce a certain effect upon those before him. There was no doubt that he was trying to please. When, as not infrequently happened, he could take no direct part in the conversation, he fell into a drooping, moping silence, and then looked extremely melancholy. This would last until some chance remark, usually from Elizabeth herself, roused him and his face would instantly light up and his eyes sparkle with renewed animation.
The talk ran at first upon the journey from town and then discussed travelling in general. There was comparison of routes, roads and inns; everyone had some dire or amusing experience to relate. It was agreed that the route to Derbyshire through Oxford and Warwick was the pleasantest, though not the most direct.
“I am always happy to stay the night at Oxford,” said Elizabeth, “but I remember one occasion, several years ago, when we were kept from sleeping by some horrid disturbance in the street outside the inn.”
“Some town and gown affair, probably,” said Darcy. “It may be a time-honoured custom that the two parties should periodically come to blows, but it is none the less annoying to the blameless, peaceable traveller.” He then turned to Acworth and asked him whether he had not been a student of Balliol College.
“Yes,” replied Acworth. But immediately afterwards he exclaimed, “No, no, what am I saying? I was at Magdalen.”
Pemberley Shades Page 4