Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  Rachel curtseyed and answered very properly, “Thank you, ma’am,” but before Mrs. Reynolds could finish exhorting her to be ever grateful to her kind mistress, she burst out, “Oh, please, ma’am, may I ask you a favour?”

  “What is it?” asked Elizabeth, with a movement of her hand imposing silence on the housekeeper, who, excessively shocked at the interruption, was for taking the girl away at once.

  “Please, ma’am, if I was to be a very good girl and do everything as I ought, would you consider of taking me to be your maid when Mason goes away? For I hear tell she is going to be wed come Michaelmas.”

  “For shame, Rachel,” cried Mrs. Reynolds, aghast at the girl’s temerity. “How can you dare to think of such a thing, let alone ask it? And after all the talking-to you have had. I declare I despair of you.”

  Elizabeth could not but be touched and amused, but she preserved to the full her gravity as she answered, “It will be many years before you are fit for such an office. And now go and see to it that no more complaints of your conduct are brought to me.”

  The next day Elizabeth drove into the village on her monthly inspection of the old people in the almshouses, and to dispense gifts of food and clothing. When that was done, she directed the coachman to take her as far as the Parsonage where she dismissed the carriage, saying that she would walk home through the woods.

  At the door of the Parsonage she was informed that Miss Robinson was not at home, but that Miss Sophia was within, and before she could decide whether or not to step over the threshold, Miss Sophia herself came into the vestibule, and all smiles and delight, begged her to enter.

  It so happened that this was the first occasion in which Elizabeth had held any conversation alone with Miss Sophia, and she very soon found that the younger Miss Robinson, encountered apart from her formidable sister, was a much different person from the silly, incoherent old lady she was usually accounted. It was certainly not in her to be clever or very entertaining, for her long subordination had kept her too timid and simple for that; but she could speak sensibly and connectedly on the subject of Rachel Stone, and show a proper understanding of the reasons for her retention at Pemberley House. It had, of course, been a little awkward for Sister having to disappoint Mrs. Bridges when all had been settled for Rachel’s going to her—here a shade overspread Miss Sophia’s placid, plump features—but then everyone should know that Mrs. Darcy had first claim upon the Pemberley girls, and it was for her to say where they should go and what they should do.

  Elizabeth did not dissent from this convenient article of faith, and having fulfilled the purpose of her visit, she turned from the subject of Rachel Stone and after a few minutes of harmless talk on recent events in the parish, began the business of leave-taking. But Miss Sophia was so urgent that Mrs. Darcy should try some cowslip-wine of her own brewing, that not to seem uncivil she sat down again for a short time longer. Miss Sophia rang the bell, and on its being answered by the manservant, she not only ordered him to bring the wine and some cake but pronounced these words:

  “And, Thomas, if Mr. Acworth is still in the study tell him with my compliments that I shall be very pleased if he will favour us with his company.”

  A meeting with Mr. Acworth at the Parsonage! This had been furthest from Elizabeth’s thoughts when she had decided to call there, but she wondered that the possibility had not occurred to her before. Without stopping to ask herself why, the idea displeased her. The truth was that his smiles and compliments and sometimes a too gallant approach made her uneasy. She had thought of it at first as the effect of a manner at all times exaggerated, but once or twice she had intercepted a look in his eyes that she did not like, and she was by no means pleased to come into close colloquy with him away from home, and with no greater protection than the simple, unsuspecting Miss Sophia.

  No sooner was the door closed on Thomas than Miss Sophia began praising the gentleman.

  “Mr. Acworth is such a very agreeable young man, is not he? He is so pleasant with us and so chatty. Sister told him he was welcome to use dear Papa’s room whenever he chose, and he comes here very often—nearly every day. He does not always sleep very well at nights, he says, and the sight of dear Papa’s books are so soothing to the mind that he often takes a little nap among them. And do you know what he said to me yesterday? I had gathered a few early strawberries, so I put them on a plate with some cream and sugar and carried them into the room, first knocking on the door as we always used to do when dear Papa was alive. And he said, ‘you are so wonderfully kind and good, Miss Sophia. What do you say to our setting up housekeeping together?’ He did indeed. Of course he did not really mean it, it was only intended as a compliment. But was not it agreeable of him?”

  “A very charming compliment,” said Elizabeth, “and thoroughly deserved, I am sure.”

  “It is not often that a young man will be so attentive to old ladies as he is to Sister and me. Sister and I were saying how much we should like to keep house for him if he stays. But he says he has not yet made up his mind, though if he does become rector here, he would like Sister and me to keep our home, for he wouldn’t want such a large house all to himself.”

  These artless confidences were cut short by the entry of Thomas with the cake and wine. No sooner had the tray been placed on the table than Mr. Acworth made his appearance. That he was unprepared to see Elizabeth he showed by an involuntary start on beholding her. But his look of surprise was succeeded by one of pleasure, and he sat down between the ladies with an air of being prepared to enjoy himself.

  The cowslip-wine was duly drunk and duly praised, and after a suitable interval Elizabeth rose for the second time. She had fancied that Mr. Acworth would return to the study to continue whatever labours he was carrying on there, but she found, on the contrary, that she was to have his company on the homeward way. Not the most positive assurances that she was perfectly accustomed to walking alone in the Park could dissuade him from escorting her. He protested that he would not think of letting her go by herself. And of course Miss Sophia threw her weight into the wrong scale.

  “Walk home alone? I am sure Mr. Darcy would not dream of it. And besides there are such dangerous people about nowadays. Thomas saw a man going through the village yesterday that he had never seen in his life before.”

  “I should not be in the least alarmed though I did meet a stranger,” said Elizabeth smiling.

  “Mrs. Darcy’s courage is unquestioned,” said Acworth, “but beautiful ladies should beware how they tempt Providence.”

  The look which accompanied this speech made Elizabeth’s cheeks grow hot with anger.

  “As to that,” she answered coldly, “if anyone should attempt to molest me, which is in the highest degree improbable, there would always be some woodman or other labourer within call. Surely I may count myself safe in my own Park.”

  “Mr. Darcy has been well advised to put angels with flaming swords round his Eden,” he replied in the quietest of accents, the significance of which yet made her more indignant than ever.

  “Mr. Acworth is quite the poet,” said Miss Sophia, beaming with admiration. “It is wonderful what things he will think of to say. I am sure they are clever enough to go in a book.”

  Elizabeth now began for the third time to make her adieus, and summoning all her self-possession, expressed her gratitude to Mr. Acworth for his kind offer of walking with her, but also her desire that he would by no means interrupt his studies on her account. Acworth replied that he had finished his writing and was intending in any event to return to the House. As he was either not polite enough or too obtuse to take her hint, and good manners ruled out any overt refusal on her part, she could only acquiesce in his attending her, and a resolute movement was made towards the door. But at that very moment it was opened from without, and in sailed Miss Robinson dressed in her most towering bonnet and best pelisse.

  Poor Miss Sophia a
t once lost her head and without waiting burst out, “Oh, Sister, how lucky you should come in and catch Mrs. Darcy before she went away. She has called to see you about Rachel Stone and was quite vexed to think that she had missed you. And I said how sorry you would be too.”

  “It is indeed most vexatious about Rachel Stone,” said Miss Robinson, disdaining all civilities. “I had told her mother that she was to go into service with Mrs. Bridges, only to find that my instructions were to be overridden without a word of any sort said to me.”

  Although she had been ready to concede some degree of provocation on Miss Robinson’s side, Elizabeth was so affronted by her rudeness that she did not scruple to show her resentment, which became instantly apparent in the heightened colour of her cheeks and the angry sparkle of her eyes.

  “I do not consider that any such instructions should have been given,” she said coldly. “I would by no means exercise so much authority myself as to order a girl into service contrary to the wishes of her mother. Such methods do not please me.”

  “Indeed, and how should such an ignorant foolish woman know what is for her daughter’s good?” retorted Miss Robinson. But before she could obtain a reply Miss Sophia cried out, “Oh, but Sister, Mrs. Darcy has got Rachel Stone at the Great House now.”

  “Pray do not interfere in a matter which does not concern you,” exclaimed her sister, turning upon her angrily. “As Mrs. Darcy should know, I am not accustomed to break my word, once given.”

  “I have endeavoured to show that no promise should have been given,” answered Elizabeth with restraint. “If Mrs. Bridges has been incommoded I am sorry, and I will undertake to explain the matter to her. I beg that you will cease to feel that anything further is required of yourself.”

  Acworth, who had been a silent, though interested auditor throughout the colloquy, now suavely interposed.

  “It is to be comprehended that Miss Robinson can with difficulty bring herself to relinquish the reins of authority in a place where for so long her position as the lady of the Parsonage conferred upon her certain rights and privileges. It takes time for all of us to accustom ourselves to a change in our situation. But the world at large is quick to apprehend it, and to base its expectations accordingly.”

  This intervention on her side was not perhaps in the best taste, but Elizabeth was sensible of gratitude, though she would rather have owed it to anyone else. Miss Robinson was so thunderstruck by her favourite’s desertion of her that she could find nothing to say.

  The pause which followed was terminated by the visitors’ withdrawal. This was effected with all the usual ceremony on their side, imperfectly reciprocated by either of the sisters. Miss Robinson was too angry, and Miss Sophia too frightened.

  As the door closed behind her Elizabeth drew a breath of relief, but she could not really rejoice. The routing of an adversary can sometimes be attended by regrets for the means used, however justifiable in the strict sense, and however important the cause to be served. She quitted the Parsonage looking extremely thoughtful and privately wishing her companion ten miles away.

  Chapter 7

  Mr. Acworth had the good sense not to offer any observations on the painful scene which had just been enacted at the Parsonage. He walked beside Mrs. Darcy in the most considerate silence, and not a word was spoken until they had issued from the Parsonage grounds and crossed the road to the Park gates. One of the lodge-keeper’s children, a pretty little girl of about five, ran out as they passed and received from the gentleman a pat on the head. She looked up at him with a shy, dimpling smile.

  “You have made the acquaintance of little Nancy Jones, I see,” Elizabeth said as they turned aside from the carriage road and took the footpath through the wood.

  “I have in general a fondness for children,” he replied, “but particularly for little girls. Little girls and old ladies—they are the best of their sex, although,” he added, with a sidelong glance, “old ladies can be monsters.”

  “Poor Miss Sophia,” she said seriously, “I am indeed sorry for her, the victim of such a sister. I am afraid I—but let us not talk of it. She is so truly amiable, so exactly the reverse of the other.”

  “Ah,” returned Acworth slyly, “but there is a road to Miss Robinson’s heart if you look for it.”

  “It would seem that you have found it,” she said, smiling. I fear I never should, even,” she added truthfully, “if I wished it.”

  “No doubt you find that very extraordinary. You are not accustomed to being repulsed.”

  “It is impossible to go through life without meeting some people who do not find us all that is agreeable and charming.”

  “That is true enough of myself, madam. Wherever I go I seem to inspire either dislike or distrust.”

  “May not you impute to others sentiments which are not theirs?”

  “It is impossible to be mistaken in such a case.” His tone was charged with such bitterness that Elizabeth was made thoroughly uncomfortable. He seemed to be accusing her of coldness and unkindness—at any rate of some deficiency in her manner towards him. She could have said with perfect sincerity that she did not dislike him, that he interested her, but there was in his present demeanour an ill-concealed excitement which inspired distrust, and caution rather than honesty restrained the flattering protestations which might have flowed from her unalloyed charitableness. For an instant or two she knew not what to say; but silence she feared, and while they walked alone she must so converse as to carry their tête-à-tête to a safe and seemly conclusion.

  “Perhaps we are apt to vex ourselves unduly about what others may think of us. Our actions cannot please everybody, and so we must learn to be satisfied with the approbation of conscience.”

  “Conscience,” said Acworth, “is often another name for prejudice or self-esteem. We all like to be on good terms with the latter. When a man or woman begins to prate of conscience, I know what to think.”

  “But surely, Mr. Acworth, conscience supplies the corrective of errors of conduct to which we are all more or less prone.”

  “Has anyone ever told you, Mrs. Darcy, that you talk prodigiously like a book?”

  The temerity, the presumption, the insolence of this speech took her breath away, and with it the power of effective retort. She wished to crush him, but as no words that occurred to her were forcible enough, she could only manifest her extreme displeasure by a haughty silence.

  “I expressed myself badly,” he said, with evident anxiety to make amends. “You have a remarkable command of language. If I mistake not, you read a great deal in your early youth and with an uncommonly good memory.”

  “Yes, that is so,” she said, deciding to accept the olive branch. “I read a great deal, in fact everything that I could lay hands upon in my father’s library. He encouraged me because he believed that a child should follow its bent.”

  “Perhaps I share that belief. In your case it has had the happiest results.”

  “But unfortunately for that theory some characters have bad tendencies. I am convinced that in childhood we ought to be guided not by our own inclinations, but by a good personal example.”

  “How absolutely true,” Acworth exclaimed. “My own experience bears witness to that. If I were to tell you—”

  “But we are guided not so much by the example of our elders,” Elizabeth continued inflexibly, “as by persons of our own age—a brother or a sister.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “No, only sisters. My eldest sister and her husband are coming here shortly. You will probably make their acquaintance. They live in Staffordshire, about thirty miles distant.”

  As Acworth did not reply, she went on talking in this unforced, desultory manner without seeming to notice his silence. But at length she paused, and he said in a light level tone which added to rather than detracted from the effect of his words.

  “I
do not think I can tolerate being at Pemberley much longer.”

  “Indeed! Our air does not suit you?”

  “It is not that. Mrs. Darcy, I am a very unhappy man.”

  “I am very sorry,” she said, with true feeling. “Perhaps only the lapse of time can bring you lasting relief, though your brother did hope, I know, that a complete change of scene might be beneficial.”

  “Wherever we are we cannot escape from ourselves—our memories, our past deeds, until we leave this life,” he said, still quietly. “You can have no idea what the desire to escape is for me. At Pemberley a wretched lot is made still more so by contrast with a happier one. Yours is so desirable, so enviable in every single circumstance, that only a passing vexation can touch you. I could almost hate you for being so happy as you are.”

  It was difficult to reply except in the vein he had chosen. “I think I do understand,” she answered gravely. “You have suffered so much that happiness must appear to you as heartlessness. But we are not heartless, we do feel for your affliction—a stroke of fate so unmerited.”

  “To what do you refer?”

  “To your loss,” she answered, wondering. “But do not speak of it if you had rather not.”

  “Why should I not speak of it? Speech is supposed to give relief. I know what you are thinking. You say to yourself, ‘Here is a young man who has been bereft of his wife after one year of marriage.’ But is death the worst of evils? Suppose, for example, that the woman he loved had been unfaithful, or that with the approval and assistance of everyone connected with her she had given herself to another man. Would that not be infinitely worse?”

  “Perhaps—yes,” Elizabeth said, amazed at him. “I can imagine it might be.”

  “Yes, you have imagination. Consider also that it by no means follows that a man will continue to love the woman he marries even if he succeeds in marrying the woman he loves. He who does is a dullard. Rather let him fall in love many times, believing each woman to be the one true love until he attains her. When that happens he must seek anew.”