Georgiana had wandered away of her own accord to another part of the garden, but Kitty kept close to her sister, and while affecting to be not in the least curious, was intent to observe the young man and hear as much as she could. At a sign from Elizabeth, however, she too strolled away, though not so far that under cover of cutting roses and transferring them to the basket hanging on her arm, she was unable to catch a good deal of what was said.
Elizabeth led the way to a stone bench in the shade cast by a yew hedge. Here they seated themselves, and she asked him what he wished to say to her. But the view of the great house in all its stateliness, the exquisite order of the gardens and the park beyond, the whole ravishing scene before his eyes scattered his thoughts and his command of appropriate language. At last, for he must speak, he said in his natural and unaffected style, “Mrs. Darcy, I believe you have never been to Clopwell, for there is really nothing to tempt you there, but it will give me the greatest pleasure in the world if you and Darcy and Miss Darcy—in short all at Pemberley—will do me the honour of spending an hour or so at my house one day soon.”
Elizabeth replied immediately that she and her husband would be delighted to visit him. “But I ought to warn you that we shall be very numerous next week,” she added, “for besides our present party of seven, my eldest sister and her husband will be with us then, and very possibly my uncle and aunt, making eleven all told. Oh, and I had forgot Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter whom we are expecting on Friday week.”
“But that will bring your party to thirteen,” exclaimed Mortimer in genuine dismay. “Oh, Mrs. Darcy, had you thought of it?”
“Indeed I had not. It had quite escaped me that we should be a number of such ill-omen. Would you not rather that we visited you when we are nine and innocuous?”
“That would not trouble me in the least, for I should make a fourteenth. But, Mrs. Darcy, I do beseech you to add another guest or so to the number at Pemberley for your own sake.”
“Come, Mr. Mortimer, you are not so superstitious as all that. I dare say you can muster a dozen shocking cases of catastrophe, but there must be dozens of others where nothing untoward has happened.”
“Despise me if you will,” said Mortimer, very red and distressed, “but it vexes me prodigiously to think of your sitting down thirteen to dinner. It will not do at all.”
“In that case you must hold yourself in readiness to preserve us from calamity at any time should the need arise,” said Elizabeth, simulating complete gravity. “We shall of course invite the Miss Robinsons occasionally, for the eldest Miss Robinson is a prime favourite with Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and perhaps Mr. Groves can sometimes be present to avert disaster.”
Mortimer appeared greatly relieved. “There is no sense in taking risks,” said he. “Even Darcy would see that, for all he is in general so much above that sort of thing, and professes to despise what he calls ‘old wives’ fables’.”
“No doubt he would make some concession to our frailer understandings. The greatest minds are not always consistent, and even Mr. Darcy has been known to bow to superstition, for I do remember that once he went a great way round rather than walk under a ladder. I dare say he was not like that before he married; association with a wife has its dangers, you know, Mr. Mortimer, for if one of her uses is to keep her husband upon a common level, all her arts are employed to make him as silly and trivial as she is herself.”
“Oh, Mrs. Darcy, how can you say such a thing,” he protested vehemently. “It should be—must be quite the reverse. I have always thought Darcy so much to be envied—in a lady for his wife so accomplished—so very superior as well as—as beautiful.”
Elizabeth laughed away her embarrassment. “Really, you are becoming famous with your compliments. But are not we straying from the point? We were talking of a visit to Clopwell. Did you mention a day? For if so, I have forgot what it was.”
A further short discussion produced agreement on a date—Thursday in the following week. The next day was to see the arrival of Lady Catherine, and Elizabeth felt that not only was it inexpedient to engage for her participation in the visit beforehand, but also that beyond the strain it might put upon the condescension of so great a lady, everybody would be much more at their ease than if she were present. On the other hand, Mortimer had to bargain that due time be given for the vast amount of preparation the scheme would entail, and the cajoling of his spoilt servants into exerting themselves beyond their ordinary lazy habits.
As the business seemed to be concluded Elizabeth rose from the bench. Mortimer followed her example, but detaining her with his ingenuous gaze he began, “Mrs. Darcy, do you remember a conversation we had one Sunday some weeks ago when Darcy was in London?”
“What was the subject?”
“We spoke of Miss Darcy. You gave me some advice which at the time I did not like. And now I wish to tell you that I have come to think you were right. So I have given up thinking about her.”
“I really do applaud your courage and good sense,” said Elizabeth. “But”—a gleam of mischief sparkling in her eyes—“do not you feel a great deal happier in consequence?”
“Yes, I do,” he replied in all seriousness. “So much so that I believe I was more wanting to be in love than in love itself.”
“Mr. Mortimer,” said she, matching his solemnity, “permit me to say that you are a very remarkable person. Never in my life have I met anyone who knew his own mind in such a case with such lucidity. How did the scales fall from your eyes, may I ask?”
“It is very curious,” he said, after a little hesitation. “One day as I was looking at her, it struck me that she was not after all so beautiful as I had thought her. It couldn’t be that she had changed, so after some thought, I concluded that I had done so.”
“In other words, you had fallen out of love?”
“Yes,” he agreed in a tone of depression. “And though it is a great relief not to be vexing myself with hopes and fears, I do feel at a loss. For I am still wanting to be married, that I may have a comfortable home as I see other men have. But I should not like to marry unless I was at least a little in love.”
“That is very right and proper, since a woman prefers her husband to be partial to her, at least to begin with.”
“Yes, it is only her due. But that is not all. A man ought to give his wife a home that she can take pleasure in, and when you come to Clopwell, you will see how very far it is from being what any lady of nice taste would wish for. There has been no new furniture brought into it these fifty years, I am sure, for my father never bought any to my knowledge unless it was a piece or two when he married my mother. I would very much like to lay out some money in improving it if I only knew how to set about it, but in truth I haven’t the least notion, and so, Mrs. Darcy, I would be ever grateful if, when you have seen everything, you would tell me what ought to be done.”
“I would gladly help you in any way I could,” Elizabeth replied, “but would it not come better from the woman you propose to marry?”
“There is no such person at present,” he answered seriously.
Elizabeth laughed as she returned, “I really cannot help you there, Mr. Mortimer; it would never do.” At that moment Kitty in passing from one rosebush to another, flitted across their path. Elizabeth called to her, and she turned towards them smiling. Mortimer was so preoccupied with thoughts on marriage that at first he scarcely saw her. But in the sunlight, her cheeks faintly flushed in the shadow of her wide-brimmed straw bonnet, she looked her prettiest, and as occasionally happens between the members of a family, however little they in general resemble one another, a likeness to Elizabeth was suddenly, though transiently revealed. Mortimer, happening to look at her at that precise instant, was powerfully struck by it.
“Mr. Mortimer has invited us all to Clopwell on Thursday of next week,” said Elizabeth. “It is a house such as you dote on, Ki
tty—very old, full of rambling passages according to what I have been told, and odd nooks and crannies. Is not that so, Mr. Mortimer?”
Mortimer confessed that his house was certainly old, but doubted whether Miss Bennet would dote upon it after being accustomed to the greater beauties of Pemberley. Kitty, nevertheless asked so many questions, and showed so much interest in his answers, that he was led on to give an account in some detail of its long history, in the development of which it transpired that Darcys and Mortimers had been neighbouring landowners for many generations. All that he recounted of past dignity and importance told greatly in favour of a very ordinary looking young man, and exalted his modesty and simplicity into extraordinary virtues in Kitty’s eyes. She smiled upon him very graciously, and in her unwonted animation looked more than ever like Elizabeth. Thus encouraged, the gentleman began to spread his own plumage, and with increasing confidence in his power of pleasing, to converse with more point and spirit than was customary with him.
While they were thus engaged, Elizabeth drew their steps away from the garden and across the terrace to the lawn leading down to the river, where the spreading foliage of scattered trees cast a welcome shade from the rays of the sun. The anglers were not immediately visible, but shortly Mr. Bennet came in sight, rod in hand, walking along the bank in search of a likely place to cast his line. Having ascended to a mound where the stream could be surveyed over a farther distance than elsewhere, Elizabeth descried the figures of Georgiana and Major Wakeford not very far away, but beyond some bushes which had previously hidden them from view. Next she looked for her husband who, as she knew, was in attendance upon a visitor, and at last saw him a good way off. Darcy was not fishing himself and could therefore be spoken with, so she set off towards him, followed by Mortimer and Kitty who were finding so much to say to one another that their feet lagged behind hers.
She had not gone far when her eye fell upon Acworth as he lay stretched on the grass under a tree some way off up the slope. Resting on one side, and his head supported by his hand, he was reading from a book and appeared oblivious of everything around him. She averted her gaze directly as if merely to look at him were to attract his attention. Georgiana and Major Wakeford were now close at hand and she made haste to approach them.
Georgiana was fastening a fly on the end of Major Wakeford’s line under his direction, and they were both so closely engaged by it that they remained unconscious of her presence.
“I do not use this kind of fly as a rule,” Major Wakeford was saying. “In the past I have always made my own to my own pattern. We have excellent trout-fishing at my home in Devonshire. An old servant of my father’s taught me the art when I was a lad.”
“Is it difficult to make flies?” asked Georgiana. “Could I learn how to do it?”
“I am sure you could,” he replied. “But few ladies, I imagine would give themselves the trouble. They have so many other accomplishments to practise.”
“I should like to try,” she said. “At any rate I could learn to make your sort of fly, if not any of the others. There now, will that do?”
“Perfectly. I thank you. It could not be better.”
He turned and cast his line upon the stream, and from having often watched her husband, Elizabeth knew enough of the sport to admire the swift, effectual movement of his single wrist and arm. Georgiana remained where she had been—several feet back from the edge, as she had been schooled from childhood by her brother. Elizabeth had thoughts of staying with her, if only for a moment or two, but Darcy happened to catch sight of his wife, and Mortimer with her, and concluding that his presence might be desired, signalled that he was coming. She went to meet him.
Very soon they were together, the purpose of Mortimer’s visit was explained, and on Mortimer and Kitty coming up, acceptance of the invitation most heartily ratified. Darcy then offered Mortimer a rod if he would care to stay and fish, but though he longed to do so, for never had Pemberley appeared so delightful to all his senses, the student of good manners fancied that having delivered his invitation, delicacy forbade him to linger, and he began to make excuses of urgent business at home. In his anxiety not to seem insensible of the charms of his present company, he almost conveyed the impression that what with the hay harvest and cherrypicking soon to be begun, and some young horses to be broken in, he would be fully occupied from morning till night for days to come.
“I hope this does not mean that we shall not see you again until next Sunday,” said Elizabeth, for Kitty’s sake rather than for her own.
He assured her earnestly that he hoped to be with them again very soon. While he was still speaking, Elizabeth caught sight of Acworth pacing along beside the stream. He passed onwards about twenty yards and then, circling round, came towards their group, and stood a little behind Darcy’s elbow. There he stayed, fixing her with a mournful gaze. Indignant at such behaviour, she determined to take no notice of him, and assuming her gayest manner, she told Mortimer that she counted on seeing him on the morrow.
“And do not forget that from Friday week onwards we shall expect you to be with us very constantly,” she added, smiling. “To be consistent, you ought to take up your abode at Pemberley until all danger is past.”
“What is this?” enquired Darcy. “What danger are you speaking of?”
“Tell him, Mr. Mortimer, and you will see for yourself how he can scorn such superstitious folly as ours.”
But Mortimer, not wishing to invite scorn in the presence of fair ladies, pretended not to understand what she was speaking about. It therefore fell to Elizabeth to ask her husband with mock concern whether he was aware that when all their guests were assembled under their roof, the inauspicious number of thirteen would be sitting down to table at every meal, unless Mortimer were there to avoid this happening. While enumerating the members comprising their party when complete, she saw him give her a quick, conscious glance at the mention of her uncle and aunt Gardiner. As soon as she had finished, he said rather more gravely than suited her own liveliness that he attached no importance to numbers—whether three or thirteen—provided the company were good.
“You see how we are reproved,” said Elizabeth to Mortimer. “But for your consolation I will tell you that secretly he is as much alarmed as we are, and at this moment is very likely devising some deep scheme that will obviate any possible mischance.”
“I must warn you, Mortimer, that ladies say what they please because they know that we may not contradict them,” said Darcy, now falling in with her humour. “And whether they see a wedding in a row of cherry stones or seven years of misfortune in a cracked mirror they will not be cheated of it. It must happen as foretold even if they have to wait ten years.”
As Elizabeth looked laughingly up at him, the voice of Acworth suddenly cried out, “Why do you jest at misfortune? Only those who have never known it could do such a thing.”
The rebuke, for as such the speech was plainly intended, silenced everyone. Darcy, who until that moment had seemed not to know that Acworth was present, turned and looked at him. Seeing the glance, almost of hatred, which Acworth returned, Elizabeth was in terror of what might follow. But Darcy, with great presence of mind and without any alteration of manner, overcame the general awkwardness and constraint by saying, “What my wife actually means, Mortimer, is that we are all delighted to see you at any time that you care to visit us. We look for you now, and you must not disappoint us.” Then turning again to Acworth, he said quietly, “We would never make a jest of real misfortune. Forgive us if we seemed to do so.”
Acworth made a slight movement of the shoulders, but no other reply. Mortimer, reddening with extreme pleasure, and stammering his thanks, most effectually drew attention away from Acworth to himself. The diversion would have been more grateful to Elizabeth’s feelings had she not seen Acworth, all mortification, gazing at her in mute entreaty. She took care not to encounter his eyes again, but her sens
e of discomfort was acute.
A common movement was now made to return to the house, and Darcy, having first satisfied himself that his friend, Mr. Harrington, lacked for nothing, walked some part of the way thither, the while recounting the sport which each of the anglers had so far enjoyed. They had not gone more than a few yards when Acworth broke away and wandered down to the river. Not long afterwards Darcy excused himself and returned to his visitor.
On reaching the terrace Mortimer took leave of the ladies, mounted his horse and rode away. Before entering the house Elizabeth turned to survey the scene behind her. While Kitty, all excitement, chattered to an inattentive ear, she looked to see where everybody was and what each might be doing. Her father and Major Wakeford had both moved upstream; Georgiana, tired, perhaps, of watching a sport in which she had no real interest, was sitting on the river bank near the place where she had been before, and beside her, half recumbent upon the sward, was the figure of Acworth. He lay there, his face upturned towards his companion, and while Elizabeth looked, he raised his body and leaning forward and flinging out his arms in the manner of one declaiming, seemed to be speaking with eager vehemence. Elizabeth searched the river bend for Darcy, but he was now gone out of sight. She felt uneasy as she wondered whatever Acworth, so unaccountable in deed and word, so little to be trusted, could be saying to Georgiana. But nothing could well be done; no interference was really called for, and with a last backward glance she passed through the door into the house.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth’s curiosity as to the purport of the conversation between Acworth and Georgiana was not too severely strained, for enlightenment came voluntarily from Georgiana herself later in the day.
“Mr. Acworth has some very odd fancies,” she said in her calm, reflective way. “When I was sitting by the river this morning, he suddenly appeared and sat down beside me. I did not particularly wish to talk, but he persisted, and presently he said, ‘Oh, do look about you, Miss Darcy. Is it not exactly like a painted scene where everything conduces to pleasing the eye of the beholder? The figures that we see, the anglers at their posts along the stream, the two ladies in their light summer dresses with their attendant squire grouped on the terrace against the stately façade of a great mansion—what would happen to them if they attempted to step out of their frame? But they cannot; they are forever fixed in their paint. You and I are outside the picture. I know that I am alive, and I think that you are, too.’”
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