Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  “At all costs that must be avoided. And, dear Lizzy, do not for anything let yourself be drawn into a clandestine interview. Should Mr. Acworth continue his persecution—for it is nothing less—I implore you to go to your husband and tell him everything.”

  “You know my reason for not doing that as yet. In the meantime I shall give the gentleman as wide a berth as possible, and I shall count on you to be always at hand to shield me from his ambiguous attentions.”

  “Of course I will gladly do what I can. But I cannot always dispose of my time as I would. With a husband and children I am always liable to be called upon.”

  “And now a sister calls upon you. Poor Jane, it is too bad.”

  At this point the path through the wood which had been descending some way brought them down to the stream. Here it flowed in the shadow of trees growing on either side of its course, but taking the direction of the house, they soon came into the open, and there saw Georgiana and Major Wakeford strolling ahead of them a good way off. They walked some distance apart, but for all that companionably, and now and again Georgiana could be observed turning her head to make a response to whatever Wakeford was saying. Wakeford had now arrived at walking without a trace of his former limp.

  “I am glad that Georgiana is beginning to get over her shyness,” said Elizabeth. “But Major Wakeford’s manner is such as to put her at her ease. He has a plain, matter-of-fact way with him, wholly devoid of the gallantry she so much dislikes in general.”

  “I have thought,” said Jane, “that he admires Georgiana very much. He always listens to anything she says with so much attention.”

  “But that is usual with him. He has an air of weighing very seriously what one says before deciding upon his reply. I find it disconcerting, for it checks my natural flow, but apparently it suits Georgiana.”

  “He is a very different kind of man from Mr. Acworth.”

  “Indeed he is. But what makes you say so?”

  Jane hesitated before answering, “I had wondered whether Georgiana was becoming attracted to Mr. Acworth.”

  “They have a love of music in common,” said Elizabeth, “but that is all.” Then, as Jane did not reply, and conscious that her silence was of the negative sort, she exclaimed, “Have you any particular reason for what you have just said?”

  “It was only that I came upon them yesterday in Georgiana’s sitting-room. He must have gone there at her invitation I suppose, for he would hardly have ventured in without it. They had evidently just finished playing a piece, and were looking over it together. It struck me that their heads were closer than was really necessary and that Georgiana did not dislike his proximity. I will however say that they did not show the least surprise or awkwardness when I spoke to them.”

  “Is it your belief that the attraction is mutual?”

  “I had assumed that it was more on Georgiana’s side from the circumstance of his being so recently a widower.”

  “But now that you know what you do about him, what is your opinion?”

  “Really,” said Jane, quite distressed, “I am at a loss what to think.”

  “Shall I tell you what I think, then?—that he cannot approach a woman without pretending that he is captivated by her. It is very reprehensible in him, but in a way a source of comfort, for it shows that he intends nothing serious by anybody. Yet he will go as far as he dares, and when he found himself alone with me in the wood that day, the temptation to profit by the occasion was too strong.”

  “In that case do not you think that Georgiana ought to be warned against him?”

  “If necessary she shall be. It would be unwise to embarrass her unless there is very good reason. But I have discussed Mr. Acworth with her and from her manner of speaking I am persuaded that she has no special feeling for him—none at all. It is easy to be deceived by Georgiana’s air of inattention; on the contrary, she is capable of the most just discernment where persons of either sex come into question. She values the solid rather than the showy qualities. There are not many girls of her age, I fancy, who would voluntarily seek the society of Major Wakeford as she does now. Let us catch up with them and find out what they are talking about.”

  Accordingly the sisters quickened their pace and before very long came up with the gentleman and lady who, however, unreasonably, looked all astonishment at seeing them.

  “How hot it is,” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Jane and I have been walking in the woods, but the air is much cooler by the water. Major Wakeford, we accuse you and Georgiana of talking either botany or ornithology.”

  “We were talking about birds,” replied Georgiana in mild surprise.

  “I thought so!”

  “But that is not necessarily ornithology,” said Major Wakeford, with unaccustomed playfulness. “Is it, Miss Darcy?”

  “No, there can be all the difference in the world.”

  “I bow to correction,” said Elizabeth. “For Georgiana birds are objects of beauty and joy, and to introduce ornithological considerations into discourse about them is an irrelevance.”

  “I was telling Miss Darcy,” said Major Wakeford, more seriously, “of some of the birds we have in my native Devonshire which I do not see here. But you have a very great variety also, and many which are not found in the south.”

  “No gun is ever raised against them within these precincts,” said Elizabeth. Conversing about the many beauties surrounding them, they pursued their way back to the house. Georgiana did not contribute much to the conversation, but she looked tranquil and happy in the enjoyment of all that the scene afforded to delight the eye. She seemed also perfectly content with her present company, and if she did not say much, listened to all that was said and smiled often. Such behaviour spoke her heart-free, as Elizabeth subsequently forced Jane to admit.

  But Jane still retained a slight doubt in her own mind, for she had seen with startled eyes how close Mr. Acworth’s black locks had been to Georgiana’s fair ones, whereas Elizabeth had not. Could any well-bred young woman suffer so very great a liberty if she did not believe herself to be decidedly encouraging unmistakable attentions? Anxious to oblige Elizabeth by agreeing with her entirely, poor Jane knew not what to think.

  Chapter 11

  After her heart to heart talk with Jane, Elizabeth’s spirits rose higher than for some time, so great was the relief of sharing an uncomfortable secret with another person, and that her beloved and ever indulgent sister.

  That evening after dinner, the ladies being still alone in the drawing-room, Georgiana and Jane entreated her to sing to them. Yielding to persuasion, she sat down at the pianoforte and having begun, found herself in better voice than usual. Thus encouraged, she needed little prompting to continue, and went from one song to another as fancy led her.

  While she was in the middle of a song that suited her voice particularly well, Mortimer and Acworth entered the room together. Mortimer at once sat down by Kitty in response to the invitation of her eyes, but Acworth came and leant against the pianoforte, and without directly gazing at the singer, expressed in his countenance the utmost enjoyment. Elizabeth continued as if unaware of his presence, and when she had finished, Jane, with her unfailing tact, asked her to sing a certain duet with Georgiana. The music was found after some searching; Georgiana took Elizabeth’s place at the instrument and Elizabeth stood beside her, while Jane came to the other side to turn the pages.

  “I had been hoping for some music this evening,” said Acworth strolling round to them before they had begun. “My violin is here—” Thus saying, he took it from a chair close at hand, “And if these ladies will permit me, I will add another part to theirs.”

  There could be no objection to the proposal, and Georgiana appeared to welcome it. The duet was sung, and the violin blended so happily with the voices that at its conclusion it received great commendation from Mr. Bennet who, with Darcy, Bingley and Major Wakefo
rd, had entered the room in time to hear the greater part of it.

  “It is a novelty indeed to hear such first-rate singing and playing,” said he, “and without the trouble and expense of going out to a public hall.”

  Major Wakeford asked for another duet, but Elizabeth said truthfully that her throat was tired and the field was left to Georgiana if she would hold it. This gave Acworth an opportunity he was not slow to take.

  “Shall we play the piece we have lately been practising together?” he asked her. “I am sure we shall never play it better than we do now.”

  Georgiana gave a ready and eager assent, and after a murmured conference and a further tuning of the violin, they addressed themselves to the execution of a work which, though of extreme difficulty for both instruments, was most brilliantly played.

  Major Wakeford had taken a chair near Mr. Bennet’s. He listened and watched with more astonishment than pleasure, for the music was of a character that confused him, being full of rapid passages which he could by no means follow with his ear, and on that account was devoid for him of all significance or beauty. Probably no one enjoyed it quite so well as Georgiana and Acworth who threw themselves with evident zest into their performance. Darcy gave them his closest attention, but his thoughts were not wholly engaged with the sounds that he heard. Elizabeth, watching him for a moment or two, saw that he was in a reflective rather than an applauding frame of mind.

  “If I am not mistaken,” said Mr. Bennet to Wakeford as soon as the playing finished, “much practice has gone to such excellence. As the father of two daughters who have studied the pianoforte I may claim to know what such feats of dexterity mean to the performers, as well as to those who inhabit the same house.”

  “But I will swear that you never heard us practising, sir,” said Acworth laughingly. “We took particular care not to make ourselves a nuisance, didn’t we, Miss Darcy? We were always careful to choose those times when everyone was out of the way.”

  “You have given us a charming surprise,” said Elizabeth, resolved not to show any concern for the degree of intimacy implied in a privately concerted arrangement only now for the first time mentioned. “Do, pray, play something else if you are not tired.”

  Her praise was intentionally formal in manner, but Acworth’s eyes sparkled with delight. “What do you say, Miss Darcy?” he asked, smiling and bending towards her. “I am ready if you are. But what shall it be? Something sweet and sedative, able to soothe the savage breast?”

  “I very much doubt whether the savage breast wishes to be soothed,” said Mr. Bennet. “From all I have heard it prefers the martial strains of fife and drum. What is your opinion, Major Wakeford? As a soldier, you ought to know.”

  “I have no opinion on the subject,” Wakeford answered shortly. “I have always been one of those unfortunates who scarcely know one note from another.”

  Georgiana looked round in surprise at a statement so much at variance with all that Major Wakeford had ever expressed before. Her lips parted; she seemed on the point of speaking when Acworth, who had turned aside to look through the scattered sheets of music lying on the lid of the pianoforte, found what he sought and placed it on the desk before her.

  The piece was played and was followed by the polite thanks of the listeners. Acworth would most willingly have obliged with a further display of his talent, but Mr. Bennet, unconsciously betraying that he had listened long enough for one evening, turned to his neighbour and began a conversation, and Georgiana settled the matter by closing the pianoforte and coming to a chair near Elizabeth. Happily for Acworth’s ruffled feelings the appearance of tea made an opportune diversion. When it was over Mr. Bennet went off to the library to be alone with a book, and Bingley called for a round game.

  “Now let us be frivolous,” said he, “for I am in a melancholy mood. Such singing and playing as we have been hearing constrains me to reflect upon a misspent youth.”

  “Have you, too, sown your wild oats?” asked Acworth, with a look of rather malicious amusement.

  “Alas, no. I have sown no oats at all—not even wild ones. I am, I dare say, the most useless being in the world. I can neither sing nor play, nor paint in water colours.”

  “How you do enjoy running yourself down,” said Elizabeth.

  “You really should not speak so, for people might believe you,” added his wife.

  “I am sure there are many things you do very well,” said Mortimer very seriously.

  “A few things tolerably, a number of things very ill, and not one really well. A truce to such painful reflections. What shall we play at? If I know Kitty, she is all agog for a game of lottery tickets.”

  “Indeed, I am not, it is much too noisy,” said Kitty pettishly, resenting what she considered an aspersion upon her genteelness.

  “Nonsense, you love noise, and you are an inveterate gambler.”

  “So am I,” said Acworth, “and not ashamed to own it.”

  A move was made to a table large enough to hold eight or nine persons, but although there was plenty of room for him, Wakeford stood aloof, and on being pressed by Elizabeth to sit down, quietly asked to be excused.

  “Your party is already large enough,” he said. “I will ask Darcy to give me a game of chess.”

  “The place for that is the library,” said Darcy. “I do not think we shall disturb Mr. Bennet, but their game would most certainly disturb our play.”

  As soon as they had gone away, Bingley said in some surprise, “What can be the matter with Wakeford? Has anything occurred to upset him?”

  “Are not you indulging your fancy?” asked Elizabeth. But she, too, had observed that Wakeford seemed out of humour. It had been a fleeting impression, chiefly due to the contrast of his greater cheerfulness than usual during dinner. Unable to assign a cause for the change in his spirits, and not seriously apprehending any, she might have thought no more of the matter had not Acworth said to Georgiana, “I am afraid we were the offenders, Miss Darcy. Major Wakeford did not like our music, and for some people to dislike is to be displeased.”

  Georgiana made no reply, but she looked as distressed as though she had been accused of some fault in conduct or manners.

  “I do not think for a moment that he would give way to any feeling so petty, and it is unjust to ascribe it to him,” said Elizabeth. Fearing that she had spoken too roundly, she continued, “Speaking for myself, I know I am apt to read into a passing change of countenance a meaning it does not possess. It is fatally easy, indeed.”

  She did not look directly at Acworth, but in avoiding his gaze she turned her eyes on Georgiana and thus beheld the sudden change in her expression from anxious and apprehensive attention to one of relief.

  “That is very true,” said Acworth. “I once knew a man who would appear racked with grief on the most trifling occasion, such as the loss of a button from his coat, or the cook’s inattention to the boiling of the potatoes.”

  The uncomfortable suspicion flashed through her mind that he was laughing at her. Such an idea was not to be dwelt upon; she repelled it instantly.

  The game was begun and soon all else was forgotten in its varying fortunes. Mortimer, seated beside Kitty, gave all his attention to her play and scarcely any to his own, rejoicing when she won, and lamenting when she lost. Bingley was more venturesome than successful; Jane seemed chiefly concerned to give all her chances away; Elizabeth, from disinclination for what she privately considered a stupid waste of time, soon became interested in spite of herself. Acworth showed himself a spirited player who, while talking and laughing incessantly, nevertheless triumphed repeatedly to the amazement of the rest who were yet to learn that his success lay in their distraction. Now and then for a brief period he would fall silent and let, as it were, the game go past him in order that others might recover their losses. At such times he looked round about the table, directing a keen eye here and ther
e, but casting it downwards as soon as he became observed. Elizabeth once caught him looking at herself with plainly expressed speculation. The next time she looked his way to bargain with Jane, he was regarding Georgiana in the spirit of curiosity, it seemed to her.

  “It is fortunate that we are not playing for money,” he said, rousing himself anew to be active. “I should force you all to sit up through the night until I had parted with my last penny.”

  “Ah,” said Bingley, unthinkingly, “wait until you are a family man, Acworth. You will see soon enough who governs such recklessness.” He looked at Jane and laughed; then warned of indiscretion by the steady gravity of her eyes, checked his laughter and turned red.

  To Elizabeth’s surprise Acworth showed not the least sign of discomposure or any painful feeling. He merely smiled in acknowledgment of Bingley’s thrust.

  It was getting late when Darcy returned to the room alone. The players had some while since finished their game, but still sat at the table chatting. Mortimer had stated several times that he ought to go home, and on Darcy’s appearance rose up with determination and began making his adieus. When he had departed the Bingleys, Acworth and Kitty sought their candles to go to their rooms. Darcy, however, said that Mr. Bennet was intending to sit up a half-hour or so longer and that he would rejoin him, and Elizabeth waited behind to have a word with her husband.

  “Where is Major Wakeford?” she asked in surprise that he had not returned to say good-night, for as a rule he was punctilious in all such observances.

  “He asked me to make his excuses and went upstairs to write a letter.”

  Georgiana was putting together her music and it struck Elizabeth that she was lingering to hear what was said. With the kind intention of gratifying her desire for information she immediately continued, “I thought that he looked out of spirits. Did he appear so when you were together in the library?”