Everyone stared in amazement at the extraordinary tidings that the Darcys were giving a ball in the near future. They usually gave one in the late autumn at Pemberley and again while they were in residence at their house in town, but a summer ball was a novelty indeed. Elizabeth, seeing all eyes fixed upon her, and fearing betrayal by some ill-considered observation, hastily proceeded, “Of course if your ladyship could have honoured us with your presence it would have given us the greatest pleasure.”
Unfortunately Lady Catherine’s usual spirit of contrariety did not on this occasion assert itself. It is possible that she descried in an assembly of such proportions opportunities not to be cast away. She herself had met Sir Lewis de Bourgh at a ball. It was to be supposed that all the neighbourhood would be invited to Pemberley for the event, and among the guests what gentlemen of rank and importance might not be included, eligible in all respects for the hand of her daughter? Rapidly she determined upon the best means of circulating precise information as to Anne’s splendid fortune, and her features assumed their most gracious expression as she replied, “But I do not at all see why we should not stay for the ball. We can perfectly well postpone our return home. You would feel equal to it, would not you, Anne? There is no occasion for you to be dancing all the time.”
Miss de Bourgh’s lips were seen to move, but her reply was inaudible.
“Then that is settled,” said Elizabeth as cheerfully as possible, though her heart had sunk very low. She had committed herself in a moment of folly to an undertaking which had no charms for her. And what would her husband say?
When the gentlemen came in very shortly afterwards, the sight of their happy unconsciousness of what was in store for them made her more than ever sensible of the enormity of her conduct. Any moment might bring forth disclosure from Lady Catherine herself in a voice which must penetrate to the four corners of the saloon. That she would claim Darcy’s attention as soon as he came within speaking distance was moreover a foregone conclusion, and it was almost a certainty that the subject of the ball would be uppermost on her lips. Luckily Darcy was hindmost in the procession advancing up the room, and Elizabeth was thus given time to enquire of her ladyship how she had left Mr. and Mrs. Collins. This was inevitably to destroy all Lady Catherine’s complaisance and to provoke a tirade, but it can sometimes appear that the fire is preferable to the frying pan.
Lady Catherine replied that both Mr. and Mrs. Collins were in excellent health, but it was soon made plain that nothing else of good could be said of the hapless couple. On Darcy coming up however, her strictures were diverted from her particular grievance to a general consideration of the woes of patrons. “Oh, Darcy,” she cried, “there you are at last. Now tell me, where in these days is there to be found a clergyman who is fit for such livings as Hunsford and Pemberley? I grant you that Mr. Collins is very bad, but on looking round so are they all. Have you been able to fill Pemberley yet?”
Looking his aunt steadily in the face as if to enforce understanding of the purport of his reply, Darcy said he had hopes of being able to make a presentation to the living in the very near future. The special emphasis laid upon the last three words caused Elizabeth to open her eyes wide and then to look for Mr. Acworth. He was standing some distance away from their group, and in conversation with Jane and Bingley was unlikely to have heard anything. She wondered immediately whom her husband could have in mind, but concluded that he was chiefly concerned to forestall an attempt on the part of Lady Catherine to thrust Mr. Collins upon him. Yet it was most unlike him to deviate from the strict truth. “Meddlesome people like Lady Catherine make liars of us all,” she reflected.
Tea made its welcome appearance almost directly afterwards. Distracted from the theme of Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine once more became a danger, but happily the composition of some little cakes roused her curiosity and led her on to speak of recipes known only to herself and the housekeeper of Rosings. In the general movement towards the table, Elizabeth had been able to exchange a look with Jane which assured her that she was perfectly understood in that quarter, and to drop a word in the ear of her aunt with similar satisfactory result. She knew that Georgiana, whose comfort at such a cost to herself she had procured, would say nothing even remotely touching on a ball at Pemberley; as for Kitty she was too much afraid of Lady Catherine to start any subject in her presence. Recipes of cakes and concoctions peculiar to this, that, and the other great household were therefore sedulously canvassed by all the ladies present, and with so much appetising detail that Mr. Bennet protested against such wanton titillation of his palate. Lady Catherine, artfully praised by Elizabeth for the cooking at Rosings into the best of humours, pronounced the cooking at Pemberley to be nearly equal.
“Your mother, Lady Anne Darcy,” she said to her nephew, “insisted on the same excellent table as she had been accustomed to in her own home, Carringford Castle. I rejoiced to see in some of the dishes which were served to us at dinner that her memory is still honoured.”
After tea Darcy made up a table of whist for his aunt with Mrs. Gardiner, Major Wakeford and himself. Mr. Bennet wandered off to the library to read in the solitude he preferred; Elizabeth sat down beside Anne de Bourgh. The rest of the party started to play Speculation and soon the game was in full swing with some lively bidding between Bingley, Acworth and Kitty. Acworth who had been very silent during dinner as if not wishing to attract attention to himself, suddenly began an absurd imitation of a gambler whose all is at stake, portraying by turns with exaggerated gestures and grotesquely distorted features the fever and frenzy, the jubilation and despair attending the least happy chance or slightest reverse. Bingley, highly diverted, egged him on by pretending to remonstrate with him; Georgiana played as though she observed nothing or was impatient with their clowning, but Kitty laughed so immoderately that she could hardly hold her cards. Anne de Bourgh and Elizabeth were near enough to see everything, and Anne looked on at Acworth’s performance in an amazement that verged upon alarm until Elizabeth explained, almost as she would to a child, that he was acting a part for the entertainment of his fellowplayers. She appeared relieved, but not at all amused, and continued to gaze at Acworth in wonder. Suddenly he dropped the pretence, his features settled into repose, he became gentle and sedate. What Miss de Bourgh thought of him now was not to be ascertained, but she still watched him with grave interest.
When the game was finished, a second one was proposed and Jane, with characteristic thoughtfulness, took the opportunity of asking whether Miss de Bourgh would now care to join in. It was expected that she would refuse; on the contrary she rose from her chair and a place was made for her between Acworth and Jane. Very soon, spurred on by the gentleman and fortified by his advice and encouragement, she was bidding with the rest. His manner to her was marked by a happy blend of liveliness and deference and Anne seemed pleased by it. She smiled when he spoke to her, and accepted his instructions as to what she should do with unquestioning faith in their efficacy, and as success nearly always attended her she began to look quite triumphant.
Left sitting alone by her own expressed wish, Elizabeth could survey at her leisure all that went on between the players. Had fate on this day only cast her for the role of spectator, she had been amply provided with material for reflection for days to come. The sight of Acworth, his present innocent behaviour and his apparent unconsciousness of anything in the past that could be taken exception to, threw her into fresh doubts as to his true character. She had believed herself to have arrived at a tolerably correct understanding of it, concluding him to be passionate, impetuous, unstable, conceited, capable of subterfuge when in straits, but not of calculated deceit. But now she wondered whether he was not indeed artful to a degree hitherto unsuspected by her, whether his approaches to herself, which he must know she would repel, did not mask some deeper and more far-reaching design. Was he laying siege to Georgiana’s affections in the guise of a disinterested concern for her true felic
ity that he might hereafter secure her fortune to himself? She felt that he was not above some such project and the conversation she had overheard in the attic suggested it. Fortunately Georgiana could be deemed safe from him in the openness and uprightness of her character, and her good sense had showed itself in the impatience of her replies to his representations. Elizabeth moreover took comfort from the reflection that no real danger to her need be apprehended since both herself and Darcy were alive to its possibility.
But such a conclusion was not to make her easy about Georgiana. Something was amiss; something was on her mind. At the distance she was from the table Elizabeth could observe the players without fixing her gaze on any one of them. Georgiana looked dispirited, even oppressed by her thoughts. She played absent-mindedly, her eyes astray, and was constantly having to be given the cue to play by Bingley or Kitty. What could it be that was troubling her?
Suddenly Elizabeth’s meditations were cut short. Lady Catherine’s spirits had risen as her cards prospered, and having won every rubber she had attained to complete charity with all the world. She smiled upon Mrs. Gardiner, although she was her niece-in-law’s aunt who lived in an unfashionable quarter of London where ladies of rank cannot visit; she was equally gracious to Major Wakeford, and lauded the virtues of the military. Finally she commended Darcy for the project, communicated by his wife, of giving a ball at midsummer when the days are long and the nights are short and carriages may roll home by the light of dawn.
“It has never before been done at Pemberley, I believe,” she said, “but I am not so narrow-minded as to oppose an innovation merely because it is one. Anne is quite charmed with the idea. Unfortunately she is soon fatigued by any exertion beyond the ordinary, but there is nothing she would enjoy more than dancing if her health permitted it.”
It was this speech which came to Elizabeth’s ears from the other end of the saloon and transfixed her with horror. She was too far away from the speaker to make any interposition whatever, but she turned in her chair to see how her husband had received the blow. In agonised suspense, she waited for his reply. Some moments, long to her anxiety, elapsed ere it was heard. Then, in his wonted, deliberate accents, he said:
“As you so justly apprehend, madam, the giving of a ball at midsummer has much to recommend it. The invitations have not yet been sent out so far as I am aware, but it has only very recently been decided upon.”
For the second time that day Elizabeth thought she must swoon. But by tightly clasping her hands together and sitting very still she was able in a few moments to overcome the sensation, and on approaching Lady Catherine a little later to congratulate her on her successful play she could present a tolerably composed appearance. At her husband she dared not as yet look direct, but a quick sidelong glance showed him smiling, or at any rate not so very much displeased.
“I do not know how it is,” said Lady Catherine, “but I am always prodigiously lucky at cards. I have had the most amazing hands this evening. It is the same with Anne. Her luck never fails.”
Elizabeth thought of a certain proverb, but forebore to quote it. No one could say that poor Anne de Bourgh had been lucky in life or lucky in love.
Chapter 15
The next day opened with rain falling in a steady down pour from a sky of unbroken cloud, threatening confinement indoors for many hours to come.
Elizabeth awoke so unrefreshed, so far from recovered from the indisposition of yesterday that Darcy insisted on her resting until she felt better. The inclination of her spirit was all against any suspicion of running away from her newly arrived guests, but she was secretly not sorry to he overruled. Firmness in a husband when it supports instead of opposes the pleasanter course is wholly admirable. She consented with a good grace to obey him. To remove any scruples she might still have he promised that in her absence he would hold himself entirely at Lady Catherine’s disposal, to amuse her if she were dull, to placate her if she were angry, and to listen to her as long as she wished to talk.
The sense of respite which this assurance gave had a reviving effect upon her spirits. But although the state of Lady Catherine’s temper was a matter of importance, very much more so to her conscience was the question of what should be said and what left unsaid relative to Georgiana’s unfortunate escapade with Acworth. Loyalty to her husband demanded in principle that nothing known to herself should be withheld from him; on the other hand, he was on his own confession keeping her out of his full confidence, even though temporarily. There was also some consideration owing to Georgiana, and it seemed only fair that she should have the opportunity of giving her own account of what had taken place before it could be rightly judged. But she longed to hear Darcy’s opinion on so much as they both knew, and had half expected that he would express it unasked. He had not done so, however, whether from intention or negligence, though she thought the latter unlikely. Her own fatigue and the agitation consequent upon Lady Catherine’s arrival would account for his silence. On a sudden impulse, as he was quitting her for the breakfast-parlour, she asked him what he thought of Georgiana and Acworth’s disappearing into the attic at Clopwell.
“It did not look well,” she said, “but I am sure Georgiana meant no harm.”
“In the ordinary way there would be nothing to cause disquiet. But,” he added smiling, “why two persons should choose such a dirty place for their mutual entertainment I cannot conceive.”
“The spinet was the attraction, I suppose,” said Elizabeth.
“An obvious one,” he answered, looking at the door almost as if he wished to escape.
“Then you do not think there was anything very much to take exception to?”
He appeared to hesitate. “In judging the actions of people,” he said, “we are so much governed by our feelings that what we condemn in one person we shall excuse in another. Now, Elizabeth, you are not to talk any more. There is no need for you to vex your head about Georgiana, Acworth, Lady Catherine, or anyone else. Do not forget that there is a ball to prepare for.”
“I hate the very mention of it.”
“You distress yourself unduly. Although I have every excuse to stay away, I shall be there. More than that, I shall welcome our guests as though I were delighted to see them.”
He went away, and Elizabeth was left to reflect that on the subject of Acworth he had been very evasive. But what could be said of herself? An infection of mystery was in the air, clouding judgment and perhaps even one’s moral sense.
At breakfast the principal theme was the wretched weather and the lugubrious prospect of a whole day to be spent indoors. The leaden colour of the sky, the sodden colour of foliage and grass and the soft continuous rain encouraged gloomy feelings. Kitty was depressed because she foresaw that Mortimer would be prevented from riding over from Clopwell. Bingley sat silent for several minutes on being reminded by Jane of the excellent opportunity afforded for writing some long deferred business letters. Lady Catherine compared the climate of Derbyshire unfavourably with that of Kent. “There is more sunshine in Kent than in any other part of the kingdom,” she said. “For that reason it is called the Garden of England.” No one disputing the statement, she continued: “the scenery of Derbyshire is much praised for its grandeur, I believe. For my part I do not admire precipitous cliffs and jutting rocks.”
“I entirely agree with you, madam,” said Mr. Bennet. “Fortunately the features you mention are excluded from these grounds. No rocks jut here.”
Darcy here interposed to give his opinion that the sky would clear before noon, and at this happy prognostication every countenance visibly lightened.
The meal over, Bingley challenged Acworth to a game of billiards. Mr. Bennet wandered away with the newspaper, and Major Wakeford took an umbrella and set off for a walk in contempt of the weather.
Lady Catherine defeated her nephew’s good intentions by retiring to her dressing-room, accompanied by her daughter, to
read and digest a report received from Mr. Collins on the state of affairs in Hunsford parish, and to indite a list of instructions in reply thereto. The other ladies, unmurmuring as ladies of lesser importance usually are, settled down in the little drawing-room to while away the term of their confinement indoors with needlework and conversation which Kitty contrived very soon to bring round to Clopwell and all that it contained. Admiration ran away with her tongue and sparkled in her eyes. At the end of a quarter of an hour of unbroken eulogy, Georgiana, who had hitherto spoken no word, folded up her work and, getting up from her chair, murmured almost inaudibly that she must go to her practice.
On arriving in her room she opened the pianoforte and placed a piece of music on the desk, but after playing a few bars her hands dropped from the keyboard and she looked aside at the window on which the rain was splashing and remained gazing outwards with troubled eyes. It was thus that her brother found her on coming quietly into the room a little later. She made a quick movement as if to commence playing again, but the pretence was instantly seen by him for what it was, and served only to confirm a suspicion silently harboured for several days, that she had something on her mind. He could not help connecting that preoccupation with Acworth, though he could not be certain. Believing that it might continue forever unknown unless she could be led to speak freely and openly, he resolved that the present opportunity for procuring her relief and the allaying of his own anxiety must not be neglected.
To win her confidence by making it appear that he had no particular design in interrupting her playing, he began by speaking of immediate small matters—Lady Catherine’s unexpected advent, the plans which the bad weather must vary, Elizabeth’s indisposition, the ball and all the labours attendant upon it. Then he looked at her music and asked her to give him an idea how it went. After that, it became natural to touch upon the duets with Acworth. She answered so frankly and with so little thought of there being anything wrong in the hours spent alone with a comparative stranger that his mind received complete relief. But mention of Acworth could give rise to reflections upon the want of decorum that marked so much of his behaviour.
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