Pemberley Shades

by D. Bonavia-Hunt

  The dose was administered while Richard roared and woke up Jane’s two children who until then had been fast asleep in their own little beds. They also began to cry and had to be tended and reassured. As the noise of Richard’s paroxysms increased, to Elizabeth it appeared that he could not possibly survive; but seeing that Reynolds was still in confidence that he would recover, she exerted herself to remain calm. Thought was almost suspended while she watched and waited, and when she exclaimed suddenly, “Should not his father be sent for?” it occurred to her for the first time to wonder that he was not at her side.

  But thought was again banished, for suspense came to an abrupt end. Nature, assisted by Mrs. Reynolds’ medicine, rallied to Richard’s relief and the cause of his disorder was forthwith removed. He lay at length quiet and exhausted, and as Elizabeth sat beside him and held one of his hands he fell peacefully asleep. Not until she was satisfied that she could relinquish his hand without waking him and stood up to steal from the room did she discover that Darcy was behind her.

  “I was with Acworth and knew nothing of this, or I would have come sooner,” he said as he led her away.

  She was by now so spent that the name of Acworth awoke no echo in her mind. Lady Catherine, Anne, the Miss Robinsons—every idea connected with him was forgotten. She could think of nothing but her thankfulness that Richard was alive, out of pain and asleep. Seeing her fatigue, Darcy spoke only of the child and her need for repose.

  “Reynolds says that Richard got at some green gooseberries. The rascal is at an age when everything edible he sees goes into his mouth. Do not distress yourself any longer, my own. Tomorrow he will be none the worse for it.”

  Elizabeth marvelled at his comparative unconcern. Did he not reflect that the gooseberries might very well have been poisonous berries? But she was too fatigued to take it up with him, and soon all was forgotten in the oblivion of exhaustion.

  Chapter 20

  On awaking the next morning, Elizabeth’s first thought was for Richard, and though it was as yet earlier than her usual time for rising, she summoned her maid, and as soon as she was dressed went to the nursery.

  Richard was still asleep, and although to a mother’s anxious eye he did not look perfectly recovered, she was soon satisfied by his quiet and regular breathing that he was very much better and only needed ordinary care to be himself again. Having given instructions that he should not be roused until he awoke of his own accord, she went downstairs intending to take a turn in the garden before breakfast.

  As she reached the foot of the staircase the door of the breakfast-parlour opened and Acworth came out followed by Darcy. She saw with surprise that he was dressed for travelling, and next that the front door was being held open by the servants and that a chaise waited without. Unable to comprehend what she saw, she remained standing and speechless, but Acworth looked round and instantly turned from his course and came towards her.

  “I am quitting Pemberley forever,” he said with an attempt at calm. “I feared—I had given up hope of seeing you before I left. It is scarcely probable that we shall meet again in this life. Farewell. May that happiness which has ever been denied me continue yours, now and always.”

  He spoke quietly, but with such melancholy in voice and aspect that she could find nothing to say in reply, until, sensible that Darcy had come to her side, she rallied her presence of mind and offering Acworth her hand, with calm propriety wished him a good journey. Its unexpectedness could hardly be spoken of from the suspicions it aroused, her own voice seemed insincere in her ears, and it was necessary to avert her eyes from his for they were fixed upon her with a despair which seemed to solicit an answering pity. For a moment he stood grasping her hand as if undetermined whether to go or stay, then raised it to his lips, turned precipitately and was gone. Darcy went slowly after him, and standing by the door of the chaise held a short colloquy with him as with an ordinary departing guest. Acworth entered the chaise; the horses started and bore him away.

  “What has happened?” Elizabeth exclaimed when her husband rejoined her. “Why this sudden departure?”

  “It had become necessary,” he answered. “Lady Catherine—”

  “Whatever will she say when she learns that he has gone?” she burst out.

  “We shall soon hear. But to fix upon him as a son-in-law! It is no mere conjecture—I had it from her own mouth yesterday evening.”

  “It is impossible that a match between him and Anne could be considered. Unfortunately I am afraid that she has shown signs of liking him. But he has—could have—no intentions. There is nothing in her but her fortune to attract him.”

  “A man may have intentions without much personal inclination for the object arousing them,” Darcy replied dryly. “A great fortune can be a great temptation, even though another woman claims his heart. But there could never be any question of such a match, as he himself is perfectly aware. If Lady Catherine knew all, she would be the first to acknowledge it.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Has something fresh come out that proves him worse than you supposed?”

  “Much has come out. I cannot begin to tell you now, Elizabeth. Here comes Bingley. Another time—”

  Before he could finish his sentence Bingley was with them, beaming with health and good spirits, eager for breakfast and for every enjoyment that a summer day can afford. They passed into the breakfast-parlour where gradually they were joined by the other members of the party until all were assembled excepting Mr. Bennet and Lady Catherine and her daughter. Mortimer, who had got into the habit of riding over to breakfast two days out of every three, came in with Kitty. Then Mr. Bennet made his appearance, and having uttered his usual comprehensive “Good morning to you all,” turned to his daughter, Elizabeth, and said immediately, “So Acworth has gone away.”

  “How did you know?” cried Elizabeth.

  “I happened to look out of my window as I was dressing and saw him getting into a chaise,” replied her father. “That is how I know.”

  The exclamations and questions that instantly arose required something to be said in explanation of this sudden and unexpected flight from Pemberley as it appeared to the enquirers. Why had he decamped? Whither had he gone? Was he coming back? Elizabeth, even more than those who knew less than herself, felt a curiosity to hear what Darcy would say in reply. That he was in a dilemma between the conflicting claims of veracity and discretion she could see from the fixity of his eyes which avoided everyone present.

  “Acworth found himself compelled to leave very unexpectedly,” he said. “He would have returned to London within the week in any case, but his private affairs were the cause of his going several days sooner.”

  Acworth gone became a being of the past. He began to be spoken of as one speaks of the dead.

  “He was an odd fellow,” said Bingley, “but I did not dislike him. If he was no sportsman he was certainly no prig either. He could tell a story in the drollest way imaginable, and his mimicry of persons was excellent.”

  “Nearly everybody improves on being better known,” said Jane.

  “Either improves or becomes insupportable,” rejoined Mr. Bennet. “It is to Acworth’s credit that he did neither. He remained very pleasingly dubious.”

  Elizabeth, at pains to look unconcerned while feeling an unsubduable agitation, began to be impatient for Lady Catherine to come down that the storm which she knew must burst forth on hearing tidings so destructive of hopes of a son-in-law should burst and be over. But it was her ladyship’s prerogative to keep everybody waiting. At last, however, she did come, and her daughter with her, and the whole party could now gather round the table.

  A few moments passed before Lady Catherine noticed Acworth’s absence. She was in high good humour, in a mood of gracious condescension to everyone on whom her eye lighted, and Anne likewise seemed more cheerful than usual. Hope, if it was hope she entertained, had given he
r countenance something resembling animation and rendered it more interesting and attractive than it had ever before appeared. Able to guess the cause of her complacency, Elizabeth was heartily sorry for her. But she had no time to dwell on Anne’s feelings when the sad business of a vanished suitor was unfolded; her real concern was all for her husband. Of stern necessity he must make a most unwelcome announcement, and as the unvarnished truth could not possibly be stated, he must so gloze it over as to do violence to those principles of candour and rectitude which lay at the foundation of his self-esteem. Deeply sympathising she watched him, she saw him turn towards Lady Catherine and open his mouth to speak, to say what must produce a most searching and awkward catechism in the answering of which he could hardly avoid uttering a direct falsehood. But before he could get out the first word Lady Catherine forestalled him.

  “Acworth is surely very late in coming down this morning,” she said indulgently. “Poor fellow, I trust he is not ill.”

  “It is indeed unfortunate, madam,” Elizabeth quickly replied, “that Mr. Acworth has been obliged to quit us very unexpectedly, having been called away to London on the most urgent private business. As he could not stay to take leave of his friends in person, he asked me to express his very great regret for an omission he could not but deplore.”

  She dared not look directly at her husband, but felt him gazing at her, though whether more in sorrow or amazement she could not tell. Lady Catherine’s whole person seemed to expand, while her eyes rolled in offended majesty.

  “How is this?” she cried. “There was never a word of it last night. Why was I not told? I can hardly credit that he would go away without seeking to acquaint me of so important a decision. What does this mean, Darcy?”

  “Your ladyship is doubtless aware that family matters may be of so delicate and intimate a nature that they cannot be canvassed in public,” Darcy replied in his usual steady accents.

  Lady Catherine seemed mollified. “True, very true,” she said, her glance sweeping along the faces confronting her. “His modesty, his reserve would forbid it. With the exception of Anne I have never known anyone of a more refined sensibility. Poor young man! But I am confident we shall soon hear from him; he will not leave his best friends in ignorance of his concerns. Poor fellow, I thought he was not in his usual spirits last evening. He knew that he was to part from us and shrank from giving us pain. You must not be unhappy, Anne. It will not be long before we see him again. If he does not return here we shall all meet in London.”

  Everyone remained silent, though not from the same motives, for some were silent from prudence, others were awed, while others again were occupied in keeping a straight face. She continued in this strain for some time longer, until she had talked herself once more into perfect cheerfulness. It was not necessary to supply further fictitious details; she imagined them all. Elizabeth forbore to look at Anne, but when at last unable to avoid it, she turned her eyes that way, she saw that the daughter was no less contented than the mother. There was not the least sign that her composure had so much as been ruffled. It was cause for thankfulness indeed, and Elizabeth’s relief that all had passed off so much better than might have been expected made her positively light-hearted.

  Lady Catherine at length ceased, others began to speak, and suddenly Mortimer’s strong slow voice was heard above all the rest.

  “Do you know,” said he, addressing the table in general, “I met Acworth’s chaise as I was coming here. As soon as I saw it I wondered who could be quitting Pemberley at that hour, and as the horses were walking, for it was on the steepest part of the hill when I came up, I might have got down and spoken to him, but he was leaning back with his face in his hands, so I did not like to.”

  “Poor fellow,” exclaimed Lady Catherine, unable to conceal her triumph, “what he must have been suffering!”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow hot in a discomfort impossible to overcome while Acworth continued to be spoken of. It seemed as though the subject were not to be let alone; when Lady Catherine left off, Mortimer, prompted by Kitty, must needs begin describing what he had seen all over again. Had it been any other matter to occasion awkwardness she could have signalled an entreaty to her husband to lead away from it, but the recollection of his having witnessed Acworth’s emotion on parting from her deprived her of the courage to do so. Her father added to her confusion by murmuring in her ear from his seat beside her, “So you are not the only breaker of hearts, Lizzy!”

  But the suspense of wondering and fearing what would be said next was shortly ended. With great self-denial Darcy introduced the name of his uncle, Lord Hartingford, into the conversation, and it did not require much resolution to keep Lady Catherine’s tongue busy with a topic always fascinating to her—the dignity, ancientness and importance of her family and all those connected with it; and though it was well-nigh inexhaustible, for more than half the aristocracy of the kingdom came within its purview through intermarriages, he was able to contrive a juncture when the session was manifestly over, and a concerted movement away from the table was seen to be desirable. Elizabeth was at liberty to leave her guests on the plea of having to see Richard again. As she was passing out of the room her husband came to her, and drawing her aside said quietly, “When you have seen Richard come to my father’s room. Come in about half an hour.” She nodded and went on.

  It was difficult to contain her impatience until the whole half-hour was over, for she was wild to be alone with him that they might speak freely and she could hear what he had to tell her. It passed, however, in the crowded scene of the nursery where, besides the three children and their four nurses, there was Jane visiting her two little girls and Reynolds come to see how Master Richard was doing. Richard had to be looked at and felt and coaxed to eat his breakfast and have a confabulation held over him. Time wore away, and on looking at her watch Elizabeth found that she was actually keeping Darcy waiting.

  When she opened the door of his room he was walking up and down as was his way if much perturbed. On seeing her he stood still and looked at her searchingly.

  “What is the matter?” she asked, going up to him and taking his hand. “What has happened? I am quite frantic with suspense.”

  He looked down into her eyes. “I have to speak to you about Acworth. I could not do so before, but now that he has gone you shall hear the truth. You understand that I sent him away?”

  “Yes, I did—I guessed it. But it was impossible to tell them so. Something had to be said—something to be invented. I rushed into the breach. Ought I not to have done so? Perhaps I am more tender of your conscience than of my own.”

  Half in expectation of a remonstrance she found herself clasped to his heart. “That is a token of affection indeed,” he said.

  “Is any really needed?”

  “No, not really. But a man likes to hear reassurance ringing in his ears.”

  “You are not asking much,” she retorted. But she comprehended perfectly what moved him and continued, “And so does a woman. When you say that such and such a young lady is handsome or witty, I wait and wait—often in vain—for you to say that of course she cannot hold a candle to your wife.”

  “You know very well that for your husband you are a being apart, superlative and unique. There, does that content you?”

  “Yes,” she said smiling, “provided you go on repeating it at least once a month at every new moon.”

  “I must make a note of it. But I was to tell you about Acworth.”

  “What decided you that he could stay no longer in view of Lady Catherine’s designs?”

  “Let us sit down. It is a long story, but I will make it as short as I can. To begin with, let me say at once that he is not Stephen Acworth. You remember that I was never at ease in my mind about him. The discrepancies between what I had heard of his mind, manners and disposition and what he proved on acquaintance were so great and so many that they could
not be dismissed as proceeding from my own error. Even on the journey hither from London I began asking myself, ‘Can this indeed be Stephen Acworth?’ The question was at first rhetorical, but gradually it became the expression of genuine doubt. I observed him narrowly and one circumstance after another increased it. As an example, on one occasion he said that he had been at a certain college of Oxford and then corrected himself, obviously recalling that Stephen Acworth’s college was not that one, but another. That was stupid and he betrayed his consternation. After that he was more particularly on his guard. But good actor though he was, he was not good enough to sustain the character he had assumed with perfect consistency through days and weeks. His attention faltered or his patience wearied, and gross inconsistencies appeared. I had heard of Stephen Acworth as being deeply religious; this man, after a few attempts, gave up every pretence of it. When he first came he showed himself scarcely conversant with the manners and customs of our rank of society, but it became noticeable that he began to acquire these as he went along. What perplexed me was his unquestionable likeness to the late Lord Egbury—as Lady Catherine once observed, he had the family countenance. But at length a suspicion of the truth dawned upon me as I remembered something I had once heard. So convinced was I that the man was an impostor that I wrote to your uncle and enlisted his aid. It was arranged that he should call at Lord Egbury’s house in Cavendish Square and ask for an interview with Mr. Stephen Acworth, and if he were not at home, enquire his present whereabouts. This he did. He was informed that Mr. Stephen Acworth was at home but not yet sufficiently recovered from his recent illness to be able to receive visitors.”

  Elizabeth had listened spellbound, with her eyes fixed upon her husband’s face as he spoke. Impatient to know everything at once, she now exclaimed, “Then who is the man we have known as Stephen Acworth?”

  “I am coming to that almost immediately. First let me explain how it came to be disclosed. In due course, after several letters had passed between the parties, Mr. Gardiner called by appointment at Cavendish Square and saw Stephen Acworth in person. Your uncle’s tact and delicacy are known to you. He had, however, a very difficult mission to perform, especially in view of Stephen Acworth’s state of health. But the first constraint and reserve got over, and the news broken to Mr. Acworth that he had been impersonated, the fullest and frankest exchange of information took place. Your uncle had one-half of the story, Stephen Acworth the other; between them they pieced together the whole of it.