Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home

by Stanley Michael Hurd

  Darcy laughed again and said, “That was well done, Miss Darcy, but I warn you: he is a dangerous man to match wits with.”

  “Bah!” scoffed Lady Andover. “I have witnessed him nearly lose the power of speech entirely, from one well-bestowed kiss.” Georgiana coloured again, and her brother laughed heartily. “I never thought to try that, I confess. To think of all the hours I wasted, trying to out-wit him!”

  Georgiana shyly disengaged her arm from that of Master Pender, and repaired to Miss Hartsbury’s side; Miss Hartsbury whispered in her ear something that made her blush still more, and the two of them giggle delightedly, their heads together in close feminine confederacy.

  With Pender as guide and passe-partout, they were treated to an inside view of Christ Church Cathedral, and all over the university grounds, as well as a very complete tour of the city, including a trip to the top of Magdalen Tower, to see the city laid out before them in its bright summery glory. Georgiana was delighted, although Miss Bingley had found the prospect of climbing the stairs to the top of the tower too fatiguing for her to consider; she staid below with Mr. Hartsbury. To Darcy’s surprise, Pender showed himself to be quite sprightly, leading them to the top with a very lively step. Miss Bingley later expressed to Darcy a wish of going punting on the river, but on making her application general, the company, and the gentleman himself, were against it, as the day was hot and the dinner-hour was approaching.

  The morrow was to bring Georgiana’s birthday, and, as the company would be traveling all that day towards Bath, Darcy had decided to celebrate it that evening at Oxford. He prepared the earnest gift he had brought from Town, a lovely necklace of gold and large, old garnets, and took it down with him to dinner.

  The company dined at their inn that evening; when the men joined the ladies in the salon, he brought forth the necklace and presented it to Georgiana. As the company applauded, she coloured as prettily and modestly as only the young and truly artless of her sex can, prompting Pender to observe, “My dear, you are a young lady to make an old man wish he had his youth back: and believe me, very few things in life could tempt me to traverse those weary years over again.” Georgiana blushed the more for his compliment, and her brother offered her a small glass of wine as a constitutional. Lady Andover gave Pender a reproving glance, to which he tipped his glass in toast with an eye cocked in challenge; the lady shook her head disparagingly but returned his toast, at which he beamed delightedly.

  On returning to his apartments after a very pleasant evening, Darcy was startled and concerned to find Perkins seated in his chambers, glumly staring out the window in the dim glow of a single candle. As he entered, his man jumped to his feet, apologizing, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy, but I was sure she couldn’t find me, here.”

  “She? Of whom are we speaking?”

  “Clarissa, Miss Bingley’s maid,” said Perkins in a morose accent.

  “Why should you be hiding from Miss Bingley’s maid?”

  “She seems to have set her cap at me,” replied Perkins, downheartedly.

  “Oh, dear,” said Darcy mildly. “I take it she is not to your taste?”

  “No, Sir. She and her mistress are quite the pair…oh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy, Sir,” said his man, flustered.

  “No offense taken, Perkins,” Darcy assured him. “I should think you know my feelings on Miss Bingley by now.”

  “Yes, Sir. Well, Clarissa seems to have decided to make it a set…her words, Sir. The thing of it is, I’ve a sort of an understanding with Lara, the barmaid in Meryton who I mentioned to you; and, anyway, Clarissa is a common little thing; she sets my teeth on edge just by her talking. And, Lord, how she talks! I hate to be hard, and tell her flat out I don’t take to her, but I don’t know what else to do—so here I be, like a mouse in a wall, hiding from a cat.”

  “I had always found her to be rather a refined sort of girl; at least, she has always appeared so in my presence.”

  “Yes, Sir, she knows how to put on airs, and that’s the truth, which makes it even harder to listen to her when she’s herself, if you take my meaning. Lord help me, Sir, how can a man handle a woman like that?”

  Darcy could sympathise perfectly with his man, having many times asked himself the same question regarding her mistress. “Well, I think you will find that a simple, straightforward declaration of the truth is your best friend, here, Perkins,” he said.

  “Yes, Sir; I’m sure you’re right: but it surely is a hard thing to say.”

  “True enough, but just imagine how your Lara would feel if she somehow came to hear of it,” Darcy advised him, speaking from his own experience. “Trust me, that is something you never want, and, no matter how unlikely it appears, it can happen.”

  “Yes, Sir; thank you Mr. Darcy,” said Perkins disconsolately; then, seeming to put the matter behind him, almost as an aside he said, “Oh, and she says her mistress is sore put upon with how little time you have spent with her during your trip, Mr. Darcy: I thought you should know.” Then he turned his attentions to removing his master’s attire; on his side Darcy was pleased to know that his time devoted to Mr. Hartsbury had turned up yet another benefit, in disobliging Miss Bingley; he resolved to commit even more time to his company. But he did not forget Perkins and his difficulties, and resolved to think of a way to help him if he could.

  That Saturday the party arrived in Bath late in the afternoon. There they were to be joined by Sir Neville Canham after dinner, whose addition brought a special warmth to Miss Hartsbury’s smile, while at the same time seeming to ease the pace of her speech somewhat. In appearance he gave the impression of being a most amiable young man, although he was quite permanently rumpled and dishevelled; his ears, which were near-perfect semi-circles, jutted out at a considerable angle from his head, giving him something of the appearance of a round sugar bowl with two handles; and to complete the uniqueness of his person, his limbs were over-sized to his body, like those of a new-born colt. On his entering the room, Miss Hartsbury whispered in Georgiana’s ear, yet again bringing colour to her cheeks; she seemed to take great pleasure in discomposing her younger friend. Georgiana glanced at Sir Neville with an embarrassed look, then hastily looked away.

  Sir Neville bowed and offered his compliments to the two of them then asked with a smile, “Might I ask what you were saying, Miss Hartsbury?”

  “Shall I say, my dear?” she asked Georgiana, who shook her head adamantly at this.

  Miss Hartsbury said, “Very well, since you insist; although I cannot help but think it would be more amusing to tell him. You will forgive me, Sir Neville,” she said to him, “but I must abide by my friend’s decision.” She looked at him with an inviting smile, then happened to glance down at the seat next to her; he took the hint and sat happily down, his gawky arms and legs seeming to spill out in all directions from his chair. Were he to stand to his full height, he would have topped even Darcy, but his backbone seemed never to have learnt its office, or else he spent his life trying to look at the whole of his acquaintance from their own eye level; Darcy imagined he must be the absolute despair of his tailor. He and Miss Hartsbury made quite an endearingly odd pairing, what with her eccentricities and energy, and his fledgling looks and ready grin; Darcy regretted he had not stayed long enough at her ball to see them on the dance-floor together.

  After Bath, Darcy made quite a point of seeing that Miss Hartsbury had as much free time at her disposal as he could manage, that she might have as much time to dedicate to Sir Neville as possible during their trip. Out of charity to the others, Darcy kept Mr. Hartsbury to himself as much as possible; in consequence, he and Bingley were to enjoy watching Pender in many discussions with the gentleman, as the four of them were often together by Darcy’s design; it did not surprise him that Miss Hartsbury was always most conscientious in taking advantage of these opportunities to draw Sir Neville’s company to herself.

  One noteworthy exchange between Pender and Mr. Hartsbury came the day after Bath, wh
en they all four shared a coach to Bristol; passing a tribute to the renowned clergyman, John Wesley, Mr. Hartsbury was moved to observe: “Hmmph! That man was a scoundrel, and I see no reason he and all his kind should not have been imprisoned; he was clearly a recusant, and should have been treated as such.”

  “A recusant, Sir?” Pender asked mildly. “Surely not; the Popish Recusancy Act, written, as I believe, some two hundred years ago, was instigated against the adherents to the Church of Rome at the time; it can hardly have been intended to describe the Wesleyans.”

  “You cannot deny that the man sought to overthrow the Church of England,” attested Hartsbury.

  Pender looked at his travelling companion curiously for a long moment before saying, “You fascinate me, Sir: do go on. I should be glad to know how Wesley, even though a clergyman in the Church of England for the whole of his life, was intent on bringing down that institution.”

  “Bah!” Hartsbury replied. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if ever there was one. Did he not ordain a “bishop” for the Americas by the laying of hands, which is a decidedly popish and uncanonical practice? Did he not ordain priests outside the Church of England, and establish his own clergy—even a cabal of men which can only be seen as apostolic? ‘Pon my word, the man was practically an Antichrist! He should have been horse-whipped, —or, better, burnt for a heretic; instead they place placards in his honour!”

  “Your scholarship in this subject, I confess, Sir, is more eager than mine, and I can only admire the depth with which your mind sees into the affair,” said Pender in great earnest. “But, pray, when you say recusant, do you see him as a Jacobite, then, bent on bringing Catholicism, and the Stuarts, back to their former power in England?”

  “I put nothing past him, Sir; nor his followers. It is well known that the Stuarts have never given over their pretentions; the descendants of James II are always lurking, seeking a return; the Wesleyans may well be agents provacateurs from France,” he finished importantly.

  Pender pretended to be aghast: “Great Heavens, Sir! Bonaparte has sided with the House of Savoy? —who, as you surely know, are the claimants closest to the House of Stuart after the Hanoverians—and now he seeks to use their veiled allies, the Wesleyans, against England? Or perhaps you refer to those descendants of the young pretender, Bonnie Prince Charlie, under the bar sinister?”

  Even Bingley, who had not an iota of interest in, nor much more knowledge of, the history of accession and succession of the Stuarts—nor much of either in the policies of Bonaparte—understood this to be an utter impossibility, politically at least, if not historically.

  “They may all be in it together, Sir; I should not be surprised in the least,” answered Mr. Hartsbury with weighty significance, pulling down the tabs of his waistcoat in a decisive gesture, as though to say the matter was settled.

  “Marvellous, Mr. Hartsbury! —I congratulate you on the acuity of your insight,” Pender assured him. “May I ask, have you communicated these deductions to the authorities? I have no doubt but what they would find them extremely noteworthy.”

  Mr. Hartsbury seemed pleased, and, laying a finger alongside his nose, said knowingly, “I have been waiting for events to mature, but on our return I believe I shall speak with my second cousin, who is an under-secretary in the War Office.”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge of the affair,” said Pender, “to determine whether the matter can safely rest that long; it seems to me altogether too important to brook delay, but, as I say, your understanding of the matter is far beyond the reach of mine own, lesser comprehension.”

  Pender then turned to both Darcy and Bingley, saying, “There is a lesson here for us all, that one must never be too heedless and quick to judge, when considering novel theories, or the penetration some minds are capable of; and that we all may be instructed on matters of deep import.” To Mr. Hartsbury he said, “May I say, Mr. Hartsbury, my opinion of Cambridge, and your own college especially, has been greatly strengthened by our time spent together.”

  Mr. Hartsbury nodded his thanks; Pender nodded also, and nodded again, with preternatural solemnity, to Darcy and Bingley.

  Chapter Eight

  There is, perhaps, no need to describe all the details of the excursion: the delights of the English countryside in summer, the picturesque of the Bristol Channel, and the sleepy timelessness of the mid-countries: other authors have done so at length, and their considerable efforts are not to be improved upon. When the party reached Worcester, however, Darcy found a letter waiting for him from his steward, Stevenson, to the effect that there had recently been an incident on the estate involving James Sayers: he had discovered some poachers on the grounds, and, in attempting injudiciously to drive them off, had been injured, though not seriously. The poachers, who were not local men, had been apprehended; as a result of the injury done Sayers, who was widely held to be a thoroughly harmless individual, given he was rarely himself, the sentiment in the neighbourhood was heavily against them, and threatened violence; Stevenson requested that, as his master was soon to arrive at any rate, he might hasten his arrival to take the situation in hand. Therefore, when the party stopped early that afternoon in Lichfield, Darcy took to horse, continuing as far as Derby that night, and on to Pemberley the next morning.

  Arriving home, he walked around to the front entrance, rather than wend his way through the house to reach the small office where he might expect to find Stevenson. On turning the corner of the house, he saw standing on the lawn with his gardener a small knot of visitors, most likely just come from the house and about to continue with the tour of the park; this was a not uncommon occurrence at this time of year, and he was asking himself whether his improving courtesy called on him to greet them personally, or whether he might just go on about his business, when his glance was captured by one of the party, a young lady, who brought Elizabeth strongly to mind. He was reprimanding his senses for interpreting the world according to his fancies, rather than reporting what was actually before them, when a second look corrected him: it was, indeed, Elizabeth! —she stood on his lawn, not twenty paces away! This was a development of all others most unexpected: he felt a hundred things in an instant, but they very quickly merged into a single, pressing need to show her that he had mended his ways. Abruptly awakened, his aspirations to civility did most imperiously demand that he show her a better view of himself: to demonstrate that her refusal of him, far from being a source of resentment, had been taken as instruction on how to better himself.

  She, on the other hand, had turned instinctively away from him, as indeed why should she not, with her very natural distress at finding herself again in his company; what could be worse than having to see him again, and re-live all the distress and confusion he had caused her at Hunsford? The walk from where he first saw her to where she stood was the longest of his life, and he could not help observing how little she desired to be received by him: her demeanour clearly showed how much she had rather flee than accept his greeting—she looked anywhere but at him, and she had coloured noticeably on his appearance, clearly signalling her displeasure at being thus discovered by him; nevertheless, he forced his feet to carry him forward against this silent gale of disapproval, in hopes of proving to her how sincerely he had tried to correct his faults. All across the lawn to her side, he heard “a more gentleman-like manner” resounding in his mind.

  On reaching her, he began, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, this is an unexpected honour, and a very great pleasure.” While he tried for a measured and open tone, he was certain that, in his discomposure, his words sounded forced and harsh. He tried again: “I hope you will allow me to welcome you to Derbyshire, and Pemberley.”

  The lady made a proper, yet subdued curtsey, thanking him briefly in a quiet way. Darcy then asked, “How does your family do?” —hoping by an uncommon degree of sincerity to render this most commonplace of enquiries a gesture of true concern and interest. Elizabeth was silent, looking down to avoid his eye; trying to
catch a glimpse of her face, he continued, “They are all quite well, I hope? But perhaps you have not heard from them, as you are traveling. Have you been travelling long?” She remained resolutely withdrawn, answering in a short phrase spoken so low its meaning was lost to him, and barely looking his way as she spoke. Her manifest discomfort distressed him exceedingly, and all his regrets welled up within him. Still, determined to hear greater comfort in her accent, he pushed on: “But I trust they were well when you left; how long have you been in the country?”

  Here her civility finally compelled her to reply in full sentences: “We have been traveling some two weeks now, Sir. We arrived in Derbyshire on Saturday.” She then looked away again, but Darcy was encouraged by even this slight improvement.

  “And where do you stay? In Lambton?” Receiving only a brief nod, he went on, “I often thought of Lambton while I staid in the neighbourhood of Meryton. Of course the countryside here is much different. Have you seen much of Derbyshire? When did you leave Longbourn?” Hearing himself speaking in such hasty, graceless phrases, knowing he was repeating himself, he ordered his brain to cease its idling and look to its duties; unfortunately, his brain did not seem to be attending, and he struggled to think what else might be said. It was not made easier by the fact that Elizabeth was become even lovelier during his long absence from her, and that he felt her eyes upon him as he struggled. He tried one or two topics, awkward and hurried, but when he found himself on the verge of asking how long she had been from Longbourn for the third—or was it the fourth? —time, he stopped speaking entirely, racking his brain and commanding his thoughts forward into the van, but for nought; while unbearably disappointed in himself, he simply could not lay tongue to another idea.

  This left him nothing to do but absent himself, that he might spare the lady’s embarrassment, as she was clearly suffering under the influence of his presence. His last, halting words were, “Well, if you will excuse me, then…. Please…,” the last being accompanied by a vague gesture towards the Park. At the end, though, he was at least able to marshal his abilities well enough to produce a bow that was as courteous as he required it to be.