Читать книгу Pemberley Shades - D. A.Bonavia-Hunt - Страница 8

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At an early hour next morning Darcy rode off with Acworth to view the parish. It was agreed between himself and Elizabeth that she should remain at home to entertain Major Wakeford until his return, when she and Georgiana were to drive over to Stowell to visit an elderly friend of the family, by name Lady Tyrrell, in fulfilment of a regular engagement. Elizabeth did debate with him whether, as this was Major Wakeford’s first day at Pemberley, they had better not defer their visit until the following week, but Darcy saw not the least reason for their doing so, and assured her that he would be back long before they were to start.

After her daily conference with Mrs. Reynolds, and a short time spent in the nursery with Richard, Elizabeth went in search of Major Wakeford. She had seen him last in the hall with Darcy and Acworth, but he was there no longer, nor in the library, nor in the breakfast-parlour.

But on stepping outside a window which stood open, she saw him walking along a path leading away from the house, and making his way slowly with the help of a stick. It needed but a few moments to re-enter the house, despatch one of the servants for a parasol, and to overtake him going in the direction of a seat under a Spanish chestnut tree.

“We face the sun here; it may be too sunny for you,” said Major Wakeford as they sat down together.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I love the sun.”

“I have always heard that ladies feared its effects upon their complexion.”

Elizabeth smiled and said that of course women had to think of their appearance, but that she did not believe in sacrificing wholesome enjoyment for fear of a few freckles. “I snatch any excuse for staying out-of-doors in such weather as this,” she added, “so I shall assume that you are in need of entertainment and that I am to supply it. But you will think that I am going about it very strangely when I begin asking you all manner of questions. You have known my husband a very long time, I believe.”

“Since we were boys. The late Mr. Darcy used to invite me to Pemberley. We were about ten when we first met.”

“So you came often?”

“I came nearly every summer holiday. When I was eighteen I entered the army and thenceforward we did not see much of one another.”

“You had not met Georgiana before yesterday, I think.”

“I had, but she was then so young that it is well-nigh impossible she should remember me. The last time I stayed at Pemberley she could not have been more than four or five years old.”

“No doubt you find Pemberley much changed from what it was then.”

“It is the same house, with the same prospect that I have often called to mind. Changes there are, but only such as the years must bring. Darcy is master here, and married, and Miss Darcy is grown up into a young lady. I, too, am changed, however.”

Elizabeth fancied that he spoke with regret of the changes he had found. It occurred to her that he did not much relish coming upon Darcy again as a married man, or that he did not wholly approve of the wife he had chosen. Gallantry was not in his nature, perhaps, but almost any other man would have marked the occasion with a compliment.

“I cannot think that my husband is very much different from what he was formerly,” she said. “His is a very consistent character.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“He has often spoken to me of you.”

“Darcy does not forget his friends.”

It struck Elizabeth that Major Wakeford had at least one trait in common with her husband. Neither was conversable with strangers. She was chagrined that he should treat her as one when she had intended him to be captivated by the simplicity of her manner, the warmth and sincerity of her address. Never before had she exerted herself to be agreeable with so little success. Fearing that he resented her enquiries as proceeding from a petty inquisitiveness, her cheeks grew hot and she could think of nothing to say that would not incur the criticism of so severe a man. But while she rejected this observation as inane, and that as too personal, he surprised her by saying as the fruit of his own pondering, “He is a very fortunate man. But so he always was.”

“On that head we are agreed,” she exclaimed. “He has had his own way in everything ever since he was born.”

“But he deserves it. Or it may be truer to say that he has made the best possible use of his endowments.”

“In that case he is justly fortunate, for as to natural endowments, they can be so abused as to bring their possessor to ruin. I have seen that more often than increase of good. Is not virtue more signally displayed in a struggle against adversity?”

“It is generally supposed that the practice of virtue is easier in prosperity. But we are getting into deep waters.”

Elizabeth did her best to conceal her sense of affront to her intelligence; for how could he know that he was talking to one who was reputedly the cleverest and wittiest woman in Derbyshire? But bethinking herself that she would treasure up the circumstance to relate to Darcy the next time he wanted enlivening, she directed a sparkling gaze upon him and said archly, “Do you mean that we women get out of our depth directly we stray from the concrete and particular as my husband has sometimes informed me?”

“I am afraid I do not know how to talk to ladies,” he replied humbly. “I am a soldier, and have lived for the most part among simple, ignorant men.”

“I can assure you that women prefer sincerity to compliments,” she said with a return to gravity.

After some further talk in the unforced strain of progressing acquaintance, Wakeford suggested they should walk down to the stream. “The sight of water is for me always a compulsion to go to it,” he said.

They set off at a slow pace over the grass. Major Wakeford said that although many years had gone by since he had last visited Pemberley, he came back to it with a perfect recollection of its woods and hills, the course of the stream and even the bushes growing along its banks. “It is very little altered,” he observed. “There was a pool where we used to bathe, but it lies beyond my walking powers. Yonder it is,” and he pointed with his stick towards a part of the river where the woods on the farther side descended close to its verge. “And there was a tree higher than the rest that we climbed for a lookout over the surrounding country beyond the park—a tall ash. I see it no longer. Perhaps it has been cut down. There was a whole dead branch, I remember, and the foliage at the top was sparse and poor. But it served our purpose well.”

He turned about with an awkward movement and Elizabeth fancied that he felt he had come far enough. She suggested that they should go back to the house. As they went, still walking beside the river that he might watch the movements of trout in the water, Richard was seen at some distance away in his pony carriage, attended as usual by his little groom and two nurses. Elizabeth made a sign for the child to be brought to her, and as soon as he was near enough she went to him, lifted him out of his carriage and held him up to see the stream. A trout leaped out of the water close beside them, and this so excited the child that he wriggled out of her arms and ran to a spot where rushes grew out from the brink into the river-bed itself. Instantly Major Wakeford dropped his stick, and snatching him away from the water’s edge, held him struggling and kicking in his one hand until his mother could take him. On relinquishing the little boy, either his injured leg gave way or he lost his balance, and he fell heavily to the ground.

Bidding the nurses see to Richard, Elizabeth ran to Wakeford and endeavoured to help him to rise to his feet. He made a great effort to do so, but try as he might he could not; the injured leg was now powerless. As there was no means of moving him at hand, Richard’s groom was sent to the house for assistance. Never did time seem to pass so slowly while he was gone. Major Wakeford lay on the ground, supporting himself on one elbow and Elizabeth knelt beside him, her horrified concern none the less acute for the wretched conviction that she alone was to blame for what had happened. She should have foreseen Richard’s sudden movement and held him more firmly. A strong, vigorous child, he was already impetuous and active beyond his years. Thoughtlessness was answerable for all. Her imagination, flying on, beheld Major Wakeford continuing as helpless as he was now for the rest of his life. She controlled her agitation as well as she could for his sake, but even in his extreme pain he could not but be aware of it, and he begged her not to be distressed. “It was my fault entirely,” said he. “I should not have thrown away my stick in attempting a movement to which my leg was unequal. The little boy could have been held back without that.”

Again and again did she cast her eyes in the direction from which help should come. At last there appeared several of the outdoor servants, two of them carrying a hurdle between them. Behind them came Darcy and with his long stride soon outstripped the men. Elizabeth went to meet him and walking back beside him related how the injury to Major Wakeford had occurred. He asked a question or two, then spoke to his friend, and as soon as the servants came up, instructed them exactly what they should do. The hurdle was lowered to the ground and he himself helped to move Wakeford on to it with an experienced hand. More than once had he performed such an office on the hunting-field.

Carrying their burden slowly and with every precaution against jolting, the bearers walked back to the house and, upon Darcy’s direction, straight upstairs to Wakeford’s room where he was laid upon his bed. There was now much to be done. The housekeeper came hurrying to offer her services and the discreet advice of an old servant. Seeing that the poor gentleman looked quite spent, she went off to fetch some cordial of her own making. Elizabeth sat with the sufferer while Darcy went to the library to write a note to Mr. Roper, the family physician, and arrange for its delivery.

Major Wakeford lay silent with his eyes closed, maintaining a soldier’s fortitude. Elizabeth watched him in anxiety not to fail of any service were it required, and every other thought was banished from her head. Presently a housemaid, sent by Mrs. Reynolds, entered the room to kindle a fire upon the hearth. Having performed her office, she left the room, but the next instant returned and approached her mistress, saying, “If you please, ma’am, I am bid to say that the carriage is at the door.”

The engagement to Lady Tyrrell had been entirely forgotten. Elizabeth’s first impulse was to send the carriage back to the stables, but before she could give the order, Darcy returned, and hearing what she proposed, expressed a contrary opinion.

She needed some persuasion, but he could see that she was agitated almost to tears, and was determined that she should not witness the suffering Mr. Roper must of necessity inflict upon his patient when attending to him. She consented at last to go. He appeared so calm, so hopeful even that no lasting injury had been sustained by their guest, that her conscience upbraided her less than it had done, and she could begin to give some thought to other matters. Before they parted she asked him how Mr. Acworth had behaved on the ride that morning.

“He was not very communicative,” said Darcy, “at least not to me, and I do not think he trusted his horse. He has not a good seat and appears little accustomed to the saddle. It was for that reason probably that he did not display much interest in his surroundings. On our way back we called at the Parsonage and there I left him, for Miss Robinson insisted that he should see all over the house and garden, and I was in some haste to be at home again—rightly as it turned out. To my surprise he agreed with alacrity. There is no accounting for taste—he and Miss Robinson seemed absolutely charmed with one another.”

“Old ladies can be very partial to young men,” said Elizabeth.

“And insinuating young men will flatter old ladies to the top of their bent,” rejoined Darcy.

“He could have nothing to gain by that,” she said, looking surprised. “You should have warned him against such scheming women as they are.”

“Any advice of the sort would have been thrown away,” said he dryly. “I could see that he was laughing at them in his sleeve.”

On the way to Stowell in the carriage Elizabeth and Georgiana talked chiefly of Major Wakeford. Georgiana had heard no more than that he had had a fall, and Elizabeth found some relief in giving her a detailed account of the accident and its effects, for she still could not acquit herself of blameworthiness in the matter. Georgiana did not express any great concern, since that was not her way, but her few words and thoughtful look betokened no lack of feeling. A most painful impression was made upon her by suffering in any form, and this fresh blow to one who had already endured so much horrified her.

They arrived nearly half an hour late at Stowell Lodge and to excuse their unpunctuality before all else, Elizabeth acquainted Lady Tyrrell with the reason for it, and the whole story was gone through again. The old lady’s attention was caught by Major Wakeford’s name, and being much addicted to genealogies and family histories, she began to connect him with all the Wakefords up and down the country. On hearing that he was of the Devonshire branch, she was able at once to confer upon him a very rich aunt, a widow and childless, who could be depended upon to leave him the greater part of her fortune, if not all. Happy in the glow of vicarious benefaction, she bequeathed him three thousand a year and a charming property near Bath. In the meantime she had no scruples in adding at least ten years to the age of her dear friend, Mrs. Chalmers, in order that the period of expectation might not be too protracted.

When they got home again they found that Mr. Roper had come and gone, having done all that was required for the present. He had found Major Wakeford’s knee out of joint and had put it back into place, not without considerable pain to the patient. Wakeford had also sprained his ankle in falling, but not very severely, and it could be expected to mend in a week or ten days at most.

Concerning the knee there was astonishing and welcome news. It was thought that a slight displacement of the joint which had not before been discovered, and had therefore remained uncorrected, was the cause of all its former stiffness. In Mr. Roper’s opinion, given with professional cautiousness, the dislocation having now been rectified, there was no reason why after a short period of rest Major Wakeford should not be able to walk as well as he had ever done.

Besides Mr. Roper there had been another caller. Mortimer had enquired for Mr. Acworth. Elizabeth heard from Mrs. Reynolds that the gentlemen had walked up and down the terrace for some time, and she could not help wondering what two such oddly contrasted persons could have found to say to one another. Enlightenment came later from Acworth himself. At dinner he spoke of his meeting with Mortimer, to whom he referred as remarkably agreeable.

“He entered so completely into my difficulties,” he said to Darcy. “I told him that of late I had suffered from a nervous spasm of the throat which caught me unawares at critical moments, and prevented me from articulating distinctly. He said he would be only too happy to afford me any assistance in church short of preaching the sermon—an offer I gladly accepted.”

Darcy looked astonished and not very well pleased, and his reply, though acquiescent, was coldly formal. Elizabeth thought it very strange that Mr. Acworth had not so far manifested any sign of the curious malady to which he laid claim, and that he should be less nervous of preaching the sermon than of reading the service. With Mr. Mortimer it was quite the other way about. He frankly confessed that getting up into the pulpit was for him like mounting the scaffold.

But the vagaries of Mr. Acworth could not long occupy her thoughts. For the time being Major Wakeford held foremost place in them, since she had much to do for him, and spent a great part of each day in his room. Her desire for his welfare embraced not only a speedy recovery from his present disablement, but the amendment of his fortunes, and she longed to see him happily settled in the fullest enjoyment of health, wealth and an amiable wife. They were now on such terms that she could say almost anything she chose to him without fear of misapprehension, and one day as she sat beside his couch she laid aside the book from which she had been reading aloud and told him he ought to marry. He smiled and shook his head.

“It would be great presumption on the part of a half-pay major—and maimed at that—to propose marriage to any young lady. To enter into an engagement! No, that would be inexcusable.”

“Your circumstances may improve,” she said.

“I see no likelihood of it at present,” he replied.

Remembering Lady Tyrrell’s prophecy of money coming to him, she resolved to find out the truth of it.

“Most of us have expectations, however modest,” she continued, “though a small bequest may be merely a nuisance, involving more lawyer’s business than profit. To be really worth while, a legacy should not be under ten thousand pounds—thirty thousand would be even better. There is also the question of the testator. A distant, unknown relative is to be preferred. A wealthy uncle, for instance, shut up for the last twenty years in a gloomy mansion, or an aunt—”

“I have a rich aunt,” said Wakeford, “but her money is all to go to a nephew of her late husband.”

“I would make it a law that rich aunts should divide their money among all their deserving nephews.”

“And how would you assess a nephew’s desert?” he enquired with a smile.

“That might be difficult, I admit,” she replied. “But if it were to rest on a written testimonial, I would be happy to write one for you.”

This conversation Elizabeth a little later repeated to Darcy. As she foresaw, he remonstrated with her for prying into Wakeford’s private concerns. She defended herself by arguing that if Lady Tyrrell were to put into circulation a report of wealth coming to him, it behoved his friends to know and spread the truth. To this he replied that people commonly believed what pleased them best, and often in defiance of proof to the contrary.

“All I can say is that it is a most irrational world.”

“Many of the men and women in it are.”

“It would do him good to marry,” she said. “Do not you agree?”

“The good of marriage depends on a man’s choice.”

“What I hope is that by and by he will meet with some good, sensible woman, someone as kind and unselfish as dear Jane, who will make him as truly happy as he deserves.”

“Nothing could be better,” said Darcy, “so long as you do not set about choosing the lady. I do assure you that men prefer choosing their wives for themselves.”

“So I have heard, though by all accounts it is a method that does not always succeed. Fitz, tell me, what is a major’s half-pay?”

When he told her she was horrified. “But that is indigence,” she exclaimed.

“He will succeed to his father’s estate in due course,” said Darcy. “It is not a large one—under two thousand a year I believe—and there are several sisters to be provided for.”

“But the father may live for many years to come.”

“That no one can tell. He is already well over sixty. As soon as Wakeford is able to lead an active life again I have a notion that he will consider it his duty to return home and help with the management of the estate.”

“He is the sort of man who would always do his duty, however difficult and disagreeable.”

‘‘That is his ruling characteristic.”

“How strange it is that there should be two men in a state of affliction under our roof at one time. And yet how different they are in every other respect, not least in the way in which they bear their misfortune.”

‘‘They could not well be more different,” said Darcy with some emphasis.

“Does your opinion of Mr. Acworth remain what it was?”

“I have not yet formed one,” he replied gravely. “There is something I do not comprehend, but I am persuaded that it is from lack of proper knowledge. Never have I experienced so much discrepancy between this man as he was reputed to be and as he has shown himself on acquaintance. Either he has changed very much from what he was formerly, or—”

“What is the alternative?” she asked, as he checked himself.

He shrugged his shoulders. “None that I can think of,” he answered.

It was so plainly evident that he did not wish to say anything further on the subject just then that Elizabeth forbore to press him, and began speaking of another matter. Her curiosity concerning Mr. Acworth which had slept of late was, however, revived. She had seen little of him for several days and how he spent his time she hardly knew. But from that time she began to observe him, to note his looks, his behaviour and any signs of unhappiness and ill-health. His unhappiness was soon not in doubt, but the motive was less certain, and she was disposed to agree with Georgiana that he appeared not so much afflicted by grief for the loss of his wife as out of humour with his surroundings or his company.

One evening after tea, Darcy having gone upstairs to Major Wakeford’s room to play a game of chess with his friend, Elizabeth and Georgiana sat alone with Acworth in the little drawing-room. To make amends for any remissness towards him which he might have felt, she offered him an apology for her recent neglect of his entertainment, attributing it to her preoccupation with Major Wakeford’s unfortunate condition. The effect upon him was immediate, almost startling. He smiled and begged her not to think that he had anything to complain of, and though in answer to her enquires he confessed to headaches and sleeplessness, all his vivacity of the first evening returned and he appeared most eager to converse. Elizabeth learnt for the first time that he paid an almost daily visit to the Parsonage where the Miss Robinsons had put at his disposal the late Rector’s study and all his theological books. He disclosed that he had been begged to make himself completely at home, to treat the house, in fact, as if it were already his own. Such transparent tactics were extremely diverting, and Elizabeth allowed her amusement to become visible. Emboldened, perhaps, by something more of ease in her manner than he had before experienced, he proceeded to give an imitation of the ladies in one of their famous disputes—Miss Robinson angrily haranguing and bearing down her younger sister, the latter becoming sillier and sillier and finally completely losing her head—and with such success that Elizabeth was overcome with laughter. But seeing that Georgiana, though also laughing, was half scandalized by his mimicry, she exerted herself to recover her composure and with it her dignity. Turning to Georgiana, she asked for some music.

Georgiana was very willing to oblige, and sitting down at the pianoforte, gave a spirited rendering of a set of oldworld dances. Mr. Acworth professed himself enraptured. “How rare it is,” he exclaimed, “to find a young lady able to enter into the mind of the composer and with an execution so perfectly at the command of the most exigent taste.”

After Georgiana had played again he entreated Mrs. Darcy to sing, praising her voice in terms that Elizabeth found fulsome and absurd. She could not altogether refuse, but having sung one short song, she asked him whether he did not also perform, momentarily forgetting that he had once spoken of possessing a violin. Nothing could give him greater pleasure, so he assured her, and asking leave to fetch his instrument, he departed in quest of it.

While he was gone Elizabeth had time to reflect upon the change in his aspect from gloom and dissatisfaction to joyous animation. That a little music should work such a transformation seemed incredible. She began to think that what he really desired was to be taken notice of. Evidently, in spite all his protestations to the contrary, he had felt himself neglected.

He returned carrying his violin and a sheaf of music, and for an hour or more Georgiana tried over one piece after another. From frequent attendance at concerts while in London, Elizabeth had heard many famous musicians and had learnt to distinguish their particular merits and the varying degrees of their attainment. She perceived very soon that Acworth was no ordinary performer. Not only was he completely the master of his instrument, but also he possessed that power over the emotions of his hearers without which skill alone is of little value. She listened with the fullest enjoyment, but when her first astonishment had abated, her thoughts became busy with the man himself, trying to reconcile his unusual gifts with his birth and the sort of upbringing he must have had as a nobleman’s son. His impersonation of the Miss Robinsons had been a perfect imitation of both, and had displayed an uncommon sense of character as well as a happy invention. In the course of conversation he displayed a wide, rather than a solid education, with much diversity of reading. And yet not infrequently he said and did what was not in good taste, and betrayed ignorance of the usages of polite society. Upon any consideration, viewed in any light, he was extraordinary.

Towards the end of a piece in which great demands were made upon the principal performer, Elizabeth saw Darcy come into the room. He advanced slowly and noiselessly until he reached the hearth, where he took up his station a little behind the players, and there composed himself to listen. The music reaching its conclusion, Acworth turned towards Elizabeth and made her a low bow.

“I salute my audience of one,” he said with a smile of conscious pride.

“No, we are now two,” she replied, indicating her husband. “Mr. Darcy came in a little while ago. We have been sharing a very great pleasure.”

Darcy cordially assented. Nevertheless Acworth’s countenance fell; he looked all at once as if he had eaten the sour grapes of which he had made mention in his sermon the previous Sunday.