Chapter Fifteen #2
“That,” said Mrs. Annesley, with a satisfied nod, “is all the wisdom I could ask of you.”
If each felt, in some small, secret corner of her mind, that there might be harmless ways of observing which bordered nearly upon planning, neither was yet prepared to confess it, even to so sympathetic a confidante.
One Noble Prospect
The days that followed fell into a course so natural that Elizabeth could almost forget how little right she had to find them so.
Mornings were generally spent abroad. Georgiana, at first timid of deciding for the party, soon took delight in leading her guests along the walks she loved best, along shaded paths or up through the slopes where the valley and river spread beneath in soft morning light.
Elizabeth often fell a little behind, pausing where a turn of the ground revealed the house far below, peaceful among its woods, her heart quick as though the sight itself breathed life into her.
Georgiana’s shyness soon gave way to animation; colour rose in her cheeks as she pointed out places she and her brother had loved as children. Days slipped away, with so much quiet enjoyment that Elizabeth could sometimes forget how soon the visit must end.
Mary, delighted by every ordered glade and rustic bench, quoted Cowper in tones of deep satisfaction. “No mind properly sensible of its blessings,” she observed, “could view this without gratitude.” Elizabeth smiled, but the word gratitude sat uneasily on her spirits.
One morning they ventured beyond the park to a rise of ground overlooking the hills.
Darcy named the valleys and the various reaches of his own land, and the line, scarcely to be distinguished, where Pemberley ended and another man’s estate began.
Elizabeth barely caught his words—only his voice mingling with the wind and the soft music of sheep-bells.
The rocky height commanded a wide range of country.
Soft green hills were broken here and there by darker crags, with the silver of a distant river gleaming in the hollow.
Evenings found them in the music-room. Georgiana and Mary played duets, and now and then Elizabeth joined beside them.
Darcy listened, sometimes speaking of small household matters—a servant’s comfort, a tenant’s child—and before she knew it, she was answering him as if such conversation had always been her own.
She had slipped into a place in that domestic circle which did not, in truth, belong to her.
Meddling
Mary and Georgiana had taken themselves away from the company to Pemberley’s music-room, which, being near the garden, afforded both a pleasant outlook and immediate retreat, should anyone inconveniently enter.
“It must be evident to anyone,” began Mary, with the air of one announcing a scientific truth, “that my sister Elizabeth and your brother Mr. Darcy are destined for one another. I declare, it is as clear as Euclid.”
Georgiana, who was unpractised in Euclid but rich in enthusiasm, clasped her hands.
“Oh yes— plain, indeed! Only—they will not believe it. When she smiles, he grows silent, when he grows silent, she grows guarded. I do not know how they manage to misunderstand so exactly. Only—I sometimes think they do not know it themselves.”
“Precisely the difficulty,” said Mary, nodding gravely. “There exists between them a sort of philosophical blindness. Each esteems the other excessively and therefore imagines that affection could never be returned.”
“How unfortunate! Do you think we might help?” Georgiana cried, her colour rising.
“I see no harm in facilitating natural communication,” said Mary, in the tone of one declaring her conscience wholly clear.
“If they are to understand one another, they must be permitted the opportunity. All they require is a little direction—an adjustment of circumstances to promote mutual understanding.”
Georgiana’s eyes grew wide. “You mean—to bring them together accidentally on purpose?”
“Within the bounds of propriety, of course,” said Mary, whose definition of propriety, when employed in so good a cause, admitted of remarkable elasticity. “A few select opportunities for conversation—walks, dinners, quiet evenings. We shall provide the occasion. They must provide the declaration.”
Georgiana mused. “My brother never speaks freely before company, and your sister never suffers herself to sit idle near him.”
Mary brightened. “Then we shall take precautions. You or I may be called away at the most convenient moments—sent suddenly on errands, or obliged to turn a page of music in the next room. People make progress only when left alone.”
Georgiana’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, how very noble—to sacrifice our own presence for their happiness! We shall retire discreetly whenever occasion serves. If three chairs stand too near the fire, why—one might require removing.”
“Exactly so. A delicate vigilance,” said Mary. “We must seem always available, yet never remain.”
“Oh, Mary,” cried Georgiana, half laughing, “we shall be the most virtuous meddlers in Derbyshire!”
Mary drew herself up with an expression of grave satisfaction. “No meddling is involved, Miss Darcy. It is simply—efficiency.”
They looked at one another, quite unable to suppress their smiles. There was something delicious in imagining themselves agents of destiny—though under the strictest propriety, of course.
They sat in a reverent hush for a few moments, as though contemplating the moral weight of their enterprise, before Georgiana broke into a giggle. “We shall be like characters in a novel! Matchmaking heroines!”
Mary looked alarmed. “Heaven forbid. In novels, such schemes always end in disaster until the final chapter. We must conduct ours with perfect decorum.”
“Perfect decorum,” Georgiana repeated solemnly, before dissolving again into laughter.
Thus the plan was sealed—not with a solemn vow, but with tea, blushes, and a thrilling sense that virtue, at least for that morning, might wear the face of mischief.
The following morning proved fair enough for a walk, which was fortunate, for Mary and Georgiana had already decreed it would be so, regardless of weather.
“Oh, what a lovely day for exercise,” Georgiana declared, looking out the window before breakfast. “We must persuade my brother to join us. He has been far too confined to his study.”
“Indeed,” said Mary, with her most virtuous air, “nothing so restores the intellect as fresh air and conversation. I am sure my sister would agree.”
When Elizabeth soon entered, Georgiana, crimson with the magnitude of her plan, stammered the invitation so imperfectly that Elizabeth turned to Mary in confusion. Mary seized the reins with solemn composure. “We propose a restorative walk. You like the hills, I think?”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Very much. But perhaps Mr. Darcy has other engagements.”
“Oh—none at all!” said Georgiana, too eagerly. “He was only—writing a letter, but—he would not wish to be—left behind.”
This assurance brought on a look of mixed amusement and curiosity from Elizabeth. Darcy appeared five minutes later, as if fate itself had overheard.
Mrs. Annesley, ever tranquil and accommodating, agreed to accompany them, though she made no secret of her intention to find a bench the moment the ground grew uneven.
Thus the party set out: Elizabeth and Darcy a little before, Georgiana and Mary behind, armed with good intentions and poor strategy.
When Mrs. Annesley paused to inspect a wildflower and recommended that the younger ladies go on, Mary saw her chance. “How providential!” she whispered to Georgiana. “We must remain some yards behind. Conversation will flourish in solitude.”
Georgiana nodded eagerly. “Yes—but if we lag too far, they will feel watched.”
“Then we must alter our pace artfully—neither close nor distant.”
This resolution proved more complex than foreseen.
Every time they slowed, Elizabeth and Darcy slowed too, apparently reluctant to walk too far ahead.
Yet when Mary and Georgiana hastened to catch up, the pair resumed their own pace, naturally widening the distance again.
The result was a peculiar dance down the path—four figures constantly shortening and lengthening their intervals, as though some invisible rhythm governed them.
At last Georgiana whispered, “I fear our management is too visible. They keep glancing back.”
Mary sighed. “It cannot be helped. A first attempt will seldom succeed. True benevolence requires perseverance.”
Their chance came at a small bridge crossing a stream, where Mary, recalling her own talk of “moral efficiency,” declared Georgiana fatigued and ready to join Mrs. Annesley on the bench.
“But you will be alone!” Georgiana protested, torn between anxiety and delight.
“I shall rest some moments—contemplating Nature,” Mary said nobly, sitting down upon a stone. “It will answer very well.”
Georgiana went away, and Mary, alone with her conscience, observed Darcy and Elizabeth halt upon the bridge. They spoke softly—Mr. Darcy even stooped to point something out in the water—and Mary clasped her hands in triumph.
Alas, her success was short-lived. A minute later, Darcy looked up and called across the stream, “Miss Bennet! You will take a chill sitting there. Pray join us.”
Mary rose with reluctant obedience, convinced that Providence was perversely arrayed against her. When they all returned to Pemberley, Georgiana asked in a whisper, “Did it go as we hoped?”
Mary sighed. “Not precisely,” she said with pious serenity, “Matchmaking is a laborious form of virtue.”
That evening, Mary and Miss Darcy sat at the pianoforte with the gravity of two conspirators upon whose efforts rested the happiness of nations.
Their plan had been devised that afternoon, after much confidential deliberation. “If conversation fails,” Georgiana had reasoned, “music must supply its place. Nothing softens the heart so instantly.”