Chapter Fifteen #4
He looked, as he spoke, towards the window, where Elizabeth happened to be standing with Mary, examining the fine day.
There was a moment’s silence. Then he added, in a different tone, “But I find there is business still to be settled about the lower meadow, and I cannot, in conscience, leave it to others. I shall write to my aunt to say that circumstances at Pemberley detain me a little longer.”
Georgiana’s countenance brightened at once. Elizabeth, who overheard, could not determine whether his change of plan arose wholly from solicitude for his tenants, or whether some other consideration had weight with him.
The following morning, when Georgiana, at Elizabeth’s earnest desire, had taken Mary to show her a favourite turning of the stream, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves, for a few minutes, alone upon the higher path.
The air was keen but still. A thin mist lay in the hollows, whilst the rising ground on which they walked stood clear in the pale sunshine.
“My sister will fatigue Miss Mary with all her recollections,” he said at length, looking after them.
“She has a great partiality for that bend in the water. My father taught her there to distinguish the notes of the different birds. She was very young when we lost him, yet she remembers that morning as distinctly as if it were yesterday.”
“It is no wonder she loves the place. A scene which unites beauty with a tender remembrance may well be dearer than the finest prospect in the world.”
He was silent for a few steps, then said, with less steadiness, “I have sometimes feared that Pemberley might be more burden than blessing to her. The expectations that attend such a house are not always gentle. I would have her regard it as a home, not a weight she must help me to bear.”
“From what I have seen,” Elizabeth replied, “Pemberley is the happier for having you both. If there is any weight, it appears to be supported with so much affection that it ceases to oppress.”
He turned his head quickly towards her. “You are quite indulgent,” he said. “There was a time when you did not see me so. I hope, at least, that I have learnt to deserve the good opinion you are now so generous as to bestow.”
Elizabeth hesitated, weighing her words. “If there has been any change,” she said at last, “it has been not in my indulgence, but in my understanding. I knew too little once. I know better now.”
There was in his look, as he met her eyes, a gratitude so deep and so restrained that she could not support it. She turned, under pretence of admiring the view, and fixed her gaze upon the sweep below, till Georgiana’s light step and Mary’s greeting restored them to a safer subject.
Clouds
Even Pemberley could not always provide sunny days.
One day, a fine drizzle and low-hanging cloud made any long walk uncomfortable.
Georgiana apologised for the Derbyshire weather, but Elizabeth, who could not bear that a little rain should damp all cheerfulness, proposed that they should colonise the small sitting-room which had been appropriated to their use.
“It wants only a few books and a work-table to be perfect,” she said. “If you will trust me with the arrangement of your treasures for an hour, Miss Darcy, I shall endeavour not to disgrace Pemberley.”
Georgiana consented with a blush and a smile. Mr. Darcy, who had been engaged with a letter at the further table, folded it and joined them.
“If my sister’s treasures are to be endangered,” he observed, “I must at least be present to plead for any that are in danger of banishment.”
The occupation, trifling as it was, proved more consequential than Elizabeth had expected.
To consider where Georgiana’s books should stand, what view was best from the chosen work-chair, how the light fell upon the embroidery-frame, obliged her to think not merely of present convenience, but of future habit.
As she moved a little table nearer the window or drew a chair closer to the fire, she pictured the gentle figure that would occupy it when she herself was gone.
The image of some other future mistress, whose taste might approve or condemn these alterations, gave her a pang which she could neither account for nor wholly suppress.
Mr. Darcy, who had taken upon himself the office of carrying the heavier items, watched her silently. When she hesitated between placing a small collection of poetry upon the table or returning it to the shelf, he spoke.
“Pray indulge my sister,” he said. “She has not courage to confess how much she prefers Thomson to Blair. If you leave her no excuse for idling over verse, she will persuade herself that she ought to be reading French.”
“Then I shall certainly keep the poetry at hand,” Elizabeth replied. “I should be sorry to make Pemberley less agreeable to any of its inhabitants.”
Mary looked up from examining the spines.
“There is no danger of that,” she said. “A house which can boast both Thomson and Blair in handsome editions is already in a more rational state than many I could name.”
Mr. Darcy’s smile, at this approbation, had in it so much of honest pleasure that Elizabeth, felt warmth in her own heart which no fire could explain. It seemed, in that moment, as if his delight at her sister’s praise of his library were, in some small degree, her own.
That evening, Georgiana was carried off by Mary, who had discovered a volume of Cowper in which several favourite passages were marked.
Elizabeth, left in the music-room whilst they consulted over which pieces should be played after dinner, amused herself by turning over the leaves of Georgiana’s small portfolio, where a few neatly copied airs and exercises lay arranged.
Mr. Darcy entered. He stopped, as if surprised to find her alone.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I came in search of my sister. Mrs. Annesley believed she was here.”
“She has only just deserted the room,” Elizabeth replied. “Mary laid violent hands upon her, in order to determine whether Cowper is more edifying than Handel. I am not equal to the argument, and so was left in disgrace among the music.”
A smile touched his features.
“Georgiana is in no danger of preferring anything to Handel for long,” he said. “Yet I am glad she has found such counsellors. She has been too much used to deciding every thing by my opinion.”
He drew nearer as he spoke, and his eye fell upon the loose sheets before her.
“You have been looking over her portfolio?”
“Only in idle curiosity. I discovered that she has set one of Mary’s favourite hymns, very prettily, for the pianoforte.” Elizabeth held out the page in question. “She is more industrious than she chooses to appear.”
He took the paper, and for a moment their fingers touched. It was nothing—a mere instant, scarcely to be noticed—yet the colour rose to her cheeks with a rapidity that mortified her. He appeared, however, to notice nothing but his sister’s neat hand.
“She began this last month,” he said. “I pressed her too much, I believe. She would never own that the exercise fatigued her.” He hesitated, then added, in a lower tone, “She would not have had courage to show it to you, had you not been there to draw her out of herself.”
“I have done very little,” Elizabeth answered. “She wanted only encouragement. You have done every thing that was of consequence, in making her happy enough to wish to please others.”
He looked at her then with a seriousness that made her, in spite of herself, drop her eyes.
“If she is happier,” he said, “it is because Pemberley has been blessed, of late, with guests who think as much of her comfort as I do.”
There was a warmth in his voice that would not be mistaken. Elizabeth, to escape the confusion into which it threw her, turned again to the table.
“You must not give me more credit than I deserve,” she said, striving to speak lightly. “I have only persuaded her that Cowper may be read without danger, even in Derbyshire.”
“You have persuaded her of a great deal more than that,” he returned. “She speaks of you in a manner that tells me, plainly, how much she values your opinion.”
“She speaks of me?” Elizabeth repeated, looking up in astonishment.
“To me,” he said simply. “When we walk together, she tells me what you have advised, and what you have laughed at, and what you have praised. I have not often seen her so eager to repeat another person’s opinions.”
Elizabeth scarcely knew what answer to make. To know that Georgiana discussed her so openly with her brother, and that he, in turn, listened with satisfaction, gave her a sensation for which she could hardly account.
“Your sister is partial to all who are kind to her,” she said at last. “You must not let her prejudice you in my favour.”
“I do not think I stand in need of any one else’s prejudice on that subject,” he replied quietly.
The words, simple as they were, seemed to leave no room for raillery.
Elizabeth was aware of the peril of allowing such to proceed.
She was saved from attempting any answer by the opening of the door and Georgiana’s entrance, with Mary in close attendance and a volume of Cowper in her hand.
The general conversation that followed soon restored everyone to composure until Mr. Darcy again mentioned his leaving soon for Rosings.
“You will be gone before we have half exhausted the beauties of your grounds,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Pemberley will have to do without its master.”
“Pemberley has never done better than now,” he answered, the earnestness of his tone startling her. “It will be the more reason for me to bring my business in Kent to a speedy conclusion.”
He turned then to Georgiana’s companion.
“I leave you, Mrs. Annesley, with heavy charges,” he said. “You must take care of my sister, and of my—” He checked himself, then added, with a slight bow to Mary and Elizabeth, “of our guests.”