Chapter 33
The afternoon lay warm upon the fields, the grass brushed smooth by a soft wind.
Elizabeth met her father at the wicket by the south meadow; his walking-staff served as both prop and measure, the ground uneven enough to warrant its every touch.
They set out along the hedgerow, the scent of hawthorn and new-cut hay drifting in little tides.
“You inspected Harris’s fence this morning,” he said. “What is your verdict?”
“Sound enough where it stands,” Elizabeth answered. “But the lower rails by the brook are soft. They must be set again before the cows discover their liberty.”
“A timely philosophy,” he said. “We should prevent temptation where we can. Even cows prefer the neighbour’s grass.”
She smiled. “The appetite grows by what it feeds on.”
“Shakespeare in service of husbandry,” he observed. “A useful education at last.”
They turned through a gate into the barley; the heads were just beginning to weigh the stems.
“You marked the acreage?” he asked.
“I did. Tom Weller paced the boundary. We are an acre short of last year, but the soil is better for the rest. Harris swears by fallow; I think clover would do more for us.”
“And your authority for such reform?”
“Arthur Young,” she said, lightly. “And common sense.”
“A formidable pair,” he replied. “Who is Tom Weller, by the bye?”
“The younger of Hill’s nephews,” she said. “He came after Michaelmas. The one who built the pigeon roost in the west loft.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr Bennet. “The engineer who out-talked the carpenter. You are surrounding yourself with talent, Lizzy.”
“I am surrounding you with competence, sir.”
They walked the furrow’s edge, careful of the young growth, her father leaning now and then upon the staff with practised ease.
“Simms and Harris are gone,” Mr Bennet said after a time. “Do we miss them?”
“Only their boots upon the steps,” Elizabeth said. “The stables are quieter. Hill says the horses have regained their tempers now that no one is forever saddling them to ride into Meryton for news of red coats.”
“Peace is a harsh master,” he said. “It expects us to be pleased with little.”
“I am pleased with much,” she answered; then, fearing she had spoken too quickly, added with a smile, “—that is, with hedges properly laid, ditches properly cleared, tenants properly paid, and Mama properly amused at the sea.”
They reached the stile at the far corner and paused to look back over the sweep of fields to the low grey line of the house. Smoke lifted from the kitchen chimney, delicate as thread.
“You wrote to your sister?” Mr Bennet asked.
“I did. I told her of geese behaving without a licence, of fences confessing their failings, and that Papa is all benevolence so long as I earn my keep.”
“A calumny I shall endure,” he said. “Did you quote any poets to her?”
“A line for the hearth,” Elizabeth replied. “To remind her that warmth is not confined to Town—that sometimes the truest society is found by one’s own fire.”
“Ah,” he said, “Cowper again, dressed as philosophy.”
“Perhaps,” she smiled, “but I believe the hearth holds more truth than any drawing room.”
They stepped down into the lower pasture where the ground kept the last of spring’s damp. Here the hedgerow thickened with hazel and young ash; primroses still lingered in the cool shade, though June had nearly run. Mr Bennet touched the hedge with his staff.
“This will want laying in winter,” he said. “What say you to coppice the hazel and let the ash alone?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “We will have stout stakes from the hazel and leave the ash another year for shade. Mr Carter’s cows favour this spot.”
“You observe even the cows,” he murmured. “You must be stopped before you begin to know the tempers of our pigs.”
“Too late,” she said. “The white sow cherishes resentment and the red one philosophical resignation.”
He laughed. “Now—if a certain gentleman were to ask you to account for the poor rate—”
“I should say,” Elizabeth began, settling into the game, “that we gave out six loaves last week and eight pence to old Mrs King when the rain came in at her chimney. Mr Long promised a mason; I shall hold him to it.”
“You will make enemies,” he warned.
“Only among those who fall short of their promises,” she said.
“And among men who discover that a young lady keeps a ledger,” he added.
“Let them discover it,” Elizabeth said. “If they would not have me keep accounts, they should not leave sums to be mislaid.”
They crossed the small wooden bridge over the brook.
Mr Bennet rested his weight lightly upon the staff before stepping onto the bridge, sunlight breaking upon the water below.
Elizabeth rested her hands upon the rail and looked down at their reflections—two figures rimmed in light, the water altering them with every little current.
Somewhere in the hedge behind them, a bird gave one sharp note and fell silent. Elizabeth looked back, saw only leaves, and turned again with a smile for her own nerves.
“Tell me, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said, gentler now, “have you found it—this contentment we recommended to you in April?”
She watched the ripple travel beneath their shadows. “I think I have found quiet,” she said. “Contentment is a larger word. But I am nearer to it when we are walking the fields than when we are sitting under chandeliers.”
“A sentiment Addison would admire,” he said. “And I too. I am selfish enough to say that I like you best in hedgerows.”
“I shall wear a bonnet of hawthorn to oblige you,” she said.
“Do so,” he answered. “It will keep foolish men from venturing too near.”
They climbed the rising ground beyond the brook, where the view opened again. From here Longbourn looked handsomer; the approach was planted with elms that carried the eye to the door.
“We must speak of Mr Jeffers,” Mr Bennet said, business returning with the slope. “His rent is eight weeks late.”
“He lost two calves to fever,” Elizabeth said, already ahead. “If we press him now, we shall have worse arrears by Michaelmas. Let him pay in labour—three days in the lower ditch, and his eldest to help with the barley carting. He is willing.”
“You arranged it already.”
She coloured. “I mentioned what might be done, if you approved.”
He looked at her with quiet affection. “I approve. You have the art of making one believe the right thing was one’s own idea. That is the politics of every happy house.”
“Then our house is excellently governed,” she said.
“By you and your mother,” he returned. “I merely sign where I am told.”
They walked on. The sun dipped a little, softening the light; swallows wrote quick strokes across the air.
They turned homeward by the cart track. The ruts were dry; groundsel and shepherd’s purse crowded the edges; a hare started up and ran before them, ears flat, a brown streak along the lane. Elizabeth watched it flash through the gap and vanish into the tall grass.
“Another question, then,” Mr Bennet said. “Which line of poetry would you keep, if all the rest were lost?”
She looked at him, half in jest, half in earnest. “Only one?”
“One,” he said. “I am a hard examiner.”
She thought of Pope— ‘Whatever is, is right’—and rejected him for his complacency; of Milton’s morning hymns; of little lines of Herrick that made her smile. At last she said:
“What peaceful hours I once enjoy’d.”
She pressed her gloved hands together. “Not because I believe the past better, but because it teaches one to be careful with the present.”
“You would choose remembrance.”
“I would choose gratitude,” she answered.
“Good,” he said softly. “Keep it.”
They were near the house again. The kitchen door stood open to the yard; the sound of a knife upon a board came musically through the air; Hill spoke to someone in the dairy and was answered by the clink of a pail. The ordinary business of evening set itself about them like a garment well cut.
“Another practical matter,” Mr Bennet said, as if to dismiss what had grown too gentle. “The north field wants draining near the ash. If we lay a trench now, we shall not curse it in August.”
“I will set Carter on it tomorrow,” Elizabeth said. “And I will go myself to measure the fall.”
“Take a stick,” he said. “And not that pair of shoes.”
She looked down and laughed. “You are as vain of my shoes as Mama is of her caps.”
“I am vain of your feet’s remaining dry,” he said. “A steward who takes to her bed is no use to me.”
They crossed into the garden. Bees worked the last of the clover; a cat slept upon the warm flag by the step and blinked at their shadows. Elizabeth set her hand upon the door, then paused.
“Papa,” she said quietly, “are you—content?”
He studied her a moment. “With my dinner, entirely; with my daughters, immoderately; with my sins, not at all; with my house, more than I deserve.” He smiled. “And with my steward—beyond all justice.”
“You are extravagant,” she said, though her throat felt not quite steady.
“Economical,” he corrected. “Praise costs less than mistakes.”
She laughed and opened the door. Warm air came out to meet them, carrying the fragrance of something sugared from the oven. In the passage Mr Bennet touched her hand with the back of his fingers, a brief, fatherly benediction that no one saw.
“Come, Lizzy,” he said. “Burke and Johnson await your contradiction.”
“I shall contradict them both,” she said.
“Then we are sure of an agreeable evening,” he replied.
Behind them, the garden settled into dusk. The cat lifted its head once towards the lane, listened, and laid it down again.