Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

first came to look over her shoulder and then began to hum the air. When she had gone through it in this manner, she was easily persuaded to go through it again, enunciating the words with a firmer command of her voice. A further repetition enabled her to give a rendering guided by her recollection of the Italian singer’s performance. The melody had a simple plaintiveness which Elizabeth, happy by nature and situation alike, enjoyed to the full, and she sang it with all the sadness it could be made to express. When she had come to the end, her voice held on the last soft note, she heard a man’s ‘Brava’ behind her, and turned in astonishment to see that, all unnoticed, the three gentlemen had entered the room together. So quietly had they come that neither she nor Georgiana could know how long they had been there. Major Wakeford was seated in a chair, Darcy and Acworth were standing some distance apart.

      Mr. Acworth now approached the ladies. “I must congratulate Mrs. Darcy on a very delightful performance,” he said. “And may I say that never was intonation more true. You have indeed a charming voice, madam—not strong, perhaps, but perfectly musical; will you not give us the pleasure of hearing you again?”

      Elizabeth was sensible of a tinge of patronage in his manner which surprised and displeased her. Happily she was saved from the necessity of deciding whether or not to comply by the diversionary entrance of tea. In the general conversation which ensued, Darcy asked Major Wakeford whether he was still as fond of card games as he used to be, probably with the intention of starting one later on. Major Wakeford, speaking exactly as he thought, said that while abroad he had got into the habit of playing chess with a fellow officer at odd times, and had become extremely interested in it.

      “How fortunate for Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “As an occupation demanding solitude, silence and the exercise of pure intellect, you could not hit upon anything more likely to answer his notions of perfect felicity.”

      Darcy always took his wife’s pleasantries at his expense in good part, and usually returned a rejoinder designed to provoke a fresh sally from her. This was so well understood between them that when no reply came she glanced at him with a challenging smile to see him gravely considering his teacup as if she had not spoken. A moment later he said to Major Wakeford, “My wife thinks we mean to desert to the library and is determined to prevent it.” As no such thought had occurred to her she was about to protest with energy when a belated understanding stayed the words upon her lips. In the presence of Mr. Acworth there was to be no levity; the domestic scene must be subdued to the hue of staidness and formality. This was a sobering reflection. She did not rebel, but she was silenced.

      Had she seen what had already caught Darcy’s eye more than once that evening—Mr. Acworth’s deeply admiring gaze turned upon her, she would have been more embarrassed than ever. Mr. Acworth was seated beside her and she could not observe him unless by turning her head directly towards him, when he would either lower his eyes discreetly, or return her glance with a complaisance beaming in his countenance not so very much more than civil. That he did admire her she was aware, but most men did, and to this she was accustomed. None of them had ever transgressed the bounds of propriety, nor had Darcy before found fault with such admiration. But then all the gentlemen who resorted to their society were his friends and well-wishers, and their harmless gallantry to his wife was meant and taken as in part a compliment to himself, whereas Acworth’s goodwill towards him was by no means certain, and appeared to diminish as acquaintance lengthened, instead of increasing.

      When tea was over Darcy asked his sister to play to the company. She went directly to the pianoforte, but sat there for some moments silently considering what piece to choose, and while the others waited for her to begin Darcy said to Acworth, “You are an amateur of music, I collect, and have some knowledge of the art.”

      “I must confess that I have wasted rather more time with my violin than was to the advantage of other more serious studies,” he replied. “But I can hardly remember the time when it was not my constant companion.”

      “It is strange that you should be the only musical member of your family,” observed Darcy. “Your brother, Lord Egbury, used to declare that he hardly knew one note from another.”

      “That is so. Not one of my brothers has the least ear for anything.”

      “I remember hearing when I stayed at Mentmore many years ago, that you were extremely fond of music, but I did not know that you were a performer.”

      Acworth gave his host an odd, sharp look as Elizabeth, who had moved to a seat near Georgiana, could not but see. “No,” he replied, “in England a fiddle-playing young man is regarded as very effeminate, almost a skeleton in the family cupboard. The Acworths have always prided themselves on their noble indifference to the arts.”

      Elizabeth said quietly, “I cannot conceive how the love or practice of art in any of its forms can be a matter for censure. You will find nothing of that sort at Pemberley.”

      To this Mr. Acworth returned a bow.

      Georgiana now began to play, and continued at the instrument for over an hour. Her brother and sister had always regarded her performance as remarkable, both in taste and execution, but it remained for Mr. Acworth to reveal to them how truly remarkable it was. He commenced by looking all astonishment, then he spoke with enthusiasm of phrasing, rhythm, touch and tone with a kind of affectation that Darcy found obnoxious and Elizabeth amusing. Georgiana herself looked pleased, but not quite believing, and when her brother observed that she owed her proficiency to one of the best foreign masters in town, she instantly discounted Mr. Acworth’s superlatives as decidedly overrating her accomplishment. She knew better than anyone else how much she had yet to learn, and how far she had to go before arriving within sight of that perfection which ever eluded her.

      Major Wakeford was a silent, though attentive listener. On rising from the instrument, Georgiana came to a chair near him, and at this opportunity of paying his tribute he looked round and thanked her very simply. “I have never cared for such music before,” he said, “but perhaps it is because I have never heard it really well played as you do.”

      After the party had separated for the night and Elizabeth and Darcy were at length alone and at liberty to say what they would, she attacked him upon the subject of Stephen Acworth.

      “Upon extended knowledge I like him no better,” said Darcy.

      “You said in your letter that he resembled his father who was coarse and profane and habitually unfaithful to his wife. Are you not in danger of transferring your dislike of Lord Egbury to his son without due reason—for you do dislike him, that I can see? But though he may resemble his father in person, and in much else, Stephen Acworth is not coarse. He has good manners, though perhaps they are a little overdone. He is also a man of taste and education and evidently knows the world.”

      “To my mind a man of his profession should not have too much sophistication. Education and taste I grant, his birth is indubitable, therefore I find it strange that he should lack that something which marks the gentleman—which you have in Wakeford and even in Mortimer for all his rustic upbringing.”

      “Birth and breeding are not always the guarantee of a perfect product, it would seem. Do you know—” She was about to tell him of her persuasion of having seen Stephen Acworth before, but changed her mind. There was something of reserve in Darcy’s manner which piqued her curiosity and determined her to gratify it if she could before anything else. “Do you know,” she resumed, “that you appear to me to be holding something back. You say that you don’t like his face, that he is too sophisticated for a clergyman and is not truly the gentleman. But that is not all. If you ask me to believe that it is, I do not.”

      “You think you are going to be very clever and worm something out of me, Elizabeth.”

      “I? Certainly not. I am asking no questions but merely saying that you are not being perfectly frank. You are quite at liberty to keep your thoughts to yourself, however. Are they not your own? You did say that you would endow me with all your worldly goods—a rash promise, I have always thought—but that presumably did not include the furniture of your mind.”

      “You are welcome to anything worth having,” said Darcy, vastly