Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

informed on all that at this moment is lodged in the secret recesses of my brain, I will confess everything.” He went on more seriously. “As I have said, Stephen Acworth does resemble his father to a remarkable degree, but I will affirm that it is a circumstance which has not influenced me. In any case, he cannot help it. It is true, as you observed just now, that he is not coarse, and profanity seems far from his lips. But like his father, there is that in his manner to women which displeases me. He is of that class of man who cannot look at any woman without estimating her charms as they affect his senses. You may ask how I know that in such a short time as we have spent together, but I was an involuntary witness of more than one incident on the journey, trivial enough in itself, yet indicative of levity in such matters. Wakeford commented upon it unasked, though in a very guarded manner. When it is considered that he has not long since lost his wife, and is supposed to be broken with grief, it is all the more reprehensible.”

      “If that is so he is certainly very unsuitable for the living of Pemberley—or any living for that matter,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Are you really so committed to him that you cannot withdraw?”

      “I am not committed except to the six weeks stay here, which arrangement, as a personal friend of his brother’s, I can hardly depart from unless he gives me very good cause. That is, not likely, I fancy, for he made a great point of it and is not in the least foolish. If he does not stay out the full period, it will be because he chooses not to.”

      “Six weeks of discretion and circumspection and formality! That seems much too long. No more jeux d’esprit, and I may not even sing for fear of incurring a compliment. I must always think before I speak—especially to you.”

      “I do not ask impossibilities,” said Darcy, smiling.

      “No, but I do wonder whether someone has not been practising a deception of some sort, either Lord Egbury on you, or Mr. Acworth on his brother. Is the reason alleged for quitting Mentmore the true one? Is it not conceivable, in fact, that he may be running away from the effects of some indiscretion?”

      “I should lay your imagination to rest, Elizabeth, or it will keep you awake half the night. When you begin wondering I know what to expect. A hectic fancy, besides, is no discoverer of the truth.”

      “I will make one more wild guess for the pleasure of contradicting you,” said Elizabeth. “It is that, despite your superior faculties and my sole reliance upon a fevered imagination, I shall turn out to be right.”

      CHAPTER V.

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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