Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

most part among simple, ignorant men.”

      “I can assure you that women prefer sincerity to compliments,” she said with a return to gravity.

      After some further talk in the unforced strain of progressing acquaintance, Wakeford suggested they should walk down to the stream. “The sight of water is for me always a compulsion to go to it,” he said.

      They set off at a slow pace over the grass. Major Wakeford said that although many years had gone by since he had last visited Pemberley, he came back to it with a perfect recollection of its woods and hills, the course of the stream and even the bushes growing along its banks. “It is very little altered,” he observed. “There was a pool where we used to bathe, but it lies beyond my walking powers. Yonder it is,” and he pointed with his stick towards a part of the river where the woods on the farther side descended close to its verge. “And there was a tree higher than the rest that we climbed for a lookout over the surrounding country beyond the park—a tall ash. I see it no longer. Perhaps it has been cut down. There was a whole dead branch, I remember, and the foliage at the top was sparse and poor. But it served our purpose well.”

      He turned about with an awkward movement and Elizabeth fancied that he felt he had come far enough. She suggested that they should go back to the house. As they went, still walking beside the river that he might watch the movements of trout in the water, Richard was seen at some distance away in his pony carriage, attended as usual by his little groom and two nurses. Elizabeth made a sign for the child to be brought to her, and as soon as he was near enough she went to him, lifted him out of his carriage and held him up to see the stream. A trout leaped out of the water close beside them, and this so excited the child that he wriggled out of her arms and ran to a spot where rushes grew out from the brink into the river-bed itself. Instantly Major Wakeford dropped his stick, and snatching him away from the water’s edge, held him struggling and kicking in his one hand until his mother could take him. On relinquishing the little boy, either his injured leg gave way or he lost his balance, and he fell heavily to the ground.

      Bidding the nurses see to Richard, Elizabeth ran to Wakeford and endeavoured to help him to rise to his feet. He made a great effort to do so, but try as he might he could not; the injured leg was now powerless. As there was no means of moving him at hand, Richard’s groom was sent to the house for assistance. Never did time seem to pass so slowly while he was gone. Major Wakeford lay on the ground, supporting himself on one elbow and Elizabeth knelt beside him, her horrified concern none the less acute for the wretched conviction that she alone was to blame for what had happened. She should have foreseen Richard’s sudden movement and held him more firmly. A strong, vigorous child, he was already impetuous and active beyond his years. Thoughtlessness was answerable for all. Her imagination, flying on, beheld Major Wakeford continuing as helpless as he was now for the rest of his life. She controlled her agitation as well as she could for his sake, but even in his extreme pain he could not but be aware of it, and he begged her not to be distressed. “It was my fault entirely,” said he. “I should not have thrown away my stick in attempting a movement to which my leg was unequal. The little boy could have been held back without that.”

      Again and again did she cast her eyes in the direction from which help should come. At last there appeared several of the outdoor servants, two of them carrying a hurdle between them. Behind them came Darcy and with his long stride soon outstripped the men. Elizabeth went to meet him and walking back beside him related how the injury to Major Wakeford had occurred. He asked a question or two, then spoke to his friend, and as soon as the servants came up, instructed them exactly what they should do. The hurdle was lowered to the ground and he himself helped to move Wakeford on to it with an experienced hand. More than once had he performed such an office on the hunting-field.

      Carrying their burden slowly and with every precaution against jolting, the bearers walked back to the house and, upon Darcy’s direction, straight upstairs to Wakeford’s room where he was laid upon his bed. There was now much to be done. The housekeeper came hurrying to offer her services and the discreet advice of an old servant. Seeing that the poor gentleman looked quite spent, she went off to fetch some cordial of her own making. Elizabeth sat with the sufferer while Darcy went to the library to write a note to Mr. Roper, the family physician, and arrange for its delivery.

      Major Wakeford lay silent with his eyes closed, maintaining a soldier’s fortitude. Elizabeth watched him in anxiety not to fail of any service were it required, and every other thought was banished from her head. Presently a housemaid, sent by Mrs. Reynolds, entered the room to kindle a fire upon the hearth. Having performed her office, she left the room, but the next instant returned and approached her mistress, saying, “If you please, ma’am, I am bid to say that the carriage is at the door.”

      The engagement to Lady Tyrrell had been entirely forgotten. Elizabeth’s first impulse was to send the carriage back to the stables, but before she could give the order, Darcy returned, and hearing what she proposed, expressed a contrary opinion.

      She needed some persuasion, but he could see that she was agitated almost to tears, and was determined that she should not witness the suffering Mr. Roper must of necessity inflict upon his patient when attending to him. She consented at last to go. He appeared so calm, so hopeful even that no lasting injury had been sustained by their guest, that her conscience upbraided her less than it had done, and she could begin to give some thought to other matters. Before they parted she asked him how Mr. Acworth had behaved on the ride that morning.

      “He was not very communicative,” said Darcy, “at least not to me, and I do not think he trusted his horse. He has not a good seat and appears little accustomed to the saddle. It was for that reason probably that he did not display much interest in his surroundings. On our way back we called at the Parsonage and there I left him, for Miss Robinson insisted that he should see all over the house and garden, and I was in some haste to be at home again—rightly as it turned out. To my surprise he agreed with alacrity. There is no accounting for taste—he and Miss Robinson seemed absolutely charmed with one another.”

      “Old ladies can be very partial to young men,” said Elizabeth.

      “And insinuating young men will flatter old ladies to the top of their bent,” rejoined Darcy.

      “He could have nothing to gain by that,” she said, looking surprised. “You should have warned him against such scheming women as they are.”

      “Any advice of the sort would have been thrown away,” said he dryly. “I could see that he was laughing at them in his sleeve.”

      On the way to Stowell in the carriage Elizabeth and Georgiana talked chiefly of Major Wakeford. Georgiana had heard no more than that he had had a fall, and Elizabeth found some relief in giving her a detailed account of the accident and its effects, for she still could not acquit herself of blameworthiness in the matter. Georgiana did not express any great concern, since that was not her way, but her few words and thoughtful look betokened no lack of feeling. A most painful impression was made upon her by suffering in any form, and this fresh blow to one who had already endured so much horrified her.

      They arrived nearly half an hour late at Stowell Lodge and to excuse their unpunctuality before all else, Elizabeth acquainted Lady Tyrrell with the reason for it, and the whole story was gone through again. The old lady’s attention was caught by Major Wakeford’s name, and being much addicted to genealogies and family histories, she began to connect him with all the Wakefords up and down the country. On hearing that he was of the Devonshire branch, she was able at once to confer upon him a very rich aunt, a widow and childless, who could be depended upon to leave him the greater part of her fortune, if not all. Happy in the glow of vicarious benefaction, she bequeathed him three thousand a year and a charming property near Bath. In the meantime she had no scruples in adding at least ten years to the age of her dear friend, Mrs. Chalmers, in order that the period of expectation might not be too protracted.

      When they got home again they found that Mr. Roper had come and gone, having done all that was required for the present. He had found Major Wakeford’s knee out of joint and had put it back into place, not without considerable pain to the patient. Wakeford had also sprained his ankle in falling, but not very severely, and it could be expected to mend in a