Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

which had not before been discovered, and had therefore remained uncorrected, was the cause of all its former stiffness. In Mr. Roper’s opinion, given with professional cautiousness, the dislocation having now been rectified, there was no reason why after a short period of rest Major Wakeford should not be able to walk as well as he had ever done.

      Besides Mr. Roper there had been another caller. Mortimer had enquired for Mr. Acworth. Elizabeth heard from Mrs. Reynolds that the gentlemen had walked up and down the terrace for some time, and she could not help wondering what two such oddly contrasted persons could have found to say to one another. Enlightenment came later from Acworth himself. At dinner he spoke of his meeting with Mortimer, to whom he referred as remarkably agreeable.

      “He entered so completely into my difficulties,” he said to Darcy. “I told him that of late I had suffered from a nervous spasm of the throat which caught me unawares at critical moments, and prevented me from articulating distinctly. He said he would be only too happy to afford me any assistance in church short of preaching the sermon—an offer I gladly accepted.”

      Darcy looked astonished and not very well pleased, and his reply, though acquiescent, was coldly formal. Elizabeth thought it very strange that Mr. Acworth had not so far manifested any sign of the curious malady to which he laid claim, and that he should be less nervous of preaching the sermon than of reading the service. With Mr. Mortimer it was quite the other way about. He frankly confessed that getting up into the pulpit was for him like mounting the scaffold.

      But the vagaries of Mr. Acworth could not long occupy her thoughts. For the time being Major Wakeford held foremost place in them, since she had much to do for him, and spent a great part of each day in his room. Her desire for his welfare embraced not only a speedy recovery from his present disablement, but the amendment of his fortunes, and she longed to see him happily settled in the fullest enjoyment of health, wealth and an amiable wife. They were now on such terms that she could say almost anything she chose to him without fear of misapprehension, and one day as she sat beside his couch she laid aside the book from which she had been reading aloud and told him he ought to marry. He smiled and shook his head.

      “It would be great presumption on the part of a half-pay major—and maimed at that—to propose marriage to any young lady. To enter into an engagement! No, that would be inexcusable.”

      “Your circumstances may improve,” she said.

      “I see no likelihood of it at present,” he replied.

      Remembering Lady Tyrrell’s prophecy of money coming to him, she resolved to find out the truth of it.

      “Most of us have expectations, however modest,” she continued, “though a small bequest may be merely a nuisance, involving more lawyer’s business than profit. To be really worth while, a legacy should not be under ten thousand pounds—thirty thousand would be even better. There is also the question of the testator. A distant, unknown relative is to be preferred. A wealthy uncle, for instance, shut up for the last twenty years in a gloomy mansion, or an aunt—”

      “I have a rich aunt,” said Wakeford, “but her money is all to go to a nephew of her late husband.”

      “I would make it a law that rich aunts should divide their money among all their deserving nephews.”

      “And how would you assess a nephew’s desert?” he enquired with a smile.

      “That might be difficult, I admit,” she replied. “But if it were to rest on a written testimonial, I would be happy to write one for you.”

      This conversation Elizabeth a little later repeated to Darcy. As she foresaw, he remonstrated with her for prying into Wakeford’s private concerns. She defended herself by arguing that if Lady Tyrrell were to put into circulation a report of wealth coming to him, it behoved his friends to know and spread the truth. To this he replied that people commonly believed what pleased them best, and often in defiance of proof to the contrary.

      “All I can say is that it is a most irrational world.”

      “Many of the men and women in it are.”

      “It would do him good to marry,” she said. “Do not you agree?”

      “The good of marriage depends on a man’s choice.”

      “What I hope is that by and by he will meet with some good, sensible woman, someone as kind and unselfish as dear Jane, who will make him as truly happy as he deserves.”

      “Nothing could be better,” said Darcy, “so long as you do not set about choosing the lady. I do assure you that men prefer choosing their wives for themselves.”

      “So I have heard, though by all accounts it is a method that does not always succeed. Fitz, tell me, what is a major’s half-pay?”

      When he told her she was horrified. “But that is indigence,” she exclaimed.

      “He will succeed to his father’s estate in due course,” said Darcy. “It is not a large one—under two thousand a year I believe—and there are several sisters to be provided for.”

      “But the father may live for many years to come.”

      “That no one can tell. He is already well over sixty. As soon as Wakeford is able to lead an active life again I have a notion that he will consider it his duty to return home and help with the management of the estate.”

      “He is the sort of man who would always do his duty, however difficult and disagreeable.”

      ‘‘That is his ruling characteristic.”

      “How strange it is that there should be two men in a state of affliction under our roof at one time. And yet how different they are in every other respect, not least in the way in which they bear their misfortune.”

      ‘‘They could not well be more different,” said Darcy with some emphasis.

      “Does your opinion of Mr. Acworth remain what it was?”

      “I have not yet formed one,” he replied gravely. “There is something I do not comprehend, but I am persuaded that it is from lack of proper knowledge. Never have I experienced so much discrepancy between this man as he was reputed to be and as he has shown himself on acquaintance. Either he has changed very much from what he was formerly, or—”

      “What is the alternative?” she asked, as he checked himself.

      He shrugged his shoulders. “None that I can think of,” he answered.

      It was so plainly evident that he did not wish to say anything further on the subject just then that Elizabeth forbore to press him, and began speaking of another matter. Her curiosity concerning Mr. Acworth which had slept of late was, however, revived. She had seen little of him for several days and how he spent his time she hardly knew. But from that time she began to observe him, to note his looks, his behaviour and any signs of unhappiness and ill-health. His unhappiness was soon not in doubt, but the motive was less certain, and she was disposed to agree with Georgiana that he appeared not so much afflicted by grief for the loss of his wife as out of humour with his surroundings or his company.

      One evening after tea, Darcy having gone upstairs to Major Wakeford’s room to play a game of chess with his friend, Elizabeth and Georgiana sat alone with Acworth in the little drawing-room. To make amends for any remissness towards him which he might have felt, she offered him an apology for her recent neglect of his entertainment, attributing it to her preoccupation with Major Wakeford’s unfortunate condition. The effect upon him was immediate, almost startling. He smiled and begged her not to think that he had anything to complain of, and though in answer to her enquires he confessed to headaches and sleeplessness, all his vivacity of the first evening returned and he appeared most eager to converse. Elizabeth learnt for the first time that he paid an almost daily visit to the Parsonage where the Miss Robinsons had put at his disposal the late Rector’s study and all his theological books. He disclosed that he had been begged to make himself completely at home, to treat the house, in fact, as if it were already his own. Such transparent tactics were extremely diverting,