Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

were alone. “You look disturbed. Has anything happened?”

      “You shall hear,” he replied, and while they paced slowly towards the terrace in front of the house he told her of all that had taken place at the Parsonage. He could repeat almost word for word the speeches of Miss Robinson, but the incoherencies of Miss Sophia must be left to Elizabeth’s imagination.

      “It is impossible to conduct a conversation where none but oneself observes the rules of logic,” he said. “I did my best to make myself plain, but I doubt whether they paid me the compliment of believing me. All I know is that Miss Robinson became very angry.”

      “That is a foregone conclusion,” said Elizabeth. “What a delightful scheme they have hatched up, to be sure. But I cannot believe that Mr. Mortimer is privy to it. And yet—is the Clopwell estate at all encumbered, do you know?”

      “Between ourselves, I think it may be. Mortimer’s brother was spendthrift and negligent, and Mortimer himself is too easy and indolent to retrieve what has been lost. But I am certain he is no schemer. He has his faults, doubtless—as we all have—but guile is not one of them. If he really desired the living, he would ask me for it outright.”

      “Are you so sure?” Elizabeth asked with a smile. “You are not so approachable as that implies.”

      “You are implying that I am a very disagreeable sort of person.”

      “Not at all, dearest, but you can be more intimidating than you probably know.”

      “Then I could wish I had been able to intimidate Miss Robinson into a more reasonable frame of mind. Argument is not enough; nothing will persuade her but action. Seriously, Elizabeth, the matter has gone on too long, and something must be done.”

      Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, up to now you have done nothing but reject one applicant after another.”

      “Not one was in any way suitable. They all desired to be comfortable and rich, and to have as little to do as possible. I begin to think that the kind of man I have set my mind upon must be sought before he can be found. I must prosecute enquiries farther afield than I have done hitherto. No stone must be left unturned . . . There is Richard. He does not look as if there were much amiss with him.”

      Walking slowly, they had traversed the length of the terrace and reached the western end as Richard’s pony carriage guided by a young groom and attended by two nurses came into view round the corner of the house. The heir to Pemberley was about two years old, large, fair and handsome—in short, a thorough Darcy. He set up a clamour on seeing his parents and raised himself up in his seat in his impatience to be lifted out of it. No sooner had he got his way than he ran to his mother and walked a few steps holding her hand. But that could not satisfy him long, and he demanded next to be hoisted to his father’s shoulder. He was already remarkable for the activity of his mind, his clear comprehension of what he wanted, and his directness of action in trying to get it. His parents affected to regard him as not extraordinary, but were secretly persuaded that he was probably more beautiful and intelligent than any other child that had ever been born. Like all much noticed and admired children he was tyrannous in exacting attention from those around him, and his amusing antics, his engaging attempts at intelligible speech, his adventurous impulses—as when he started to crawl between the fore and hind legs of his pony—caused such a diversion of ideas as to transport them to the remotest distance from the cares and vexations of church patronage.

      At length the little boy was taken indoors and Darcy and Elizabeth left the terrace and strolled across the lawn towards the river which wound through the valley between the wooded heights enclosing the park.

      It was that period of the day when the air is balmy after long hours of sunshine. The green of grass and trees was enriched with deepest gold, enhancing the beauty of a scene which held everything to charm the eye and tranquilise the mind. Elizabeth looked about her with delight at familiar objects of which she could never tire.

      “I am not altogether easy in my mind about Georgiana,” said Darcy, breaking the silence. “She is apt to spend too much time at her instrument. While she was under tuition it was no doubt right and proper—in fact, I encouraged it. But now it begins to verge on eccentricity, making her dreamy and unsocial.”

      “That is the result of permitting the free exercise of a real talent,” answered Elizabeth. “You have done quite right and should not repent.”

      “Nevertheless there is a due proportion to be observed in all things.”

      “There is none in the dispensation of gifts, my dear Fitz. You must admit that Georgiana is gifted beyond the ordinary.”

      “I fear that I remain unconvinced. She is twenty and should be thinking of marriage.”

      “That she is twenty and not thinking of marriage or young men surely argues an exceptional young woman. You ought to be thankful, for with her simple, ardent nature she might so easily fall in love with quite the wrong sort of young man, in defiance of every rational consideration and normal prospect of happiness. If she is to marry, she would be happiest with a man much older than herself who would be ready to give everything and expect nothing in return—nothing, that is to say, that she did not yield of her own free will. But where such a man is to be found I do not know.”

      “Nor I,” said Darcy with a smile. “Most men are selfish beings, and marriage often makes them more so, though it should have the contrary effect. Has it ever struck you that Mortimer is partial to her?”

      “It is so apparent that Georgiana is beginning to be annoyed by it.”

      “He is a very good, honest fellow, yet I cannot imagine her settling down with him. Nor would it be the most desirable match in the prudential view. The family has declined in importance from what it was several generations ago.”

      “I like him very well,” said Elizabeth, “but principally because there is nothing in him to dislike.”

      “And Georgiana?”

      “She is not so tolerant of nonentity as I am become.”

      “Pray what does that mean?”

      She laughed and slipped her hand inside his arm. “Something so extremely complicated that it can only be unravelled at leisure. In other words, I am not sure what I do mean.”

      “That is one of your fictions,” said Darcy. “You do know perfectly well, but you like to tease me. Well, I am willing to oblige you. I am teased and you are amused. Are you now satisfied?”

      “Not at all. You have left me with nothing to say.”

      “Another fiction.”

      They were now walking beside the stream, and Darcy fixed his eyes on the water. “There should be some very tolerable fishing for your uncle when he comes in June,” he observed. “He and your aunt hope to arrive on the seventh or eighth of the month, so Mr. Gardiner wrote in his last letter.”

      “Yes, and the Bingleys and their children should be here by the fourth. My sister Kitty may come shortly, though I am not sure of the date. When I last heard she was still at Hunsford where she has been staying with the Collinses.”

      “The Collinses!”

      “I fancy that Kitty is in training for a clergyman’s wife under Charlotte Collins since Maria Lucas found a husband in a neighbouring parish. But of course Mr. Collins takes all the credit for that.”

      “Mr. Collins will always appropriate every good thing to himself.”

      “Then I wonder he has not applied for Pemberley. But no, nothing could exceed the advantages of Hunsford in his eyes, nor compensate for all the pains and labour he has bestowed on making the Parsonage a model of comfort and convenience. And how could he ever tear himself away from his beloved patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

      “She is perfectly welcome to keep him, but I am under the impression that she is not so well pleased with him as formerly.”

      The next day after