Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (28 page)

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LIZABETH WATCHED for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some agitation. When at length their carriage turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a state of high excitement. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills. In front, a stream of some natural importance was swollen with water. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all warm in their admiration and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something special indeed.

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door. While examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall to await the housekeeper; and Elizabeth had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. Everywhere she looked seemed to be built on perfection — a perfection that awed and overwhelmed at the same time.

The elderly housekeeper was a respectable-looking woman, much less fine and more civil than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining parlor. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good. As she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions, but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor. Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. This last fact took her by surprise. She had expected his home to reflect a different picture of himself than it did. She anticipated it to be beyond Rosings in grandeur, and surpassing the most ostentatious of homes in grandiose design and presentation. Had she never met Mr. Darcy and only had his home to judge him by, she would have instantly admired and envied him. To be brought up surrounded by such beauty and knowledge! To live surrounded by such nature! Elizabeth’s heart raced. She took a deep breath, endeavoring to look calm lest her aunt and uncle suspect she was too overwhelmed to speak.

“I might have been the mistress of Pemberley,” she thought, “and Mr. Darcy my husband. What a life we would have lived in such a home; with these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in calling them my own. Even now, I might have welcomed visitors like my uncle and aunt, and guided them through the rooms. But no, that could never be. My uncle and aunt would have been lost to me, as would the rest of my family, except for perhaps Jane. I would not have been allowed to invite them.”

This was a lucky realization — it saved her from something very like regret. She straightened her shoulders and determinedly turned away from the picturesque view.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle. She waited with trepidation while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was away, adding, “But we expect him tomorrow with a large party of friends.”

One day. Elizabeth wondered why she should be so nervous at the idea of being so close to meeting him. It was not like she would still be there tomorrow. She was safe.

Her aunt called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now in the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.

Mrs. Reynolds pointed to another of the miniatures. “That is my master — and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other, about eight years ago.”

“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “It is a handsome face. Lizzy, can you tell us whether it captures the gentleman?”

Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. “Does the young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth colored, and said, “A little.”

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman?”

Nervously, she stared at his likeness. Why had she never noticed that playful look in his eyes? Almost breathless, she said, “Very handsome.”

Elizabeth did not expect to be struck so forcibly by his portrait when she had seen the man in the flesh often enough. There was something different about looking at his likeness, as if she could stare as long as she pleased without fear of offending him. She took her time, studying the lines of his face. The artists had captured him quite well, especially the shade of his eyes. They seemed bright against the tan of his face and the dark of his clothes. Now that her disposition towards him had changed, she noticed a kindness about his reserved features that she had not seen before. The pride was there, naturally, but the artist had depicted the softest of smiles on the side of his mouth.

“I am sure I know none so handsome, but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favorite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.”

Elizabeth was not sure she wanted to see a larger picture of the master of the house. The small one was making her feel something altogether unwelcome — regret, apprehension, attraction, the stirrings of desire. How could she have been blind to his virtues while adding up his faults?

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.

“Is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.

“Oh, yes, the handsomest young lady that ever was seen and so accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her. It is a present from my master. She comes here tomorrow with him.”

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks. Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, evidently had great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.

“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”

“Not so much as I could wish, sir. I daresay he may spend half his time here and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”

“If your master would marry,” said Mr. Gardiner, “you might see more of him.”

“Yes, sir, but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. Much could be detected about a man by the dispositions of his servants when he was not nearby. If Mrs. Reynolds was to be his judge, he was the kindest, handsomest, most deserving of men. She could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit that you think so.”

“I say no more than the truth, and everybody that knows him will say the same,” replied the woman. “I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him since he was four years old.”

Though she had allowed her first opinion of Mr. Darcy to be altered, Mrs. Reynolds’s high praise was going pretty far. She found herself resisting the woman’s picture of her master. She could not allow herself to like him, not completely, or else she might start to regret her decision to refuse him. Still, Elizabeth’s keenest attention was awakened and she longed to hear more. She was grateful to her uncle for obliging her curiosity.

“There are very few people of whom so much can be said,” observed Mr. Gardiner. “You are lucky to have such a master.”

“Yes, sir. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up. He was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”

“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“Yes, ma’am, he was indeed. His son will be just like him — just as affable to the poor.”

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, but in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject. The housekeeper dwelled with energy on Darcy’s many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud, but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”

The nervous feeling returned to her stomach tenfold. Elizabeth’s hand trembled and she touched the railing to steady herself. The height of the ceilings and fineness of their murals stared down at her, the cherub faces watching her ascent. She did not feel worthy of being lady of such a hall, and that its master had even thought to ask her took her by surprise as it never had before. She could scarcely imagine belonging in such a place and felt at once the awe and responsibility such a position would entail. Though she could not forgive his botched proposal, she now understood it more than before. How could he not feel the full extent of his worth when this had been his childhood home? And, as the housekeeper continued on about Mr. Darcy’s many duties and his honorable undertaking of them with both benevolence and grace, Elizabeth felt as if she might not have known him at all. If such a representation were true, how could she have been so mistaken? It was a question she found herself repeating often, each time coming up with an unsatisfactory answer.

“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behavior to our poor friend.”

“Perhaps we were deceived.”

“That is not very likely. Our authority was good.”

“Then perhaps events were misunderstood,” said Elizabeth, unwilling to go into the truth. For, to do so, would require her to reveal the proposal and letter.

On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below. They were informed that it was done for Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.

“He is certainly an attentive brother.” Elizabeth walked towards one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him.

Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her. When he marries, I imagine he will dote on his bride with as much care. She will indeed be a lucky woman.”

The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings, but Elizabeth knew little of the art beyond its being very fine and she willingly turned to look at some of Miss Darcy’s crayon drawings, whose subjects were more interesting and more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they had little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her — and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s lifetime.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. Though she tried to resist them, the last of her defenses began to crack. From the first moment she saw him, she had felt something shift inside her chest. That first meeting had caused her world to spin and her body to float. If not for the events that followed, who knew what kind of journey her emotions would have taken.

The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature, and the surety of it convinced her throughout the course of their tour that she was telling the truth. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship, how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow, how much of good or evil must be done by him. Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favorable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon hers, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever risen before. She remembered its warmth, and that softened its impropriety of expression.