Beginning , Previous Section, Section IV, Next Section
Posted on Monday, 29 September 2003
Well! At least this is over and done with!
Mr. Darcy's thoughts seemed to imply that another mission, perhaps a more demanding and daunting one, remained before him. Perhaps it was so; setting his foot outside the slightly suffocating environment of Mr. Wickham's Meryton lodgings, however, Mr. Darcy felt nothing but an odd mixture of relief and exasperation.
The excruciating pain of the early morning trip to Hertfordshire had been brought on by a firm belief that henceforward he would be compelled to relinquish the hope whose existence he had barely acknowledged. This course of action rendering itself immaterial by the simple expedient of Mr. Wickham being utterly unable to restrain from pursuing the wealthiest eligible bride in the radius of five miles or so, Mr. Darcy found himself for the first time actually being grateful for Miss Bennet having only £50 a year to call her own.
The astonished relief at finding the real state of the matters quite different from his own imaginings, came on so abruptly as to leave Mr. Darcy in a singular state between happiness and anxiety. Thought upon thought rushed through his mind as he paced the main Meryton street, which he had held in his memory of months past as nothing but a muddy lane. Yet at present, there seemed no end to it, and no escaping the puzzled looks of the passers-by speculating on the reason that had Mr. Darcy storming about Meryton with the air of a man possessed.
"Ah, Greene. I know I said I would not be back before evening, but you know better by now than to take me at my word in such matters, eh?"
The hard-tried servant inquired whether Mr. Bingley would be joining the ladies.
"Oh, my sisters are at home?"
That was a cause for wonder, indeed, for past weeks seemed to have been spent in one long succession of morning calls on acquaintances or to various milliners' establishments. Life in London, after all, made so many demands on one's time!
Greene reported that it was true, however, that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were both present and accounted for. And...
"Oh, and there is a visitor, sir. A Miss Bennet."
It took Greene's entire ten years' experience in service to manoeuvre his limbs in an agile manner, which preserved Mr. Bingley's dignity and disguised the fact that he had well-nigh tripped himself over. Before the servant could make what he considered a dignified exit and leave the master of the house to collapse at will undisturbed, the said gentleman bolted for the parlour door. On reaching it, though, he did not enter with matching alacrity. He hovered before it uncertainly, took a deep breath - several of them, in fact, ran his hands through his ever ungovernable hair, only to find himself standing next to his servant again, whispering,
"Uhm... would you mind telling me, am I anywhere near being presentable?"
Greene made a succession of uncommitted noises and proceeded to arrange Mr. Bingley's coat, which hung somewhat listlessly about the shoulders. That accomplished, Mr. Bingley was silently pronounced fit to make his appearance in the parlour.
Reason I have flung out of the window ages ago. It must be so, for it appears I am about to enjoy Mrs. Bennet's hospitality of my own free will!
For indeed, Mr. Darcy found himself on the outskirts of Meryton after all, and treading the bemired lane, which would, if he persisted in it, take him all the way to Longbourn. And, as he, once having established his position, saw no rational argument supporting the notion of turning back, it may be indeed supposed that his intellectual powers had temporarily been diminished. This impression may be corroborated further by stating that no cold sweat appeared on his brow at the anticipation of coming within the hearing range of Mrs. Bennet's high-strung pitch. The expression on his face bordered dangerously on positive gaiety.
Elizabeth had been out walking for a few hours, reading and rereading her sister's letter.
Clearly, Jane was as miserable in London as she had been at Longbourn. She tried, for the sake of her sister, to exert herself and appear as if nothing had happened, but the letter gave the wretched truth away nevertheless.
The matter was indeed quite straightforward. Her sister was heartbroken, her every hope of happiness shattered, and it was all for the sake of satisfying one man's pride and conceit. Charles Bingley had not been absolved of his share of the blame either. How could a grown man of two and twenty, possessing a substantial independent fortune, be so susceptible to flagrant manipulation, was frankly beyond her. However, her anger was somewhat abated by the fact it was precisely his good nature - although some, and Elizabeth herself was inclined to be one of those, would refer to it as a simple case of indecisiveness - that had endeared him to Jane after all. To think it could have been the origin of lifelong happiness instead of misery! Elizabeth pitied him.
Miss Bingley, however, was quite another matter. Towards her Elizabeth was not inclined to be quite so benevolently disposed. She had made no secret of her designs upon the Darcys. The likelihood of Mr. Bingley marrying Miss Darcy Elizabeth was not at liberty to conjecture at, but that Miss Bingley should be forced to strike down her sails one of these days, was certain. And at this point Elizabeth's wrath, combined with helpless sadness she felt for her dearest sister, reached its climax.
Miss Bingley could never have induced her brother to stay away from Hertfordshire all on her own. No, it was Mr. Darcy's name that sprang to mind at this sordid plan to keep him at a distance - for Elizabeth had no faith in coincidence. Mr. Bingley's attention was not to be held for long, perhaps, but his affection for Jane had been sincere, and would have outlived a few days of the Town's glitter and amusement. There had been a ploy of some sort, and Mr. Darcy was at the bottom of it, to be sure.
As it happened, Mr. Darcy was not only at the bottom of the ploy, as it were, but also mere forty yards away.
Sincere, passionate... So sincere and passionate was Miss - What's-her-name, that she changed her mind in no more than half an hour! How should I fare if I were to...? She is a prudent woman, and...
Darcy flinched at his own choice of words. Prudent, indeed. The word repulsed him. He had witnessed many a 'prudent' marriage, in which either, or, if there was prudence to be had in abundance, both parties benefited considerably from the union, be it by addition to wealth or advancement in society.
And this is how it shall...should appear: I taken in by her charms, she a penniless mercenary.
It had not been so long ago, Darcy remembered, when he silently accepted the fact that the day must come when he would marry for proper reasons, those being, naturally, providing a suitable mistress to Pemberley, and, in due course, an heir to same. He hoped the thought of it would become less unpleasant when he met with a suitable candidate, yet as she failed to appear among the many eligible young ladies of good fortune and breeding who were more than willing to be considered for the position, he began to have his doubts whether this was not to be the one and only duty he would find very hard to fulfill.
He had not been able to imagine himself in love, not with one of the aforementioned ladies, or anyone else. Anyone else meaning someone below him, and that, as such, was completely out of the question. He had viewed being in love as a weakness - a fool's game from beginning to end.
And so far, it has been little else! Here I am, scampering about countryside... What would Caroline Bingley say now? 'Six inches deep in mud, I am certain' - How well she looked that morning! A fine pair we were, both muddy up to our knees almost...
Mr. Darcy's expression brightened. A small smile appeared on his face as he reflected on the phrase.
Yes, the pair of us. We.
He rather enjoyed the use of first person plural. The small smile was still on his lips, as it became something more than a grammatical concept.
"Mr. Darcy ?"
He bowed hastily. His action complied with the demands of decorum but failed to perform the task of concealing the rich colour which became apparent in his cheek. The lady paid no particular attention to it. Her own cheek was likewise glowing.
"You are not in London?"
Indubitably, the remark would have been answered with one involving a similar degree of perception, had it not been for the slight bite on the lower lip and an impatient blink of Elizabeth's eye acknowledging the pointlessness of her statement.
She hurried to correct herself,
"We heard it on good authority that you were never again to return to this part of the country. It is believed that Mr. Bingley wishes to give up the estate entirely."
Well, this is an unusually eloquent reception.
Elizabeth was likewise rather overwhelmed by her own verbosity. She should curtsey, and be on her way, lest she should grab a stone and hurl it at him. Piqued by the fact that she had spoken to him, and yet more by being unable to compose herself, she nevertheless went on speaking. That he should but stand there and listen to her, looking slightly puzzled, irritated her still further.
"I wonder how Mr. Bingley could possibly spare the time to travel all the way to the country when he is so much engaged with you in town, Mr. Darcy."
What, Bingley? I have not laid eyes on the man for almost a fortnight!
"I suppose, the fact that you" - spoken as if she had tossed a stone at him - "are here, must very likely anticipate Mr. Bingley's reappearance in Hertfordshire."
What in the name of heaven have I done now? Whatever it is, Darcy, better stay calm and find out.
"Good afternoon, Miss Bennet."
That is an opening of sorts, too, I suppose.
Mr. Bingley was experiencing a similar sort of anxiety when three pair of eyes fixed on him with various degrees of wonderment. This Miss Bennet was far from eloquent, yet her entire manner, animation in her eye and all together a visible increase of spirits upon his entrance, convinced the gentleman he was far from unwelcome, even if quite unexpected.
"Charles!"
"Brother!"
'This will not do at all', Miss Bingley's and Mrs. Hurst's eyes seemed to say to each other in a quick exchange. And how right they were.
"Very good to see you again, Miss Bennet."
Even if you may not reciprocate the feeling just at present.
Darcy had trouble placing his hands in any sort of position that would appear neutral, disengaged and aloof. After several unsuccessful attempts, he positioned them behind his back.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you. I have come this morning, on a very special -er, business."
Mind your tongue, Darcy! Better clarify the Bingley matter first - cannot make neither head nor tail of it, right now.
"I am afraid Mr. Bingley did not accompany me this time. To own the truth, I did not even consider informing him that I was to visit Hertfordshire; my departure was somewhat abrupt. I am sure he will be glad to receive news that you are well. You and your family, I mean. You are well, I trust?"
All of a sudden, the feeling of awkwardness faded. He cared not what his look or indeed, his words, might be expressing. He understood that sooner or later he would have to resort to some definite turn of phrase. He had made up his mind. There was no turning back now.
Elizabeth Bennet could hardly deny the fact that she was indeed in excellent health; the evidence was overwhelmingly conclusive.
"And your parents? And sisters?"
Blast! I appear to be taking the entire family's medical history.
Elizabeth blushed slightly at the thought Mr. Darcy had had ample opportunity to hear of the nervous complaints which affected Mrs. Bennet. Her blush deepened at the image of Lydia and Kitty galloping about Netherfield dining room with their trophy - Mr. Chamberlayne's sword. She would not think of it. Her shame was nothing compared to the one he should indeed be feeling. She fixed her mind on Jane's letter, which was still there in her hand.
"I was rather hoping, Mr. Darcy, that you yourself would be able to provide me with some information on how my elder sister was."
Elizabeth's voice trembled with emotion as she thus addressed her companion. She knew very well that her behaviour was not entirely proper, that she was about to rouse his anger and render the situation rather awkward indeed, yet she was beyond troubling her mind with it. There was no one to witness their conversation, and as for Mr. Darcy himself, she was intent on procuring some evidence of guilt, if that, indeed, was possible in a man so entirely self-absorbed and proud, and cared not for what other reaction her probing may bring on.
"This is such a lovely surprise! I had no idea you were to come to town, Miss Bennet! How good of you to call so soon after your arrival - how long, may I ask, are you to stay?"
Miss Bennet, although quite fluttered by the fervency of Mr. Bingley's smile, managed to observe quietly that she had been in London those past four weeks.
The sisters heartily wished themselves out of the room. Even they could not face persisting in the charade which was beginning to collapse all around them. If only Mr. Darcy had been there, he would surely know how to tackle the matter. Yet he was patently absent, and furthermore, had no knowledge of the situation.
The situation was - beyond the impending catastrophe - as follows: Miss Bennet's arrival to town had been announced by a letter which received no response. Then, another note came, and after a prolonged interval, clearly indicating their indifference, the ladies ventured out to Cheapside one fine morning after all. This was to be a return visit, and the two ladies were hard at work, putting on their iciest manner with Miss Bennet, that it should be a never-repeated occasion.
Now, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst sat quietly, certain that their brother would be too occupied by Miss Bennet's presence, and she, in turn, by his, to speculate on how precisely could it have come about that they had never met each other during the past month.
For a short while, this, indeed, seemed very likely. Mr. Bingley sat down on the edge of the chair closest to Miss Bennet, and gazed at her adoringly. She blushed, yet she did not stir. Her eyes were cast deep down. The room was intensely quiet.
Mr. Darcy looked genuinely confused. First, he was reproached with having Mr. Bingley tied to his apron strings, and now, seemingly, he was to have some knowledge of Miss Bennet's whereabouts and well-being as well.
He felt rather uncomfortable at the mention of Miss Jane Bennet, for he had been striving to drive aside the thought of what his role had been in his friend's hasty removal from Hertfordshire. He had seen Bingley suffer; he suffered himself. Yet his own anguish did not mitigate the weight of the responsibility he felt, it only made it appear more oppressive. He, Darcy, had at least the comfort - for want of a better word - that he had brought his distress upon himself. He could not, however, claim the same for Bingley.
Was he right in interfering with his affairs? Should he not have let him face his own disappointment, if that was indeed what he would face? Was it not only...
Envy? Jealousy? That he had loved, and I...? Oh, to blazes with it! I shall make everything right, Bingley shall be here tomorrow, they may have my own carriage and be off to Scotland if need be, if only...
By now, Darcy's cheek had lost its crimson blush and assumed quite a pallor. What the thought of Mrs. Bennet's hospitality was not able to accomplish, the questions roaming his mind, did. He would not think of it, not now. All would be well.
She had known it! There was proof enough of it in his countenance. He had done it. There was guilt written plainly in his face. This should satisfy her, she apprehended as much. Yet she could not leave it at that.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you saying you are not aware that my sister Jane has been in London for over a month now?"
What is the meaning of all this? How...? Caroline Bingley! She never breathed a word to me about it.
Elizabeth tone was quite sharp, and her gaze insistent. Their eyes met.
Her breathing was shallow and quick. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and there was a blunt pain in her forehead. How could he stand there, look her in the eye, and pretend he had not the slightest notion of what she was speaking?
I see. I am to take the blame.
It was all painfully clear to him now. Bingley's sisters have indulged in some contemptible plotting. Jane Bennet had been staying in town, and not a word of it had reached his or Bingley's ear.
I have done nothing amiss.
Darcy ran his left hand across his forehead.
"Indeed, I have not had the pleasure..."
Elizabeth drew breath in sharply.
Of all ludicrous, empty-sounding phrases...
"No. I had not expected you had. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, what precisely did you stoop to this time? Burning my sister's notes? Or did Miss Bingley manage that on her own?"
It was Miss Bennet who first broke the silence.
"I am afraid I must return to my uncle's now."
"But you have only just come!"
Miss Bennet smiled, and stood up firmly.
"On the contrary, I have been here for more than half an hour."
"But..."
"It was a pleasure," blushed Miss Bennet most becomingly, "to see you again."
"Thank you for calling," Miss Bingley curtseyed in eager desire to get rid of the guest. Mrs. Hurst displayed a no-longer-at-home-for-visitors smile and followed her sister's example.
"Will you let me accompany you and make sure that you reach your uncle's home safely?"
For the first time, Miss Bennet looked Charles Bingley full in the eye. For a moment, he was certain of her acceptance, and had already moved towards her with his arm stretched out to receive hers. Miss Bennet averted her gaze and said softly, yet clearly,
"I do not believe that will be necessary, thank you."
She bravely faced three astonished looks and, with a curtsey, was out of the room.
Throughout the entire four months of their acquaintance, Darcy had been rather convinced of Elizabeth Bennet's disapproval of him. To a great extent, he attributed this to his own awkwardness of manner when in her presence and the undeserved slight on her he had been provoked into the very first evening they met.
Nevertheless, Darcy had never presumed her, whose good opinion had become increasingly important to him, capable of such a sharp speech as the one which had just crossed her lips. Not only was he accused of willfully doing wrong - he had, of this there could be little doubt, scheming and disguise imputed to him.
It was all too much. The relief and joy, the sudden release from the overwhelming burden of agitation, leading somewhat naturally to a half-conscious decision to make his feelings known to culminate in this, this...
Why, the way she speaks, I am hardly any better than Wickham!
However, as the lady knew nothing but good of that gentleman, Darcy realised that he himself should scarcely benefit by the comparison.
Posted on Wednesday, 5 November 2003
"Madam, if you could but bear the inconvenience of the presence of one who is obviously disgusting to you a while longer... I am fully aware I have no right to do so, yet I feel obliged to ask for an explanation of the charges laid at my door. I apologise for my forwardness, and would be most grateful for a few words to shed light on the subject. What precisely am I being accused of?"
Darcy's entire frame shook with restraint as he spoke thus. His feelings were torn between the indignation at the mere thought he should be seen as one capable of something so completely repugnant and utter astonishment at the vehemence of Elizabeth's conviction. Could she be so blinded by Wickham's allegations, could she trust him so implicitly, to be eager to pronounce himself guilty of such baseness as concealing her sister's presence in Town from Bingley? They must be on very intimate footing then, or she...
This will not do! Wickham has nothing to do with the matter. This only concerns herself and me.
Therefore Mr. Darcy checked the inclination to fall prey to ill-timed jealousy, and resolved to do everything in his power to clear himself, as much as his pride asserted itself and whispered in his ear that all effort was quite wasted on one who would suppose him capable of such proceedings to begin with, as Miss Elizabeth Bennet evidently did.
I can but try, and prove that she misjudged me. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!
She met his eye as her colour rose. He had never seen her look lovelier, and as soon as he acknowledged that to himself, he upbraided himself for it.
Little does it matter now, and little does she care for what I may seem to think of her, or have to communicate to her. I must not give myself away though, by staring at her in this manner.
Poor Mr. Darcy! He knew not it scarcely signified how he might look, or act, or what he had to say for himself. He was a man found guilty and pronounced sentence upon and the judge in charge of the case was indisposed to hear any defense in whatever shape or form it might come; passionate pleading - which was out of the question anyhow - or rational argument.
Elizabeth was in a hardly lesser state of perturbation than her companion. On reading Jane's letter, she was certain that her sister's misery was to be wholly attributed to Mr. Darcy's interference, and longed to speak her mind of it to someone. Chance had it that none else but Mr. Darcy was to be that person. Spoken as she had to him, however, the anger was quite gone, lifted off her chest as soon as she pronounced the words. There remained only unspeakable sadness, oppression of mind, unlikely to be abated by anything other than but by giving vent to it, as she did with the other, more passionate feeling.
Alas, tears are not to be commanded, and prevailed upon to halt until one is at liberty to shed them - that is, unaccompanied and somewhere where the sobs that give as much comfort as the tears themselves, cannot be overheard. Therefore, the amount of disadvantage to Mr. Darcy's position at that precise moment was to be increased by the fact that his presence curbed those tears and their natural flow.
The two have by that time resumed walking in the direction of Longbourn. However, as Elizabeth spoke, after taking in a deep breath and turning her flushed face against the chilly wind, hoping that it would dry her eyes, and make it possible for her to preserve her dignity to some extent, for she was not going to cry in front of him, she again paused in her step and said quietly,
"Very well, sir. I have no objection of explaining myself, although I believe you are not so ignorant as you claim. However, let us suppose it so. Can you deny, Mr. Darcy, that you have done everything in your power to separate Mr. Bingley from my sister Jane, that you were the initiator of the removal to London, and that you have, once there, kept Mr. Bingley in Town expressively in order that he should not see my sister?"
"I cannot. Miss Bennet, I have no wish to deny it."
Mr. Bingley could not believe his ears. For a while, he stood in the middle of the room, agape in amazement, and looked after Miss Bennet on whom the door had just closed. How could this be? But Darcy did warn him, he did say...
There was no need to recall the particulars of the fateful conversation. He knew it by heart. What Darcy had said, preyed on his mind ever since.
"Charles? Whatever is the matter with you?"
Caroline Bingley's words made her brother regain the use of his limbs again. Without a word, he darted after Miss Bennet.
"Indeed, sir? I am surprised you should call yourself accused first, and then make a confession of your own free will!"
This was spoken in a low trembling voice, without a trace of fierceness left in it. Elizabeth was beginning to feel the increasing awkwardness of the situation - she had taken her cause far, and was not certain she should like to take it any further. She wanted nothing but to get rid of his company so that she might stop restraining her emotion, and rest, rest... The wind was beating against her face, it was getting dark, she had been away from home for hours, and her father would be worried. Oh, let him say what he will, and be done with it! For she was surely never to see him again as long as she would live.
Her companion noticed her distress, too. He did not see the fatigue in her face, nor did he observe the tears. He felt he was fighting a losing battle, yet fight it he must, or else he was not to bear living with himself any longer.
Jane Bennet walked towards the carriage that was to convey her back to Gracechurch Street as one not completely certain of one's whereabouts. If she had amazed the Bingleys, well, then, no-one's amazement was greater than Jane's own.
She had known, of course, that it might well happen that she would come upon Mr. Bingley whilst paying what she had decided was to be her last visit ever to his sisters. It was not completely improbable. She had strived hard to convince herself that all what had passed between them was but a normal intercourse of a very presentable young man and an impressionable ignoramus, and that she had made a mountain out of a molehill, at her own expense, naturally. It was hard to lay aside the fact that Lizzy seemed to think Mr. Bingley was partial to her, but, well, Lizzy had wished it to be true for her sake, and Jane loved her all the better for it.
She loved Mr. Bingley, too. The bittersweet truth sprang upon her the moment she encountered his smiling face. Oh, what was she to do? There was nothing better she would like but to be in his presence, yet she recoiled from it and fled his house at first opportunity. She had been so sure of herself! One look from him, though, and all was a muddle again.
Miss Bennet's soliloquy on the front steps was not destined to bring about any deliberate conclusions, for there was the man of the moment himself, eager to hand her into the carriage.
"Miss Bennet," he said, not releasing her hand even when she was well inside, "if I may not accompany you now, would it be convenient for me to call on you tomorrow? I have never known happier days than the ones I spent in Hertfordshire; I wish we could remember them together! I would not wish to disturb your aunt or uncle, though. I can come any day, you know. At any hour you choose to name."
This remarkable flexibility, accompanied by an earnest gaze, was too much for Jane Bennet not to behave as was expected and desired of her.
She smiled gently and spoke softly - blushing, as Mr. Bingley had apparently forgotten he was still holding her hand -
"My aunt will be very glad to meet you. I am afraid my uncle is much engaged with business. However, if you should come to dinner, you will find them both at home."
"And..."
It became clear at that moment that Mr. Bingley's right hand had been a subject of envy, for its left mate seemed eager to have its rightful share of holding Miss Bennet's hand, too, and once they were joined in this mission, both the left and the right slightly strengthened their hold upon a much smaller and gentler of their kind.
"...Yourself? Will you be glad to see me as well?"
Bingley was quite astonished at his own boldness. Well, there was no use loving someone if she was to be kept in dark about it, was there? Better that she may be ready so as not to be completely taken aback later.
And a very sensible and successful policy it was, too, for as heavy as her lids may have appeared to be - her eyes falling to the ground as they did, there was no other explanation - Miss Bennet whispered, "Yes. Very much so." Or something to that effect, for every drop of blood in his body rushed to Mr. Bingley's cheek at that moment, and seriously impeded his hearing faculties.
"Tomorrow evening then?" he murmured, releasing her hand after all.
A nod of the head and a barely audible 'Yes' were quite enough to have Mr. Bingley gaze lovingly after the carriage for minutes past it had vanished all together, and then trip the stairs to the entrance three at the time.
"Do you mean you take pride in your actions?"
Elizabeth felt her anger rising again. There really was no end to his arrogance and conceit, seemingly.
Darcy ran his fingers through his hair. He needed some time to reflect, to compose his thoughts, to assure his manner towards her was irreproachable. Yet time was one thing he did not have.
"Not at all. Please..."
He could not stop his hand before it moved towards hers of its own accord. It was one frantic attempt to hold her attention, to convey his feelings - he could not stop himself. His look spoke worlds, and Elizabeth found herself powerless for a moment. If at any point in this interview, this was the time she was prepared to listen to him with some equanimity. His look was so earnest, so utterly in discord with the presumptuous statement he had made.
It was a work of a moment, however. Mr. Darcy's mind regained the control of his body, and he withdrew his hand as swiftly as possible, as if the soft fabric of Elizabeth's gloves were ablaze.
Elizabeth likewise recovered her composure, and spoke bitterly,
"I should not be surprised, I think. One who has treated one's childhood friend so abominably could hardly be expected to shrink from hurting one who is but a common acquaintance to him - common in more than one aspect, in your opinion, I dare say, Mr. Darcy! What amazes me is that there, as in Mr. Wickham's own case, there could not have been any objections to the people themselves, only to their position in society!"
"Madam, I see now what you must think of me. I thank you for speaking so frankly. This has been a most enlightening interview indeed. However -"
Slowly, Darcy. Do not lash out at her. Remember, she does not know. You must tell her.
"I refuse to name Mr. Wickham's name in the same breath than that of your sister, Miss Bennet. I do not know what this - man has told you, how has he imposed himself upon you, and you, possessing a generous nature and an intensely unfavourable impression of- But that is irrelevant."
Darcy's voice trembled. He waved his hand as if to rid himself of every thought of Mr. Wickham.
"Yes, I have separated my friend from your sister, and yes, I have done it for the reasons you mentioned. But not merely for those; they would be immaterial - for Mr. Bingley may marry wherever he chooses after all. I believed your sister to be indifferent to him; I still do. I acknowledge it was not entirely my place to interfere, however, I am closest to him, and it would hurt me very much to see my best friend trapped in a loveless marriage."
"Trapped!"
Elizabeth was shocked beyond measure. Jane, not devoted to Mr. Bingley? Jane, attempting to ensnare a man into matrimony?
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Please. Listen to what I have to say.
"I do not mean by any premeditation on the part of your sister, Miss Bennet. I said myself that I noticed no sign of affection, real or feigned, on her part. It was Sir William's remark on the night of the ball - when I had the honour of dancing with you for the first time - that put me on my guard. I soon realised it was everybody's expectation, looked upon as a certainty by the entire neighbourhood; I also chanced to overhear your mother's own opinion on the subject."
Oh no! Elizabeth was mortified for a moment. Mamma could not have chosen her words, her meaning must have been painfully clear.
He hastened to reassure her.
"Nobody who has had the privilege of the acquaintance of yourself or your elder sister could feel anything but esteem for either of you, Miss Bennet. You have been frank with me, therefore I shall be frank with you - the lack of propriety in the behaviour of the younger Misses Bennet and even your mother, however, cannot go unnoticed and... I am sorry to give you pain, but such were my observations. Believing Miss Bennet's affections were not engaged, I did what I felt was my duty by my friend who had, as I later found out, every intention of proposing. If I was wrong, I apologise. Regardless of what you believe me to be, I would never keep the fact that she was in London from Mr. Bingley. That indeed would be the kind of conduct I could not be guilty of."
Elizabeth was numb. Her mind raced from the scenes at the assembly - Mrs. Bennet commenting on Mr. Darcy's yearly income and his pride practically into his face - Netherfield and Lydia and Kitty making a spectacle of themselves being chased round the room by Chamberlayne and some younger officers - Mrs. Bennet discussing her daughter's upcoming grand marriage... Oh, he was right. He was right. But what kind of a man would say such things to her face?
Her mind raced as she attempted to take in everything that was being said to her. He seemed to have grown quite insensate to his environs, so fully intent on communicating what he had to say in his defence to her. Elizabeth, for all her exhaustion, distress, and determination against believing a word of his narrative, found her attention arrested by it.
Darcy cleared his throat. Up to this moment, his gaze rested resolutely on her face. Now, as he was about to embark upon a topic even more distasteful to him, he could hardly bear it. Were he to witness any sign of... He hardly knew what. She could have hardly bestowed her affection upon that unworthy rascal.
Could she?
Mr. Bennet met her in the hall.
"My dear Lizzy, are you not aware that by indulging your own selfishness you seriously interfere with mine? But I begin to feel I overestimated your value as the only sensible person in this house, taking into account this afternoon's escapade."
Elizabeth wished her father would set aside his usual dryness, and let her be. It would have been very convenient if he had not time to get hold of a candle before he came out to meet her. As he had fetched one, she was not in a position to hide her red, swollen eyes and a feverish expression from him.
Perceiving those, Mr. Bennet did indeed spare his favourite daughter with the full strength of his repartee. He set about making her warm instead, and keeping the rest of the family at bay. Not that anyone was likely to intrude upon Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bennet was upstairs, happily dozing after a mind-calming dose of sherry, consumed in view of the vicious attack on her nerves her second eldest's inexplicable absence from the hearth had occasioned. Mary, who had been obliged to lord over the afternoon tea in her mother's stead, accompanied in that meal only by her younger sisters, as Mr. Bennet took his in the library when in the absence of Jane and Elizabeth, now sulked majestically over Fordyce's Sermons. The two youngest girls were in the parlour, performing a post-mortem on a bonnet they have put out of its brown-ribboned misery immediately after tea which Elizabeth had missed.
Thus, Mr. Bennet was perfectly free to dispatch his daughter to her room, instructing Mrs. Hill to keep the fire in it well tended to until the family retired for the night, and to bring Elizabeth some small refreshment, for he surmised that whatever disturbed her, and made her stay away so long, would better not be prodded into just at present.
"How extraordinary, Caroline, that you have not said anything about Miss Bennet's presence in London!"
"Oh, it had quite slipped my mind, I assure you. Louisa and I have been so preoccupied with our town acquaintances, that Miss Bennet's presence... Well, one does always associate dear Jane Bennet with the country after all, does one not?"
Her sister, quite engrossed until that very moment with the arrangement of her perfectly arranged laced cap, vigorously assented. Jane Bennet was so out of place in Town as could be. Except perhaps in Cheapside, now, there was a thought!
The mention of the area failed to produce the desired effect upon Mr. Bingley. Unable to dwell on anything, except the acknowledgement he had just received from Miss Bennet, he overheard his sisters' stinging remarks, and, fortunately for them, did not wonder at their apparent remissness. The word 'Cheapside' rang in his ears however, as dear as any word could be, connected with her!
"I wonder if coachman will know his way... Oh, we shall manage. I can sit on top and assist if need be."
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had some difficulty following their brother's train of thought. Perhaps this was not so unusual, as he often found it perplexing, too. Yet this time the ladies were to be shocked beyond compare by his languid explanation of his last erratic remark.
"Oh, I am to dine in Gracechurch Street tomorrow."
The swift enlargement of oncoming snowflakes, gently setting down on the windowsill, crowding each other out, held Elizabeth's gaze. Despite all her efforts, the afternoon's conversation preyed upon her thoughts.
The initial indignation was soon joined by wonderment at Mr. Darcy's behaviour. Their entire communication until then had not amounted to one third of the exchange that took place between them that very day, and that fact alone was astonishing. The subject matter alone had rapidly turned from peculiar into deeply mortifying, and continued so until they bid farewell to each other not fifty yards away, and well in sight of her home.
'He has always had a happy ability to pull wool over people's eyes by appearing a very charming, very decent sort of fellow, whenever it suited him.'
Whereas you, sir, take pride in your inexhaustible supply of candour, dispensing justice as you see fit, without any regard to the feelings of others!
Oh! She could have slapped him for it, despicable man! Elizabeth threw herself on bed, and inflicted her blow upon the pillow instead, which opted for passive resistance.
Mr. Darcy's words had indeed struck home. That much she was compelled to admit to herself. Mr. Wickham has indeed been most charming, and it had been precisely his charm that made her oblivious to his extreme loquacity on the subject of harm done to him by Mr. Darcy.
How could she have not perceived the comparative oddity of his behaviour, the complete impropriety of such information being entrusted to a complete stranger such as she then was, and being made known abroad? She had prided herself so on her discernment! And where had it brought her? To abusing a man to his face who never did her any harm!
To me, he did not, but to Jane... Oh, how I wished she were here, to tell right from wrong, as I seem to get nowhere! But no, Jane is not to know, of course, of any of it... It may all still be right. I can hardly believe his word, yet what good would come of his telling a falsehood?
'After my father's death, Mr. Wickham decided to abandon the pretence of good-naturedness before me at last, and demanded to be supported financially instead of taking orders as my father, who had also bestowed upon him a living, had wished. I acquiesced, in hopes that would separate our paths for good. However, I was sadly mistaken.'
What reason could he possibly have for inventing such a story, and about his own sister? It has to be true. Poor Miss Darcy!
Elizabeth coloured as she remembered that 'poor' was not the epithet with which she had previously honoured the lady. Without knowing her, and basing her opinion solely on her own prejudice - little else it was, she owned it to herself now - and on Mr. Wickham's carefully tailored description, she had put her down as proud. In coming to such a conclusion, she had been greatly assisted by the fact she disliked her brother. And why did she dislike him? Because he behaved just as he pleased. And what was he guilty of that she did not do herself?
She had half expected him to find an excuse to leave her side as soon as possible, immediately as they met in the lane, yet - where could have been going? It was less than likely that he should have lost his way. For all the shortness of his previous stay in Hertfordshire, he was familiar with the environs of Netherfield nonetheless.
And then, when they did run into each other... Judging on his behaviour towards her in the past, he would most likely be yearning for a quick release from her company. Yet he had been - Elizabeth hid her face in her hands as if the realisation gave her physical pain - perfectly polite. As close as amiable as he could be, she gathered, and winced immediately at finding herself judge him anew.
Oh, why should I dwell so much on him, his behaviour and his actions? It is his words I wish to consider!
Hot tears of anger found their way down their cheeks. This time, the anger was directed at herself, however. Without her realising it, within two hours since Mr. Darcy's departure, his words had been validated by the very power of discernment that had failed her previously. Elizabeth Bennet was not one who would attempt to preserve her integrity at the expense of rational argument.
Yet, she could not but echo the thought that came to her mind as she stood by him, mortified by his comment on the behaviour of her family: what kind of a man would say such things to her face?
A man who had similar accusations made against him in the same manner perhaps?
What did he say that was not true? And after all that has been said, after all he had revealed to me of his own accord...
And the manner of their parting! She could not stop contemplating his extraordinary speech.
"I am afraid I have taken up too much of your time, Miss Bennet. I felt it had to be done, and I am sure you will not take it against me."
No, as you have set yourself against me so completely, the mere fact I have kept you outdoors until dusk should not do much further harm.
Suppressing the bitterness in his voice, Darcy continued,
"You have never desired my good opinion, and I have certainly not been fortunate enough to obtain yours. However, I would not be able to leave Hertfordshire had I not left you in possession of facts. Whether you choose to believe them, is up to you entirely. I have, rather selfishly, showered them upon you as... As I could not see myself so debased in your eyes. But I shall trouble you no longer. Your family must be anxious for your safety by now. Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
*Taken from a quotation by Edmund Burke, 'An event has happened upon which it is difficult to speak, yet impossible to be silent.' - Speech, 5 May 1789, in E.A. Bond (ed.) Speeches...in the Trial of Warren Hastings (1859), Vol. 2.
Posted on Friday, 5 December 2003
Mr. Bennet had had, by his standards, rather too eventful a morning. Over breakfast, he was interrupted by an urgent note. Mrs. Bennet had been rather indisposed, and consequently, she hardly marked that the correspondence from Lucas Lodge was addressed to her husband, who was known to shun their neighbours to an extent that appeared almost rude at times, rather than to her.
The sherry of the previous day had not agreed with Mrs. Bennet in the least, she complained. Only Mrs. Hill realised that the disagreeableness of sherry was in direct proportion to the amount of it missing in the decanter. Yet Mrs. Hill was not one to speculate on it, for she was devoted to her mistress, and, in any case, anybody’s hand may slip at times. She was very pleased by the knowledge that her own hand was not of a slipping disposition, however.
Deciphering the specimen of Sir William’s penmanship at hand – which was an accomplishment in itself – Mr. Bennet scoffed slightly at the contents of the note and resigned himself to do as it bade.
“Are you certain, absolutely certain?”
“I be seein’ it wi’ me own two eyes, sir.”
“B-b-but, Martin, think. There was fog…” he added hopefully.
“No fog, sir! As clear a day as ever it is, preperin’ fer snow, and all. No, sir, it was as I told.”
Sir William Lucas brushed his forehead, on which several cold snowflakes had landed during the interview, with the back of his hand. He found the situation rather distressing. He had no pleasure in hearing such tales, and would rather forget all about it. But the mischief had been done, as Martin found his confidant in none other than Mrs. Flowerdew’s cook. And what she found out, was not kept from her mistress long. Once this admirable personage had heard of it, she deemed it her Christian duty to carry the news of scandal (for invariably, scandal it was what reached Mrs. Flowerdew’s ears, and if it had not been one on reaching them, it certainly became one afterwards) abroad. The good people of Meryton, after all, had to be put on their guard against the vipers at their collective bosom!
Sir William sighed and went to share the burden of his responsibility with Lady Lucas.
Caroline Bingley had barely got a wink of sleep that night. The entire effort of separating the Bennet girl from Charles, all in vain! He had to burst in precisely at the moment she was there. Oh, it was so like a man to upset one’s plans!
Briefly, her mind lingered on another specimen of the species that had not exactly contributed to their success either. He was nowhere to be found, on the other hand. Now, if it were the other way around, if it were only Mr. Darcy who entered the parlour the day before… Oh! No! That would not do either. As much as she was willing to trade Mr. Darcy’s absence for that of her brother, Miss Bingley was compelled to recall the Christmas dinner episode.
Bennet! Indeed. Such a common name, really.
Caroline scratched her nose pensively and contemplated the infinite uselessness of the opposite sex.
By the respectable hour for calling – for regardless of the extent of the scandal, Mrs. Flowerdew knew what was proper, and held to her standards most strictly, despite of how uninformed her friends and neighbours may continue through the early part of the day – nearly the entire Meryton knew of the incident Martin so obligingly relayed to Sir Lucas that very morning. From her window, conveniently placed above the busiest – and, at the same time, the only worthy of that name – street in Meryton, Mrs. Phillips realised that something was afoot, as soon as she observed the majestic figure of Mrs. Flowerdew repair through the door to her abode at three o’clock in the afternoon precisely.
Mrs. Phillips was not one of Mrs. Flowerdew’s particular friends. She therefore settled down to await the Bearer of News. Allowing time for the visits to the ladies fortunate enough to be on most intimate terms with her, Mrs. Flowerdew, Mrs. Phillips concluded on basis of rich experience, would ineluctably descend upon her own establishment about a quarter past four, or, if the piece of news was scandalous indeed – and Mrs. Phillips rather hoped it to be so – no later than half past.
Patience, Mrs. Phillips reminded herself, was a virtue.
“What?!”
Mr. Bennet raised himself abruptly from a comfortable armchair in Sir William’s study. Sir William stood up as well, lifting his arms before him as to placate his neighbour, and stuttered,
“R-r-r-really, I have every faith the man is mistaken. It cannot be…”
“Then why, pray, did you even bother to relay such nonsense to me? I have never heard anything quite so ridiculous, and trust me, these two ears have had their fair share of folly, and beyond!”
“Yes, yes…”
Sir William was for a moment distracted from the course of argument he was trying to present. Confound it, what was it that his wife had said? Ah, yes.
“It would mean nothing, you see, Bennet, but… This man, Martin, had gone and spread the word before I could silence him. I gather he was warming his feet by the Flowerdew kitchen fire last night. And so…”
Sir Lucas waved his arms about helplessly, in hopes that Mr. Bennet would reach his own conclusions upon hearing the name of Flowerdew. He wished with all his heart he would not have to present things quite so bleakly as Lady Lucas did. His hopes were well founded. Mr. Bennet stopped in his restless stride and remarked bitterly,
“I wish to God his trousers had caught fire while he was at it, that is all I am going to say of the matter.”
After a few minutes of extremely uncomfortable silence, interrupted only by the nervous shuffling of Sir William’s feet, Mr. Bennet regained sufficient composure to thank his neighbour, and decline the kind invitation to see Lady Lucas on account of the fact he wished to leave for home immediately. Sir Lucas made some polite sounds of regret and patted his neighbour’s shoulder as he was about to depart.
“I do not believe a word of it. Neither does Lady Lucas.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, averting his eyes. A hoarse ‘Goodbye,’ as he was wrapping himself in his greatcoat, and he was off.
It was to be a very special day; Mr. Bingley could feel it in his bones. So confident was he of it, that he exhibited behaviour more than customarily annoying to his sister. He went so far as to whistle at the breakfast table. It was positively distasteful.
Caroline Bingley’s mouth assumed the appearance of a thin red line of displeasure.
At a breakfast table in a part of London which could not possibly have, under any circumstances, an uplifting effect on the aforementioned thin red line, an interrogation was taking place.
Mrs. Gardiner, a dear, sweet woman, if there ever was one, and falling assuredly into the category of good aunts, was that morning exhibiting a touch of iron lurking from beneath the velvet glove**. It had been weeks since she observed, day after day, her beloved niece wane. That she should blossom as a result of a simple drive and a half-an-hour visit, called, felt Mrs. Gardiner, for an explanation.
Furthermore, this very same niece, altered beyond recognition, a hue of crimson lingering on her cheek, and melody returning to her voice, had announced that a gentleman was to be added to the family party for the evening meal of the following day. Consequently to this announcement, Mrs. Gardiner set about ordering some extra menu features to her cook. This alacrity was not merely founded in the fact that in Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner had found an excellent mistress of his home and hearth. It was also a method, to which Mrs. Gardiner resorted in order to avoid asking questions, when asking questions was ill placed or ill-timed.
However, as Jane had had, in the meantime, the entire night to compose herself, Mrs. Gardiner the same period of time to concoct a plan, and Mr. Gardiner had had his breakfast, kissed his children, affectionately patted his wife on the lower left arm, winked to his niece, and was effectively out of the house, Mrs. Gardiner perceived no further obstacle to proceed.
There was another young woman who had had the whole night to calm her thoughts and features. In her case, a single night was not nearly enough for her to succeed in this object. She came down to breakfast, dabbled with her toast and chose not to take notice of either tea, most of her family or their inquiries. To own the truth, there were not many inquiries to take no notice of after she had resolutely stated that one could, after all, become absorbed in a letter from a sister – blush – to the extent to be rendered oblivious to one’s surroundings – another blush.
At such arguments, her paternal parent merely raised an eyebrow and presumed that it was the concentration of fickleness and foolishness in one’s home that had something to do with the immense absorption in the missive, which alone, however, did not account for the raised colour in the cheek of his second eldest offspring. Yet he let it pass.
He thought very highly of himself, that much was certain. He did not go to any great lengths to conceal it. That, too, was rather evident. He took no pains whatsoever to be on a good footing with his social inferiors. On the other hand, Elizabeth suspected that Mr. Darcy would not, if situation arose, bother concealing his dislike or disapproval of anyone.
Therefore, his words puzzled her to an even greater extent –
‘You have never desired my good opinion and I had not been as fortunate to obtain yours.’
Had he tried? Did he wish it? If so, why?
In all honesty, Elizabeth found the quest for any evidence of that rather futile when she first set out on it. She scoffed at the mere idea that Mr. Darcy would condescend to being polite or in any other way soliciting the good opinion of someone he found barely tolerable…
It must have been a figure of speech.
Yes.
Quite.
Hmmm.
Rather unlikely.
The bitterness of the recollections of their previous meetings was gradually supplanted by consciousness of how different he had appeared to her during the interview the previous afternoon. There was something about him Elizabeth had not observed before. At the time, she paid little attention to the changes of his features as he spoke to her; before, she could acknowledge it was in his power to exhibit any modification of his countenance, since there had been in her mind a firmly set belief that it was not able to convey any kind of emotion other than contempt and haughty disinterest, both requiring very little effort on the part of his facial muscles.
As soon as she made that observation, she was obliged to refute it on her own accord. If her memory was not playing tricks on her all of a sudden, that was far from being true. A myriad of expressions appeared in her mind. He smiled. He rolled his eyes. He looked uncomfortable. Disgusted. Amused. Anxious. Mocking. Aloof. Guilty. And… Genuinely pleased to see her.
Unwillingly, Elizabeth Bennet examined her own conduct on these separate occasions, and what she saw did not contribute to her ease of mind. Her unwavering support of Mr. Wickham which, she was now humbled to confess, was based rather on her dislike of Mr. Darcy and susceptibility to Mr. Wickham’s charm and – Elizabeth bit her lip – flattery, than on any knowledge of facts. She went so far as to equal his and her sister’s grievance against Mr. Darcy! No wonder he was adamant in his claim to have not done wrong by Jane.
As soon as the thought introduced itself, Elizabeth dismissed it. He might have been influenced by it, yet she must not believe him so. That, again, would stand for nothing else but prejudice, and would be unfair. But not to have seen Jane’s affection for Bingley!
She paused as another recollection occurred to her. The party at Lucas Lodge – the very same occasion when Mr. Darcy asked her to dance with him – was obliged to ask her, rather, due to Sir William’s incessant urging! She felt a pang of humiliation. Less than a day after proclaiming someone ‘tolerable’, to be compelled to stand up with them in midst of inferior society… Elizabeth’s sense of ridiculous was too pronounced not to be stirred at this. Which of the two suffered more? Mr. Darcy’s pride or her own?
Having given it further thought, she found considerably less cause for amusement in that dilemma.
She reproached herself for letting her train of thought be averted – she was to think of Jane. What was it that Charlotte said? Yes!
‘Jane should try harder to secure Mr. Bingley, and do so as soon as may be.’
As far as the notion of securing a gentleman was from Elizabeth’s sense of what was right – should one feign more affection than one really felt, to procure a return of feeling? She should think rather the opposite, in order to acquaint oneself with the other party! But obviously, that was not Charlotte’s view of things. She did not wish to be unfair to her friend. Seen in a prudential light, it was an excellent match for her.
Prudence, yes. It was all very well to philosophise on prudence, yet one should very much wish to marry for something else!
Jane could have both, only she was to try harder? Throw herself into Mr. Bingley’s arms? Elizabeth shook her head. Had it not been obvious to everyone see Jane was doing as much as her timid nature and characteristic reserve permitted her? Charlotte, apparently, did not see it, and she had known Jane for years. Was it then inconceivable that Mr. Darcy should find himself under the same misapprehension?
But if he would get to know Jane better, if he saw her again, together with Mr. Bingley—
Elizabeth felt an overwhelming conviction that if only she were able to speak with Mr. Darcy again she would make him reconsider… No, he would hardly listen to her. His mind was made up. What must he think of her!
Through the desire to see her sister righted, and happy, her mind, and, to an even degree, her heart, exercised wondrous pliability to circumstance and the revelations that had been made to her.
“Welcome home, sir.”
A hand brushed the forehead, and through a suppressed cough, the inexplicably absent master now returned replied,
“Good morning, Mitchell. Has Miss Darcy come down yet?”
“Yes, sir. She is, I believe, in the parlour. Shall I inform her of your arrival?”
“Yes, please. I shall join her presently. I am going up now. Could you send word to Forsythe that I shall not require him for the next quarter of an hour or so?”
Rather mechanically, as through no will of his own, Mr. Darcy ascended the stairs and opened the door to his chamber.
The clock above the mantelpiece struck four. Mrs. Phillips lifted eyes from her needlework, and decided on an invigorating walk towards the window. She reached it just in time to see the bulk of Mrs. Flowerdew disappear inside the home of Mrs. Whistler.
“Oh!”
A gasp escaped the otherwise unwavering Mrs. Phillips. It must be something really dreadful Constance Flowerdew had to impart, for she was quite behind schedule. A little after half four, though, all would be revealed. Mrs. Phillips settled down to work again, attentive to every sound, as if there were even a remote possibility her esteemed acquaintance would ring the bell before expected.
She would have to wait a while before she could form her own judgment of his feelings. Jane had been very reticent, yet a few words escaped her of the Netherfield Ball, and once gently prodded by her aunt, in several unconnected sentences, amidst blushes and exclamations of protest, Mr. Bingley was pronounced the most agreeable young man she had ever met.
He had done it, he got hold of a heart so sweet and noble, that Mrs. Gardiner could only pray he may be worthy of it, and, that by some chance, he would not let this very same heart down again, as apparently he had already done once. Edward had been more decisive as the average man, true, but the shilly-shallying of the young men these days… Mrs. Gardiner did not look upon it with a friendly eye. Still, let the young man come, by all means, and see if he is worthy to be fretted about at all.
Mrs. Gardiner was soon as anxious as her niece for the evening to arrive.
Mrs. Phillips’s inner clock struck unmistakably. It was little after half four. A glance at an external clock confirmed it. The sound of the bell, however, was lacking. She did not even pretend to raise herself in order to benefit her legs. Her patience had been severely tried, and, as virtues go, Mrs. Phillips would gladly exercise the next on the list. Where was that woman?
That woman, if anyone indeed may be as bold as to attach that epithet to the widow of Percival Flowerdew, was, at that very moment, passing the door to Mrs. Philips’s home, and she showed no inclination whatsoever to permit her righteous hand touch the bell.
Mrs. Phillips’s hand flew to her face. What had she done? What had she done?
He closed the door behind him and leaned heavily against the panelling. His heart pounded in his ears. He was shivering, yet his skin was aflame.
“Elizabeth.”
Mr. Bennet had no habit of entering the drawing room, if he could but help it. He rarely left his study, and for most of the time, it was taken for granted that he was not to be disturbed unless a visitor specifically asking for the master of the house or an unforeseen calamity descended upon Longbourn. Little did it matter which – for Mr. Bennet perceived both phenomena as disturbing his peace – as long as he was not in his particular retreat overcome by human folly in the shape of one or other of his family, his eldest daughters excluded. And even they dared not enter the sanctum without a very particular invitation.
It was, however, most peculiar Mr. Bennet should issue it invested in his greatcoat still, in a hoarse trembling voice, and with a furrowed brow.
Kitty and Lydia were upstairs, rummaging through each other’s closets. Mrs. Bennet returned to her bed. There was therefore only Mary left to witness her father’s extraordinary behaviour. As oddities go, there was an abundance of them to choose from for one who would claim herself a student of human nature. But Miss Mary Bennet secretly despised human nature. Her mind was not disposed towards examining so fickle a subject. Therefore she did not bother to raise her eyes from her book; she did not see Elizabeth stand up, turn pale and follow Mr. Bennet out of the room.
“Close the door, Lizzy. Is your mother upstairs?”
“Yes, Papa. What is the matter? You do not look well. Has something happened?”
Mr. Bennet flung his greatcoat on a settee and settled in his chair. He motioned to his daughter to join him in a chair opposite to his. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat.
“I had hoped you would be able to supply that piece of information.”
In the manner of a dizzying whirlwind, the muffled sound of voices protruded into his world.
“Sir?”
“William? Good God! William! Speak to me!”
“Madam, if I may suggest…”
“Would you be so kind to summon Doctor Bridewell?”
“I took the liberty of dispatching Jenkins to that purpose as soon as I entered the room, madam. What I had in mind was—”
Forsythe’s eye rested on the small figure perching on the side of the bed, grasping hold of his master’s ashen hands with both of her own.
There was, after all, no need for Mr. Bingley to navigate his own carriage through the streets of London, towards that happy house which Miss Bennet had so unexpectedly blessed with her presence. His coachman, with the superior confidence of one who knows his business, carried himself, the horses and the vehicle bearing a much agitated Mr. Bingley, safely through the slippery streets of the capital towards that remote area that was Gracechurch Street.
On coachman’s setting the wheels in motion, Mr. Bingley’s heart was still in its proper anatomical locale, if throbbing weightily against the velvety surface of the waistcoat, chosen over its less deserving peers, all thrown together in a pile in the middle of Mr. Bingley’s dressing room. The shirt fared better, for being wholly and irreproachably white, it had no outstanding competition. Whatever the criteria for selection of his attire, the imminent result of the process was havoc in Mr. Bingley’s wardrobe and the nerves of his valet.
The clatter of the wheels clashed mercilessly with the labour of Mr. Bingley’s blood pump. The rhythms of the two were in untimely discord as if bent on mocking the young man’s feelings. The world was supposed to be in perfect unison with his fondest desires and wishes, down to the last possible detail. Not yet, not yet.
The Embankment. One look down into the dark and gloomy emptiness where he knew the river lay. Heart rapidly progressing down, down, further down into the vicinity of the stomach. A most unnerving sensation.
… “Ouch!”
As the severe trials of the heart continued, Mr. Bingley’s skeletal frame as well had a justifiable reason for complaint, directed against the rough and unpolished surface of the street. But was a flight on the wings of passion ever to be deterred by a bumpy road? Never!
… Past the Saint Paul’s… A rather sharp turn left – and right – and another left—
The carriage stopped.
With his heart stuck in his throat, in a state somewhere halfway between merry skipping and tremble, Mr. Bingley clutched at the seat as the carriage came to a halt abruptly. He was merely a shadow of the confident, albeit nervous man who had entered the carriage. There was, momentarily, no other feeling in his bones but one of being shaken.
“A glass of water, quickly!”
“Tea! Hot tea would do him good!”
The contradictory requests were both met with alacrity, yet to no avail, as none of the beverages met with approval of their destined consumer. He simply turned his head away when first a glass, then a cup was lowered to his lip, thus very effectively expressing his lack of interest in either.
Georgiana Darcy laid her hand on her brother’s forehead, which was by now covered in tiny rivulets of perspiration.
Darcy was shivering, and lingered apparently in a half-conscious state. The moment his disconcerted senses registered the touch, his eyes opened, and his hand stretched out to seize his sister’s.
“You must believe me. You must!”
He uttered the words and let go of the hand as quickly as he grasped at it.
The sound of the bell being vigorously pulled at the door of 48, Gracechurch Street, echoed throughout the house and roused Jane Bennet from the position she had occupied for the previous half an hour. The edge and the armrest of the chair furthermost from the entrance to her uncle’s parlour presented her last firm refuge in the world of confusion and uncertainty.
Confusion and uncertainty? Yes, for less than twenty-four hours after inviting Mr. Bingley to her uncle’s house, she was not altogether satisfied she had acted wisely. One can hardly invite an unknown gentleman to one’s place of residence without giving rise to a substantial amount of interest. Even though this interest is concealed in the manner of most polite, gentle and sensible inquiry, as it had been the case with Mrs. Gardiner’s all day long, one nevertheless felt it keenly. In Jane Bennet’s case the blood vessels in her cheek had been relentlessly at work until she at some point sighed deeply and wished she had not been so precipitate. What must Mr. Bingley think of her?
Fortunately enough for her peace of mind as well as the smoothness of this narrative, she was not to be left brooding upon that question long. Mr. Bingley was quick to follow the mighty sound his hand procured from the doorbell. And, once in the parlour, even a wholly bewildered, indecisive, as well as deaf and dumb person could not be in any doubt as to the nature of Mr. Bingley’s opinion of Miss Bennet.
“Pardon me, Papa. What is it that you wish to know? Indeed I am not certain.”
On her face there was a trace of a smile, the result of keen observation of her father. He was considerably upset over something. No doubt it would take him a minute or two to relate the matter, and then they would both share a laugh at his expense, for making himself agitated over nothing. Or would they?
She shifted in her chair nervously and clasped her hands together in her lap. What right had she to be so confident of anything any longer?
Mr. Bennet muttered something under his breath. There was no effortless way to broach the disagreeable subject, and broach it he was obliged to. He sighed deeply and began thus:
“Lizzy, you know I have every faith in your discernment. I take pride in your quickness of mind, and resoluteness of behaviour. I suppose I shall have to admit it to myself one of these days that you are not a little girl any more, and that I may lose you to someone…” He paused slightly.
“I have never pried into your affairs, neither the affairs of your sisters. But now, I must ask you this, and you will, I know, answer me truthfully, and will not suppose I do it for any reason other than your own benefit—”
“Are you… Do you… Blast!”
Mr. Bennet found his task remarkably irksome, and was willing to abandon or postpone it, were it not for the name of ‘Flowerdew’ lurking at the back of his mind, as well as the certainty that approaching his favourite daughter twice on so ridiculous a subject would be quite beyond him. Therefore, he decided to round his speech with a straightforward question to which Elizabeth would have no choice to answer in the same manner, and then… Well, then he should know what he was about and… It would be easier.
There was not time enough to even begin to doubt the latter surmise, for out the question came, forthright enough,
“Have your affections been engaged recently, Elizabeth?”
“In this weather? All the way from—?”
It was very difficult to not embark upon the path of conjecture at this revelation, and it took all the strength of Mrs. Annesley’s character. She had already exhibited an uncalled for interest in Mr. Darcy’s whereabouts.
Mr. Forsythe was not about to mention any geographical locations if he could possibly help it. But in his customarily dispassionate voice a slight quiver could be detected by an alert ear.
“Yes, madam. The carriage has not yet returned. If I may suggest… Doctor Bridewell should be made aware of the fact.”
Mrs. Annesley nodded appreciatively.
“Thank you. You have thought of everything, I see. I shall go to Miss Georgiana now.”
It was for her, then, to tell Miss Darcy that her brother had ridden through wind and snow all the way from Hertfordshire.
“You are very welcome, sir.”
Mr. Gardiner thus politely responded to Mr. Bingley’s speech, which was an effusion of mirth and an apology all in one. It had, just as he was bowing to the Gardiners when Miss Bennet officiated the introductions in soft, trembling voice, struck Mr. Bingley that he found himself in a singular situation. He was, in the space of one evening, to accomplish much, and he set about it with vigour and resolve.
Mrs. Gardiner was known to say months later that on the occasion of Mr. Bingley’s first visit to her home, she was sorely tempted to employ her sister Bennet’s subtle technique of marching right out of her own parlour, and motioning to her husband to follow her example, so strongly felt she for the young couple.
The conversation was mainly restricted to the Gardiners and Mr. Bingley, for Miss Bennet fled into the arms of her old friend the chair at the earliest possible opportunity. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner meanwhile were appraised of the fact that Netherfield was as fine a country home as anybody could wish for - was it in Miss Bennet’s power to confirm his words? It was. He had been away for too long. It was since— November. He regretted very much that Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did not visit their brother and sister more often. He could have made their acquaintance sooner.
Mrs. Gardiner felt that if her acquaintance was indeed so precious, it was perhaps worth the effort of establishing actual eye contact. Moreover, she had some fears regarding the gentleman’s neck. How he would ever straighten it out after abusing it so abominably, she really did not know.
Upon settling that after all, Mr. Bingley’s neck and the potential discomfort of same were entirely Mr. Bingley’s own concern, Mrs. Gardiner decided to take a more active part in the conversation.
“Yes, I was told, Mr. Bingley, that no sooner you had properly settled in, you acted in accordance with all the rules of good neighbourly behaviour – you gave a ball. That must have been quite an event.”
It was. It was a wonderful, wonderful evening. Never to be forgotten. He had the honour of welcoming all his neighbours. Was it not a pleasant evening, Miss Bennet? It was.
Mr. Gardiner inquired into the blushing silence,
“How so, if I may ask, that you chose Hertfordshire? Was it its proximity to Town that made you decide to take up residence there?”
Mr. Bingley, at this point, was compelled to release his neck from a rather incommodious twist.
“Well, if I think about it closely—”
His forehead wrinkled with the effort.
“By Jove, you may be right, sir. I had employed the notion of renting a house in Derbyshire for a time, to be close to my friend Darcy – a capital fellow - yet none were to be had. Either on altogether too grand a scale – I did not wish for a Blenheim – or rather too small. Not that I would mind a comfortable cottage myself, however, my sister would not take to one at all, I’m afraid. Living in the country, in general, holds no great attraction to her. I was rather at a loss of what to do on that account, wishing to please her, and - so, yes, I rather think Hertfordshire made a nice compromise, now that you mention it. Well! I have never thought of it in quite that light before.”
Mr. Bingley was astonished at his own resourcefulness as it was revealed to him. He beamed at his host and hostess.
“Hertfordshire! Yes! In all respects, a most excellent county.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled and said softly,
“I am certain my husband would agree. As much as I have grown to like it during the visits to our relatives, I retain loyalty to my native county, which I share, I see, with your friend Mr. Darcy. I grew up in a small village by the name of Lambton.”
The neck sustained another sharp jerk as Mr. Bingley’s attention was again re-directed.
“Good Lord! Lambton! Why, that is practically next door to Darcy! I wish he were here then! But you must know him…” Mr. Bingley realised, suddenly, that Mrs. Gardiner and his friend were not likely to be acquainted. He proceeded, somewhat flustered, yet determined,
“Do you visit your old home perhaps, Mrs. Gardiner?”
“I had not been there twice since my marriage. You see, all my old acquaintances had married as well, my parents died… With family and home to take care of, old bonds loosen fast.”
“Oh, Aunt, do not say that! Loosen perhaps, tho’ not break!” This exclamation originated from the general direction of Miss Bennet’s chair. She continued, “It was countless times you related little anecdotes of your childhood and maiden days at Lambton. You drew us pictures of your home when we were children. And many a Derbyshire tale I know solely thanks to you!”
“Come, Jane, and tell me, which tale do you remember?”
Mrs. Gardiner stood up, approached her niece and guided her to a chair next to hers. There was a limit to what Mr. Bingley’s neck could bear without any permanent damage.
The evening thus truly began.
“One cannot really act as if one is surprised,” said Mrs. Whistler meaningfully. “For one, they had all been out and about to catch the officers right from the moment the regiment settled in Meryton.”
“So they were, Laetitia. I cannot but think though…”
Mrs. Whistler raised an eyebrow inquisitively towards her sister, Miss Whistler.
“Ye-ees, Rosalind?”
“Could there not be some mistake?”
“Mistake? Mis-take?!”
To Mrs. Whistler, the concept of placing ‘mistake’ and ‘Mrs. Flowerdew’ in the same sentence – though, strictly speaking, none such rash act had taken place… But the implication! The implication was there. It was not to be thought, much less spoken of. In Mrs. Whistler’s mind, ‘Flowerdew’ had the same ring of infallible authority as the Oracle at Delphi to the ancient Greek. One simply did not question the oracle. That is, Mrs. Flowerdew.
Rosalind Whistler stifled a cry as she energetically stuck a needle into her thumb instead of the cloth upon her sister’s reaction. She went and did it, so she might as well say what she set out to say.
“I am not above suspicion that Catherine or Lydia may have had… some underhand dealings with… someone…”
Mrs. Whistler was breathing vigorously through her nose, thus producing a sound much in harmony with her married name.
Quickly, Miss Whistler attempted to round her thought,
“But Elizabeth – I do not think… That is, I do not find it in my power…”
Her sentence received a check in the shape of a booming pronouncement of Mrs. Whistler’s.
“Rosalind, it is not up to you to try! You heard what Mrs. Flowerdew said. Holding hands! In the dusk! Really, if that is not sufficient, if you need more, I suggest you go and ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet to take you into her confidence. However—”
“If you do, you can hardly expect Terence to let you dwell under his roof!”
Mrs. Whistler’s voice rose to the pitch that made that very roof jump.
“At present, I cannot undertake to say anything else but that your brother’s condition is serious, Miss Darcy. He is very much feverish and not completely conscious of his surroundings. Nevertheless, I am inclined to think his condition has been brought on by severe exhaustion, some sort of strain upon his mind, resulting in lack of sleep and appetite. These factors brought together, and accompanied by, as you tell me… Well, his state of health is not at all surprising in that light.”
The physician continued in a more reassuring tone,
“You need not distress yourself, Miss Darcy. Your brother has always been strong. What needs to be done now is to reinstate his strength. You must make him take something invigorating. Also something to encourage perspiration. Some gruel would serve that purpose admirably, or Scotch broth later on…”
Georgiana nodded all the way through Dr Bridewell’s instructions and recommendations.