by Janet Aylmer
As his recollection of that evening at Hunsford returned to him, he said,
“Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:
“had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.
“Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me. Although it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression,” said Elizabeth. “I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
After they had walked on a little, Darcy mentioned the letter he had written after that meeting.
“Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”
Her reply confirmed that, although in some respects it had at first angered her, over a longer period of time all her former prejudices against him had been removed.
“I knew,” said Darcy, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread you having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions, which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard,” she replied, “but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”
He thought for a few moments, and then said, “When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
Elizabeth would not let him be so harsh on the author.
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness,” she replied, “but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself.”
Then she went on firmly, “But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind,” said Darcy.
“Our retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of ignorance. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
“Unfortunately an only son, for many years an only child, I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable, allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.
“Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you,” turning to her as he said, “dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?” she asked him with surprise.
“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening?”
Darcy stopped walking along the lane, and turned to face her, as he said vehemently,
“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”
Elizabeth replied, as if to quell his remorse and direct his thoughts away from what had happened between them in Kent, “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
“No, indeed,” replied Darcy, “I felt nothing but surprise.”
“Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due.”
“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to.”
A smile came to his lips as he went on,
“How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
Darcy then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption. Elizabeth looked surprised as he went on to tell her that his intention of travelling to London to find Wickham and her sister had been formed before he had quitted the inn. His gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but neither of them wished to dwell on that subject.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too occupied to know anything of it, they found that it was time to return to Longbourn.
“What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” she exclaimed, and that brought on a discussion of their affairs.
Darcy said that he was delighted with their engagement, and that his friend had given him the earliest information of it.
“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.”
Darcy admitted that it had been pretty much the case, and told her that he had admitted his part in keeping Bingley and Jane Bennet separated when she had been staying with the Gardiners in London during the winter.
“His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
“From the former,” replied Darcy. “I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”
“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgement in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgi
ven me now.”
Darcy saw Elizabeth smile a little at this but, in contemplating the happiness of Bingley and Jane, which of course was to be inferior only to their own, Darcy continued the conversation till they reached the house.
In the hall they parted.
“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” said her elder sister when she entered the room a short distance ahead of Darcy. The rest of the company made the same enquiry as they took the vacant seats at opposite sides of the dining table. Elizabeth replied that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own knowledge but, although she coloured as she spoke, neither that, nor anything else, caused suspicion.
After the meal, the evening passed quietly enough. He observed his friend and the elder Miss Bennet talking together and laughing. Elizabeth was quiet, only giving him an expressive smile when no one else was looking in her direction; but Darcy was more than content with that.
34
On the way back to Netherfield, Darcy told his friend of the day’s events.
Bingley was taken totally by surprise.
“Jane and I have talked of that,” he began, “but we had concluded that it was impossible.”
He went on, “I must say that I had thought, when we met Elizabeth in Derbyshire, at Lambton and Pemberley, that you might have some susceptibility in that direction, despite my sisters’ efforts to decry it. But, since then, nothing confirmed to me that you had any such intentions.”
Bingley paused and then, as though suddenly struck by a new idea, went on,
“I knew that Lady Catherine had called to see Elizabeth at Longbourn, for Jane told me about the visit. Was that on your behalf?”
“No! It was not,” said Darcy, more sharply than he intended.
He reflected immediately to himself that it was not wise, at least not yet, to broadcast his aunt’s strong opposition to the marriage, even to as close a friend as Bingley, until he had written to her and received a reply to the letter. There was, after all, the possibility, however small and remote, that Lady Catherine might change her mind about the match.
Instead, he said to Bingley, “Will you now wish me joy?”
His friend replied emphatically, “With all my heart. I can think of nothing that would please Jane and I more. Are you to speak to Mr. Bennet tomorrow?”
“Probably, yes,” Darcy replied, “when I have had the opportunity for some further private conversation with Elizabeth. Are you willing to propose another walk tomorrow? I must confess that there seems little likelihood of talking with her at Longbourn without being overheard.”
“Of course!” said his friend, “for clearly such exercise is to your advantage!”
On the following day, Darcy followed his friend into the drawing-room at Longbourn.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at Elizabeth so expressively, and shook her hand with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information. Soon afterwards, he said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?”
Darcy saw Elizabeth look at him with some alarm, but her mother intervened before she could say anything.
“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”
“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley, “but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?”
Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home.
Darcy confirmed to Mrs. Bennet that he had a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount. Elizabeth said nothing, but went to get her wrap before joining him outside. After they had walked out of earshot of the house, Darcy began.
“I wish to speak to your father tonight, to ask his consent, before anyone else has any knowledge of it. Do you know what his reaction will be?”
Elizabeth replied, “My father is likely to be very surprised at your application. He knows nothing of what passed between us in Kent, or at Pemberley.”
She blushed as she went on, “His opinion of you may be coloured by the views of others, formed when you first came into Hertfordshire.”
“You mean, I suppose, by views similar to your own at Rosings?”
She acknowledged that she had in mind something of the sort.
“Also, it is only a few days ago, just after Lady Catherine called, that my father received a letter from Mr. Collins. He wrote that word had reached Kent of my sister’s forthcoming marriage. That must have led on to the idea of an alliance between us, passed on, I assume, from Sir William and Lady Lucas to Charlotte, and warned my father that your aunt was opposed to it. He called me into the library, as he was so surprised at such a possibility.”
“And what did you say?” said Darcy with a half smile.
“I said as little as I could, without telling him an untruth.”
Darcy looked concerned. He knew that Elizabeth was her father’s favourite child. “You are not saying that he will refuse me consent to marry you!”
“No, I do not believe so. But he may say that he has had no inkling that I have any attachment to you.”
“And your mother, what of her,” Darcy inquired, remembering very well Mrs. Bennet triumphantly relating to him only two weeks ago the news of her youngest daughter’s nuptials.
Elizabeth told him that she would speak to Mrs. Bennet only when she was certain that Darcy had her father’s consent. She went on to ask him, in relation to the events which had led to her sister’s marriage with Wickham, what, if anything, should be disclosed.
“As I told you before, Sir, my mother and father have no inkling of how indebted they are to you in that unhappy business. They believe that it was my uncle Gardiner’s doing. You do not wish me to inform either of them?”
“Only, if you consider it essential, to tell your father, so that he may not trouble your uncle about repayment.”
Elizabeth then reserved to herself passing on the news to Mrs. Bennet, once it was certain that her father had agreed, saying only that she believed that she would always be happy at the prospect of a wedding for any of her daughters. That reminded them both of Wickham and Lydia, and they changed the subject quickly, to happier topics about the future.
35
That evening after dinner, Darcy followed his host when he left the party to go to his room.
Seeing him, Mr. Bennet said, “Can I assist you, Sir? You are very welcome to borrow one of my books, for when the other entertainments, that are on offer, pall?”
“Thank you, but I have no need of a book for that reason. But there is something that I should like to discuss, if you would be kind enough to allow me a few minutes.”
Mr. Bennet looked surprised, but said nothing, and he led the way into the library, then inviting his guest to sit down.
But Darcy walked over to the fire, and turned, taking in the room with comfortable furniture and lined with books, in in which he knew that his host spent much of his time.
He began, without delay.
“I have an application to ask of you, Sir, that is of the utmost importance to me. Your daughter, Miss Elizabeth, has done me the greatest honour in telling me that she is willing to accept my offer of marriage, subject to your consent.”
His host appeared to take several moments to comprehend the import of this request. His countenance turned slowly to astonishment and then to concern. At last, Mr. Bennet said, “You have asked Lizzy to marry you...and she has accepted?” He spoke as though expecting a reply in the negative.
Darcy replied simply, “Yes, Sir, she has done me that honour.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet, “but I had no idea that you... that she... that you and Lizzy were well acquainted enough to...?”
Darcy waited for a moment, and then, as his host made no move to continue, he said,
“Your daughter has told me, Sir, that you may have little knowledge of our meetings in Kent and in
Derbyshire earlier this year. You may wish to speak to her about that.”
Mr. Bennet was still silent.
“All I should say for myself now is that it is my dearest wish that she should be my wife.”
Darcy hesitated for a moment and then, as Mr. Bennet still gave no reply, he added, “I can assure you, Sir, that it is my intention to make a most generous settlement on her in the event of our marriage. She shall not want for anything.”
This last remark aroused Mr. Bennet into speech, although not on the lines that Darcy had anticipated.
“I do not doubt your ability to provide for her . . .” he said.
But he went on, in a tone that was almost puzzled, “I had no idea that there was any mutual feeling between you and my daughter. And I must confess that I was completely unaware of your intentions.”
“Forgive me, Sir,” said Darcy, “if I say that Miss Elizabeth and I are perhaps less open, more private in our emotions and behaviour than my friend, Bingley, and your eldest daughter, Miss Bennet.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Bennet, almost testily, and he then lapsed into silence.
Darcy was not sure how to interpret this reaction, especially since he had noted in the past that Elizabeth’s facility with words was inherited from her father.
After a pause, he said, hesitantly, “Are you willing to give me your consent, Sir?”
Mr. Bennet looked at him for a moment, and then said slowly, “Yes. But, if you agree, I should like to speak with Lizzy before . . . before the news is passed on to anyone else in the family.”
It was not difficult for Darcy to guess who he had in mind.
“Of course, Sir. Thank you. I know that Elizabeth . . . that your daughter greatly values your opinion.” And with that, Darcy went out of the library, and returned to the drawing-room.
His absence did not seem to have been noted, except by Elizabeth, since most of the others were busily engaged playing cards. He smiled at her when he was sure that the others were occupied and, after a few minutes when he could do so without being noticed, he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty.
