“I can’t think how I could have been so blind to what was going on,” she said. “My eyes are as sharp as most, I suppose, and yet he completely took me in. He actually pretended to be in love with me, knowing full well that I would avoid him in consequence, that he might prosecute his schemes undisturbed.”
Darcy shook his head. “No, that was no pretence, Elizabeth. An ephemeral passion it may be, for men of Carlini’s sort seldom know constancy to one woman, but real enough while it lasts. And perhaps because fated to remain unsatisfied it will linger on longer than most of his flames. It may even have played a part in driving him on to do what he has done—in the desperation of feelings he has never attempted to control.”
“You are more than just to him,” she said. “Apart from the injury he would have inflicted upon you if he had been able, the family embroglio is only one of the evils which must result from his conduct. Nothing now can remain hidden; everything must come out into the light of day to be spread abroad with every hurtful addition which malice or ignorance can invent.”
“I am afraid so,” he replied. “It is well-nigh impossible by taking thought to provide against every contingency or to contradict beforehand whatever may be falsely reported. Our reputation must rest upon our so bearing ourselves that it may be seen that we at least have dealt honourably and done what we conceived was our duty. And now, Elizabeth, you must take some rest. You will have enough to do and to endure when I am gone, and you will need strength for it. Come, my love, let me see you asleep.”
The strange vigil ended at last in dreamless repose. Elizabeth slept on far into the morning, neither moving nor waking when her husband left her to start upon his journey to the north.
Chapter 24
The morning was far advanced when Elizabeth went downstairs after a light breakfast taken in her own room. It was a clear, brilliant day, with a gentle breeze stirring the foliage of the trees and bringing the scent of grass into the house—such weather as would have made her rejoice but for the heaviness of her thoughts. From the moment of waking, when the recollection of all that had happened during the past night flooded her mind, the consequences to be apprehended from Anne de Bourgh’s flight had borne them down, not the less so because so much uncertainty must continue for days to come. The hardest blows were yet to fall, as to which her imagination could supply her with a wealth of detail, while fear remained that the worst had not been foreseen.
There was no one about the house, or so it seemed, no one to be found in the breakfast-parlour or the library or elsewhere, and after wandering through various rooms in half hearted search of someone to speak to, and feeling totally unable to give her attention to any settled occupation, she betook herself to the nursery to see the children, although it was past her usual hour for it, and they might be having their morning sleep.
They had just been laid down to rest and Jane and Mrs. Gardiner were coming away after visiting them. Elizabeth turned and accompanied them as far as the hall. There they encountered Mr. Bennet returning from his morning stroll. He, as might be supposed, was on his way to the library, but on seeing his daughter, Elizabeth, for the first time that day, he stopped for some talk.
“So Darcy has gone back to Lady Catherine,” he said. “What a fellow for duty he is, to be sure. And as the reward of virtue Miss de Bourgh has given him her company on the journey, we hear—set off at eight o’clock this morning. A truly sudden decision on the face of it, but I am not surprised. She made it so clear that she hated us all. You look amazed, Lizzy. Do you mean to tell us this is the first you have heard of it?”
Elizabeth was more than amazed, she was struck dumb by knowing not what to say in reply. As she could not remain silent she asked her father how he had heard the news.
“I had it from Jane,” he replied. “She was up at her usual hour, it seems, and saw them go.”
“No, Papa,” interposed Jane. “I did not see them for I was not downstairs till much later. It was Reynolds who told me they had gone.”
A light broke upon Elizabeth, and if it had not been to raise awkward questions she would have laughed aloud. As it was she found it difficult enough to prevent the liveliness of her feelings from becoming visible in her countenance. Turning away with affected nonchalance she walked to the window to admire the weather.
“What a beautiful day,” she exclaimed. “There is such a look of freshness everywhere. What has become of the others? Charles, Georgiana, Major Wakeford—where are they?”
“I saw Georgiana walking with Major Wakeford along the terrace shortly after breakfast,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “They were not long together, I fancy, because only a little later Jane and I met her with Kitty in the flower garden.”
“Major Wakeford spoke of having to return to Bath today,” Jane added. “He was surprised to hear that Mr. Darcy had left home again so soon, and particularly at his not having mentioned it last night. On his enquiring for you, I told him you might be taking a long rest after the fatigues of the ball, and he said he would defer his departure until he had seen you.”
“Where is he now, then?” asked Elizabeth.
“Charles persuaded him to take a rod and go with him to a part of the stream beyond the waterfall.”
Wakeford gone fishing with Bingley! It did not sound as if he were in a very desperate frame of mind, whatever the briefness of his interview with Georgiana and his intention of going away might imply. There was something here requiring explanation, but her most pressing desire at the moment was for authentic information concerning the story, or rather the general belief of Anne de Bourgh’s having quitted the house with her husband to return to Rosings. Excusing herself therefore on the ground of having to speak with Reynolds on household matters she went to her dressing-room and sent word to the housekeeper to come to her. The summons was obeyed with a celerity which spoke of having been momentarily awaited. Within an instant or two Reynolds was standing before her mistress, looking pretty much as she always did, and as if there had been no horrid discovery in the night to shake her composure.
“Your master quitted the house soon after eight o’clock this morning, I believe,” Elizabeth said, without looking at her directly. “No one but yourself and Baxter attended him, presumably. It is being said that he was accompanied by Miss de Bourgh. How can that be?”
“Oh, ma’am, that is certainly a mistake, but as I could not bring myself to say anything but that Miss de Bourgh was gone too, the ladies and gentlemen concluded that was how it was—that Miss de Bourgh was with Mr. Darcy and had gone back with him to her own home. And so, ma’am, I did not like to contradict them, for it seemed a good thing that it should be seen in that light.”
Elizabeth was not herself unversed in the uses of prevarication to meet an embarrassing occasion, and this appeared to her to be an instance which needed no justifying. Repressing a gratified smile, she next enquired,
“But the other servants—what do they know, or rather, what do they not know?”
“Mason and me talked it over privately, ma’am, and we thought it would be as well if Miss de Bourgh’s room were to be made tidy and the bed to look as if it had been slept in for the housemaid to see when she went in this morning. And then I asked Baxter to arrange that none of the footmen should be about when Mr. Darcy came through the hall and entered the carriage. We did not at first quite know how to account for Rachel, but Mason said that Miss de Bourgh being rather a peculiar lady—excuse me, ma’am—it would be believed if we said she had had Rachel to sleep with her and go away without a word to anybody.”
Reynolds eyed her mistress with some anxiety as she concluded this confession of unheard-of duplicity, but Elizabeth could feel nothing but gratitude for this latest and most signal proof of devotion to the family she had served for so many years. For Darcy’s sake, and perhaps in a lesser degree for her own, Reynolds and Mason, and Baxter no less, had taken upon their conscience the utte
ring and acting of a falsehood, and then she reflected that Mason’s devotion to herself was exemplary, and the saving of her mistress’ conscience was equally comprehended in the sacrifice.
“Indeed I think you did quite right,” she said seriously. “You have given me time to consider the matter at greater leisure than would have been possible otherwise. I feel sure also that Mr. Darcy would commend your action.” To allay the misgiving this use of her husband’s name produced, she continued, “As we are still very largely in the dark as to what Miss de Bourgh meant by going away as she did, it is only right that the very strictest secrecy should be observed about last night.”
Mrs. Reynolds assured her mistress that she perfectly understood what was required.
The next step, Elizabeth decided, was to visit Rachel’s mother, but until she reached the cottage she remained uncertain whether to let the letter addressed to Mrs. Stone go out of her hands or not. The errand was not at all to her liking. It seemed, however, as though the stars for this day had ruled that all her expectations were to be upset. Mrs. Stone was neither overcome with grief at the loss of her child nor even surprised at the manner of her going. She had known for some days as a great secret, it appeared, that Miss de Bourgh had offered to take Rachel into a distant part of the country, although she had not thought that it would be so soon. Elizabeth formed the opinion that she was a careless, weak woman, with a family too large for her to manage at all well, and so Rachel would not be greatly missed. Further, she discovered that Mrs. Stone, like Rachel, could not read or write, and this being the case it seemed very unwise to entrust her with a letter which if shown to neighbours of more understanding and learning, might give rise to the wildest rumours. She quitted the cottage, therefore, with the letter still in her pocket.
As she did not wish it to be thought that her solitary concern that morning was with Mrs. Stone she called at one or two other cottages before returning home. She had not forgotten that Major Wakeford might be waiting to see her before taking leave. He had been seen walking with Georgiana, but shortly afterwards they had separated. Then he had gone fishing with Bingley. From these few facts it was unsafe to come to any positive idea of the outcome of their conversation, but it did occur to her that Georgiana, moved by his assurances, discovering in fact that her feeling for him was not dead, might have asked for time to consider her answer. This would account both for his decision to quit Pemberley that day, and for his evident inclination to linger awhile. She was prepared for some such explanation when, on entering the house from the carriage, she met Wakeford himself.
He approached her with his usual grave, direct gaze, and having wished her good-morning and enquired after her health, he came at once to the point.
“Mrs. Darcy, I have to tell you that I find myself obliged to leave you again. I should in any case have found it necessary to return to Bath to conclude the business there, but a doubt existed whether after a brief absence I should not find myself at Pemberley again. It is now settled beyond a question that this cannot be.”
“You have spoken to Georgiana?” Elizabeth exclaimed involuntarily.
“Yes, I asked her for an interview this morning. She heard me very patiently, but her refusal was unequivocal and I had no option but to accept it and withdraw.”
He spoke quietly and equally without chagrin. Elizabeth expressed in the most feeling words she could find her regret for his disappointment, but before she had finished her speech the conviction dawned that he was not inconsolable, and she began to wonder whether, after all, as Georgiana had maintained, he had not come forward from a sense of duty. Perhaps he had never truly loved her, or more probably he had fallen in love with his idea of her character, as, men of his simple sort may do, afterwards discovering the reality to be so much different that it was as if one woman had been substituted for another. The truth of the matter she was never to know for certain, as she could not see into his heart, but that was to remain her belief.
Not long afterwards he departed amid the good wishes of all for his future health and happiness. He had not been at Pemberley again long enough to be missed, and the only person whose thought followed him was Elizabeth. Knowing as much as she did, and yet so little of all there was to know, she could not help wondering what sentiments his reserved nature had harboured towards herself—towards everyone else. He had spoken of sincere gratitude for kindness received, but that was a mere obligatory form of words. The truth of it was felt in the strong clasp of his hand at parting.
It was natural that he should be spoken of by those who had just bidden him farewell, and the briefness of his visit brought forth the sort of remarks that might be expected. Georgiana had arrived in the hall a minute or two before he left, and was the first to slip away. Elizabeth had watched her as she performed her own part in the public leave-taking, but although she was pale and seemed nervous there was no trace of any weakening of the decision she had made. While everyone else flocked out on the steps to see the chaise start she had remained in the hall, and when the others sauntered back, talking, she walked rather quickly to the staircase and disappeared.
Elizabeth found her in her room looking out of one of the windows. She put her arm round her waist and said lightly, “So you have given him his congé, Georgiana.”
“Yes, it was not so dreadful as I had feared. He was very considerate.”
“And you have no lurking regrets?”
“None whatever. Seeing him again cleared up all my doubts. I am sure that I could never have been even tolerably happy with him. What we shared in common—an interest in natural objects—was so little compared with the differences that must have developed between us. I cannot perfectly explain how it all arose—I mean about what I felt at one time, but I think it was an attraction of opposites made stronger by previous repulsion. When he had gone I came to myself and what I then chiefly suffered was horror at having—but you know. And besides I could never bear to live anywhere but here. How could I leave Pemberley? You could not, you know you could not, Elizabeth.”
“But if it had been a question of choosing between Pemberley and your brother, I know which it would have been.”
“I hope he may soon come home.”
On a sudden impulse Elizabeth told her the whole extraordinary story of Horace Carlini—of his birth and upbringing, his outcast existence in London, the follies and vices which had led him into the desperate straits from which he had sought to extricate himself by impersonating his half-brother Stephen Acworth, and lastly of his presumed elopement with Anne de Bourgh. It was necessary to expound the motives for that complete secrecy which so far had enshrouded the affair, and this led to a consideration of the real Stephen Acworth’s character. Georgiana expressed her warm admiration of his disinterested affection for his wretched brother. His endeavours to reclaim him in spite of every discouragement did him the greatest honour.
“He must have found himself in a quandary,” said Elizabeth. “He earnestly desired to save his brother from the consequences of his misconduct, but he could not do so without the help of the man to whom his brother had behaved so disgracefully. There has been some quixotry on both sides, I believe, and see how it has been repaid. The object of their concern has himself cut the Gordian knot by carrying off the person and fortune of a lady who happens to be the cousin of one of his benefactors.”
“You are quite certain he has eloped with Anne?” asked Georgiana.
“What else can we think? No other conclusion can be drawn from what we know.”
“Yes, and he is capable of it, moreover. I recollect that he made a laughing pretence of a sort of offer one day—at least I construed it as such—and when I showed that I thought his language out of place, he pretended he had been joking.”
“Was this at Clopwell?”
“No, one day when we had been practising together. In that flowery manner he sometimes used he spoke of our joining in a duet for
life. And then afterwards, to prove that he had not meant what might be inferred he said—but why repeat it?”
“Only because you have provoked my curiosity, which can never bear to be tantalised.”
“He said, ‘I like you far too well, Miss Darcy, ever to fall in love with you. I respect and admire you from the bottom of my heart.’”
“Indeed! How extremely reassuring! And then, if I recollect, on a later occasion he proposed that you and he should run away and live like brother and sister. And not on nothing, I suppose. Your money was to provide food and lodging, not to mention the little expenses of a gentleman. Money—a great deal of it—was Anne’s sole attraction in his eyes, for in spite of all his wonderful sentiments he is thoroughly mercenary. But why did you say nothing of this before, Georgiana?”
“He begged me not to repeat anything that might be misconstrued by those who did not understand him, and would regard a figure of speech as a literal statement.”
“There is one short word for a figure of speech as it comes out of his mouth,” Elizabeth observed. “Fortunately it is impossible that we shall ever see him again.”
Some days were to pass before she heard from her husband, days of tranquillity, if somewhat weighted by suspense. At length a letter, dated from Carlisle, arrived for her.
Darcy wrote that he had surprised Anne and Carlini at an inn the evening before, having come upon their tracks some days previously. They had travelled faster than he had expected, and he found Anne in a state of great fatigue, but inflexibly determined to proceed to the consummation of their design. Carlini had at first shown fear, but afterwards attempted to brazen the matter out with the effrontery of which a frightened man may be capable.
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