“That is as may be; but see here, Bingley: there is something else. I kept something from you last winter, and I will no longer be a party to deception.” Darcy drew breath, then went on, “Miss Bennet was in London last winter for several months; I knew it, and I did not apprise you of the fact.”
“You knew Miss Bennet was in Town? How? Did you meet?”
“No, we never met; she called on your sister; I had it from her.”
“She called on Caroline! And I was not told? And you—you sided with my sister against me?” Bingley visibly quelled his rising anger, his face showing confusion instead. “I can scarcely believe this; have you any explanation to offer?”
“No; only an apology. I could see that you were not over your feelings for her, and, convinced as I was at the time that she did not return your affection, in my arrogance I decided it would be best if more time passed before the two of you saw each other again.”
“And the fact that Caroline agreed with you did not give you pause?” said Bingley angrily. “What were you thinking?”
“I did feel those doubts, I confess,” Darcy told him contritely. “But I forced them down in service of what I thought was the greater good of your well-being. It was no more than a continuance of that same presumption and assurance that separated you from Miss Bennet in the beginning. It was not until Lambton that I was sure your esteem for her was not extinguished, and even more recently, coming back from London, that I began to doubt my conclusions where Miss Bennet was concerned. As soon as that occurred, I suggested our return, that I might make certain, and I have now given you the results of my observations.”
“That she likes me.”
“Yes; well, more than that.”
Bingley could not keep his grin from wiping the anger from his face. “Lucky thing for you that worked out,” he admonished Darcy. “Otherwise I should be very angry with you right now.”
“And you would be right to be so. I have learnt better though, now, I trust.” He put out a hand with a repentant and hopeful look. Bingley, good man that he was, took it gladly, and the difficult bit was over. Darcy stood and said, “Now, I plan on leaving for London to-morrow morning. You have no need of a hanger-on to intrude on your time with Miss Bennet. I shall absent myself for a while to leave you a clear field.”
Bingley stood happily and shook his hand again. “I shall be as quick as I can about the business, that you may return the sooner.”
“I am confident you will; but I leave that to you,” Darcy said with a smile.
Accordingly, Darcy took himself off the next day, wending a rather gloomy way back to a very quiet Grosvenor Square. He spent his first day in Town going about his affairs, but they were soon exhausted. That left him with little to do other than read, or take walks, and he divided his time almost equally between them. His thoughts passing over and over all his time with Elizabeth, he recalled her mention of the modern poets at Pemberley that day, and, charging his memory, was able to come up with two or three of the names she had mentioned; he purchased them directly; in reading them he was able to imagine himself closer to Elizabeth, and was pleased to picture the discussions they might have on them in the future.
After a day or two passed in this manner, it occurred to him he had not written to Georgiana since leaving Pemberley, and he sat down to rectify that oversight.
Grosvenor Square
Friday, September 19, —
Dear Georgiana,
I have returned to London to wait until Bingley should have had time to secure his future with Miss Bennet; I deemed it best done without the hindrance of my overbearing personality being quite so much in evidence. I doubt it will take long, however; the two principals involved seem as likely to connect as any couple I have ever witnessed, just on the strength of Bingley’s esteem alone; but I am persuaded that Miss Bennet cherishes a deep regard for him, as well. Indeed, I am sure that, now the discouraging influence of my fearsome features is removed, Mrs. Bennet will be able to contrive ample time for the two lovers to be alone to get the job done with admirable efficiency.
So, I am sure the light of tender love triumphant shines by now on Bingley’s schemes of domesticity; I left him yesterday, and I cannot imagine it would take him too much longer to declare himself: he was never one to be reticent in making his feelings known. I expect to hear from him almost hourly to declare his profitable addresses. In spite of my way of talking, Dearest, I am very pleased for him, and wish him every joy in his married life; I am certain he will be happy, and in their mutual goodness I see much to value, and a most favourable prophecy of felicity.
There is little going forward in Town just now, and I am catching up on some reading. After our discussion with Miss Elizabeth Bennet in July, I have been tasting poetry by our modern authors; this afternoon I read The Castaway, by Cowper: have you read it? It is dark, though moving: the tale of a man swept overboard at night, far out at sea; its metaphor found harbour in my heart, and I have turned to this missive, my own link to light, land, and beauty, to distract me and release me from its power. I understand the author was a man given to fits of insanity—what does this say about me, I should like to know? I shall trust your regard for me to be sufficient evidence of my being of sound mind, however.
You will, I know, wish to hear of Miss Elizabeth Bennet; she is well, and asked after you particularly, and on more than one occasion. But I confess that it is nearly as much for her sake as for Bingley’s that I have removed to London—knowing of her younger sister’s condition before her marriage, as I do, my presence could not but inflict some measure of discomfort on her. Of course, she knows nothing of my involvement latterly in the business, which would be much worse, but still, it must be bad enough, and so I have distanced myself from her. I can only trust to time, to let her present suffering amend itself to a degree that will allow her to see me without painful recollection. How much simpler our lives would be if we could regulate our brains to the extent that we could forget whatever we chose to: imagine the bliss of forgetting all pain and embarrassment! These are the scars of the soul, and I cannot but imagine that it would be more beautiful without them. Well, having now given that more thought, I see I am wrong; the soul of the babe is not more beautiful than that of the adult, except in the beauty of the promise it holds for the future. The soul is formed, and informed, by every thing in our lives, including, certainly, all of our trials; pain and mortification must be the price of a beautiful soul: the natural trimmings and prunings, if you will, that create the majestic beauty of the mighty oak. I do not believe that an oak raised in a hothouse would be nearly as picturesque as the forest patriarch which has withstood all the tempests and droughts Nature could throw against it.
Well, there it is, I suppose; we must weather our storms, and persevere through straitened circumstances, and grow slowly into beauty. I must, at least: you, it seems, have somehow managed to by-pass the requirement for trials and travail, having arrived at perfection quite naturally in earliest adulthood. Your trials demonstrate the beauty of your soul, whilst those by which I am afflicted must labour still to shape mine. Perhaps that is simply the difference between men and women—those of my sex must toil, and struggle, and fight with the world, before we are moulded into our correct shape, whilst your sex finds it more spontaneously and benevolently within you. Perhaps, as you are the bearers of life, you are necessarily and innately more sacred and serene, and we men are drawn to that immaculate purity in order to soothe and correct our own great imperfections. I do not know, Dearest; but surely a man without a woman must suffer the more in this life before finding tranquillity and repose.
I do apologise; the residue of melancholy left behind by Cowper does not seem to have left me completely. Be assured, Dearest, I am not so desperate as it may sound; I find that my new susceptibility to poetry affects me more strongly than I have any idea of whilst I am reading it. Then, I am more conscious of the scansion and rhyme scheme, the author’s use of diction and imagery
—a dozen things. But afterwards, as I revisit it in my mind, the impact is felt the more for being free of such critical thinking.
Best I turn my attentions to something rather more mundane and purposeful; there is a letter from Stevenson, which will no doubt occupy my mind to better effect than poetry. Therefore, adieu, Dearest. I remain,
Your affectionate Brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
And, as he had foretold, it was not long before he heard from his friend that his courtship had produced early and very favourable returns. An express arrived on Saturday to this effect:
Netherfield
Saturday, September 20, —
Dear Darcy,
Great news! She has accepted me! You were quite right: she had feelings for me all along. It happened this way: Mrs. Bennet invited me to go shooting with Mr. Bennet on Friday, which I was rather worried about, you know, but we got along very well, although my luck was not with me—I hardly hit a thing. When we got back I spent the afternoon with them and staid to dinner. After tea I chanced to have a bit of time alone with Miss Bennet, and I lost no time in testing your theory. Fortunately, you were correct, and I am now the happiest man on Earth, in simplest truth. She is such a perfect angel: I am sure I do not deserve her, but I am so happy to be able to give her a secure future.
Well! I went straightaway to Mr. Bennet, and I was glad to have spent a pleasant morning with him, as it rather eased the way for me. He made no objections at all, and actually seemed pleased, although he said not a word about it all through supper; he is an odd sort, but really quite a good fellow, underneath, I believe. Every one else, though, was delighted by it, and Mrs. Bennet could hardly let any one else speak, so determined as she was to sanction our happiness with her good wishes; it was all very gratifying.
That is all my news for now, and I expect I shall see you before long, as there is no need now for you to stay away, so I shall leave off; I am to meet the Bennet’s after breakfast, and I still have to change.
Therefore, adieu: with warmest regards, I remain,
Your Obedient &c.
Charles Bingley
Darcy read this with a certain wistful pleasure, and wrote a reply that was, for him, quite sentimental.
Grosvenor Square
Saturday, September 20, —
My dear Bingley,
I am very heartened by your letter, and so very glad my interference had no permanent effect on your fortunes in love. I have no doubt at all of yours being the happiest marriage of my whole acquaintance, and am willing, to please you, to stipulate that you are currently the happiest man extant. With the most faithful sincerity, I am glad for you with all my heart; you have my deepest congratulations, and my gratitude for your generous clemency where my faults affected your felicity for so long.
Your prospective father-in-law is, indeed, a singular sort of man; while not without some faults, I have observed in him certain behaviours that smack of a good heart, albeit somewhat hidden and restricted in scope—but I am sure he has your lady’s best interests firmly at heart; it is undoubtedly to your benefit to be on his good side, as he may then be expected to help with the management of his wife.
I still depend on returning a week from to-day, although I am most eager to be able to offer my congratulations to you and your Jane in person. So, until then, I remain,
Yours faithfully, &c.,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Darcy had already determined he would stay out his time in London, in spite of Bingley’s encouragement to return: there was still Elizabeth’s state of mind to consider, after all; he was to have gone back on Monday week, and that still seemed the best plan.
Almost a week after these events, Darcy, having finished dinner and starting idly to think about a volume of poetry for the evening, had just reached the library when he heard an imperious knocking on the front door. There being no one in Town he could expect to visit him, he stood by the library door to hear who this importunate caller might be: he had not long to wait.
“Where is my nephew!” Lady Catherine’s voice rang out through the halls. Alarmed and perplexed, he went hastily to meet her.
On reaching her, he bowed promptly, asking, “Dear Lady Catherine, welcome; whatever has brought you to London?”
An ill-tempered nod to his bow was all the answer vouchsafed him. The lady waved him magisterially into the front drawing-room and firmly shut the door behind them. She swung round to face him and cried, “You!”
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy said, taken aback.
“You are what has brought me here! You and that impertinent slip of a girl in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy face froze at this; “Do go on,” he said in carefully measured tones. His first, blind anger at her interference he quickly suppressed; whatever injury she had started was done, and he needed her intelligence that he might repair the damage, more than he needed to rebuke her galling invasion of his affairs; but he could not help but rail inwardly, though, at the malignant fates which provoked people and events, at every turn, to conspire against his interests where Elizabeth was concerned.
“I am just come from Meryton, in Hertfordshire; I presume you know the cause for my journey? What has compelled me to travel without rest for two straight days, in order to rescue the family’s honour?”
Over the course of years Darcy had learnt the futility of contending with his aunt, so he merely said, “I fear, dear lady, you have me at a loss; how is the family’s honour at risk?”
“I warn you, Darcy, do not try my patience; I have had quite enough of that already for one day.”
“I assure you, Madam, I am not sporting with your patience: what is it you wish to discuss? What has compelled you to this exigency?”
His aunt looked at him with an unfriendly eye. “Very well, Darcy, if this is how you wish to treat me, I shall tell you: two days ago I was informed that, not only was your friend Bingley to be married to the eldest Bennet girl, but that you were soon to marry the second, Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Now, deny it, if you dare!”
Putting the sum of her statements together in his mind, Darcy asked, “Forgive me, Lady Catherine, but do I understand that you have been to the trouble of a journey to Hertfordshire, to enquire of Miss Elizabeth Bennet whether or not she has engaged herself to me? I hardly know how to express my amazement.” Having had time to recover from the surprise of her attack, Darcy recalled that she herself had married beneath her, making her present impertinences even less defensible. But he wanted very much to hear what she had to say of Elizabeth, so he bit back on his ire, asking mildly enough: “What had she to say?”
“She said nothing—or nothing to the purpose! What are you thinking, Darcy, to pay your addresses to such a person? I have never been so insulted in my life as I was this morning by that girl. Enquire, you say? I did not go to enquire—to what purpose would I enquire? I went to put an end to all such disgraceful rumours and expectations, and to convince the girl she could never succeed. Now what have you to say?”
“I assure you, I have not the least idea that Miss Elizabeth Bennet entertains any intention of marrying me,” he replied.
“I can scarcely credit that; whence came this report, if that be the case?”
“In strictest candour, aunt,” he assured her, ”you astound me quite—on my honour, I sincerely believe Miss Elizabeth Bennet has no notion whatever of marrying me; I can hardly express my surprise at what you tell me. What was the substance of your discussion?”
Somewhat mollified, Lady Catherine took a seat; Darcy took one opposite her, making no attempt to disguise his interest; his aunt, presuming his attentive expression to be due to the extraordinary nature of her encounter, told him, “First, I told her why I had come; she pretended ignorance of the affair, but I could see through her arts. I felt I could be sure of you, you realise, but I could not be easy until I knew her temper. You know not what some women are capable of, Darcy, but I am not one to have the wool pulle
d over my eyes.”
“What said she?”
“Humph! She tweaked me for making the journey! —that is what she said: that a visit from me was more likely to confirm such a report than deny it. Then she tried to pretend that no such report was abroad, when I had had it directly from her dear friend, Mrs. Collins. I pressed her closely, but she flouted me again, refusing to answer my question.”
“Forgive me: what question was that?”
“I challenged her to declare there was no foundation for such a rumour; she defied me and declined to reply, without even an attempt at civility.”
Darcy saw that this was no more than Elizabeth’s honesty at work; of course he had proposed, but he could hardly reveal this to his aunt without sparking some very heated contention, and he wished to hear more. Nor, apparently, had Elizabeth felt she was due any such frankness; and, given Lady Catherine’s own want of civility, Darcy could hardly blame her.
Lady Catherine continued: “I demanded to know the truth; the girl had the impudence to try evasion—evasion, with me! I, who have ever been known for the candour of my address! As if evasions would work on me. Well, in her evasions I read the truth, for lies are the truth, to those wise enough to read them.”
“What truth was that, Madam?”
“That she wishes for your addresses, of course!”
Darcy shook his head. “That simply cannot be the case, Lady Catherine; what did she say that could support such an idea?”
“It is rather what she did not say: she refused to satisfy me on any point regarding a potential union between you, even though I attacked her on various sides.”
“Attacked her, how?”
“First, you may imagine, I told her you were intended for your cousin.”
“And her response?”
“That she was aware of it, and it held no interest for her at all! Her very words were: ‘If I am his choice, why should I not accept him?’ Her very words! ‘Because honour, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it,’ said I. ‘Do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you act against the inclinations of us all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace before the world and God; your name will never even be mentioned.’ That is what I told her!”
Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Page 20
