“And what did she offer by way of reply?”
“That the wife of Mr. Darcy would be so happy in her marriage that she could not repine! Conceive the arrogance, if you can! Imagine life with such insolence, from such a near, such an inescapable source! Such as she can bear no comparison to the delicate reticence of a truly well-bred lady like Anne, Darcy; you cannot be so blind as to persist after this.”
Darcy’s thoughts raced at hearing Elizabeth’s remark, but he cautiously said: “I am astounded to imagine the scene, Lady Catherine, I truly am. Blind I may have been in the past, I warrant you, but I believe I begin to see better, now. What said you next?”
“I was forced to remind her to whom she was speaking; when I had sufficiently made her feel her place, I pointed out the utter unsuitability of her pretentions: with no family, connexions, or fortune to her name, how could she think of ruining you before all good society? I told her she had best learn to be content within her own sphere. ‘I am a gentleman’s daughter,’ said she then. To me! She declared herself your equal! —imagine it! Well, I had had enough, and beyond. I demanded to know, once and for all, if she were engaged to you. Finally, I was able to force her to admit she was not. But did that end her presumption? It did not! I required her promise that she would never enter into such an engagement; she absolutely refused to give it to me.”
Darcy’s thoughts froze: “She what?”
“She categorically refused to give me the assurance I required of her.”
His heart did a revolution within him; there could be no rational motive for such a refusal: Elizabeth could have released herself instantly from Lady Catherine’s impertinences simply by stating what he firmly believed to be her true sentiments; that she had not was a greater cause for hope than any he could have ever expected. When coupled with her statement about the happiness his wife must anticipate, Darcy was hard-pressed to keep his elation from revealing itself. “Said she anything else?”
“She defied me yet again!” cried Lady Catherine, whose return journey to London had seemingly given her time enough to have amplified her indignation many times over. “She called my arguments frivolous, and my intentions ill-judged! Ill-judged! She forced me to remind her of the scandalous reputation her family suffered under, and even this could not shame the girl into a proper show of respect.”
“What scandal is this?” Darcy asked coolly.
His aunt eyed him. “No, I suppose you are not informed on this point; naturally she would be careful to keep it from you. Well, then, Darcy, you should know that her youngest sister has but recently eloped with that Wickham fellow. Eloped! And lived with him for months before they were married, by what I understand. I asked her how she could imagine you would ever consent to be brother to the son of your father’s steward, or call such a libertine sister.”
“And Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s response?”
“She all but called the dogs on me! She threw me off of her property! I tell you Darcy, her final words to me were: ‘Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude have any possible claim on me’. There’s for you! Can you still conceive any regard for her? Is such a woman to be preferred to your cousin in any way?”
Darcy knew this could not be as his aunt represented it: Elizabeth could never seriously cast off all that was proper, as his aunt would have him believe. But still he forbore to argue; he knew better than to attempt to work on his aunt with anything resembling logic. “I am shocked—astounded. I should never have believed her capable of saying such a thing.”
“Well… you now see her for what she is.” At this the lady’s demeanour softened, and she said: “Darcy, when will you put an end to all such foolishness and difficulty, and declare for Anne? How long must you cling to your bachelor ways before you see where your best interests lie?”
Darcy nodded pensively before replying: “Well, aunt, it so happens I was discussing that very topic with Lady Andover earlier this year; I can tell you, there may be hope: there may be hope indeed that my bachelor days are winding to a close.”
“Well, I, for one, am delighted to hear it.” She sighed and looked about her, as though uncertain of what might best be done at that point. At length she said, “And now, Darcy, I am absolutely exhausted. Please be so kind as to have my things sent up.”
“Of course, Madam.” His aunt began to gather her belongings, and Darcy said, “What do you require for your present comfort—have you eaten?”
“No: I was too intent on reaching you.”
“Then you doubtless must be famished. Go on up, and I will have something sent up. Or would you rather dine?”
“Thank you, Darcy; I shall just stay in my rooms.” So saying, she made her way up to the apartment she was accustomed to use. Darcy saw to her needs, relieved that he would not need to sit with her through her dinner, then retired to his rooms himself for some privacy; he was greatly puzzled by his aunt’s information. To his wondering and painstaking enquiry into what he had been able to collect, the two most salient points were these: Elizabeth had refused to offer his aunt any assurance she would not marry him, and had declared that marriage to him was a thing to be desired. The former was the most striking: she had so little to lose by providing the sought-for guarantee, and so much to gain in being relieved from his aunt’s importunities, that her refusal was very hard to understand in any way other than that she harboured some idea of marriage to him as being a possibility. The latter was more pleasing, however, in that it was such a noteworthy reversal of her earlier statements; she could now, it seemed, see some positive benefit from such a marriage. These two points buoyed his hopes to a degree he had not known since the spring. But then, when he had thoroughly reflected on what she had said, he began to look at the interview from Elizabeth’s side, and was very uneasy on the point of what her annoyance must have been on being thus attacked in her own home, and on this subject particularly; once again he began to feel an almost physical distress at what she must have suffered, and how she must regard his family, and himself, after such an affront as this.
These thoughts carried him to sleep, and had not abated before morning. Lady Catherine continued on her way back to Kent right after breakfast, and Darcy set out for Hertfordshire as soon as she had gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On the way to Hertfordshire, however, the hopes that had fuelled his desire to return began to be challenged by the idea of the apologies due Elizabeth; his hopes were by no means lessened, but he recognised that he could not reasonably expect any favour from Elizabeth until he had made every apology in his power. Yet there were so many points on which he felt himself and his family to be at fault, he could not imagine where he might start. He told himself over and over that he must simply make his apologies, as sincerely as he could, and as often as he must, and trust to time and her goodness; as soon as he could discern any indication that her resentment had moderated, he told himself, there would be time enough to try to discover how much foundation his hopes might have. It required quite a number of repetitions of this before he could bring his mind to accept it.
When he arrived at Netherfield some little while after noon, Bingley was not at home; not surprisingly, he was at Longbourn. Darcy decided not to follow him and arrive at Longbourn unanticipated; he therefore satisfied himself by wandering about the house and grounds, dining lightly, and waiting up until Bingley came home late in the evening. Bingley came to find him on entering. “Darcy! How marvellous! When did you get in?” said he with an exceedingly generous grin: there was about his whole person a particular joy that shone in his every aspect.
“I came this afternoon,” Darcy replied, “but as you were out, I staid here to wait for you.”
“You should have come to Longbourn,” cried Bingley.
“I could not know if you would be there,” Darcy said reasonably, “or perhaps be out with Miss Bennet, and so thought better of it.”
“Understandable,” Bingley allowed, “and more likely than not to be th
e case.”
“Well!” Darcy said heartily, “let me congratulate you in person; I can see by your face that you are still happy with the state of affairs.”
“I thank you, Darcy, and for your letter. You were right, as I said in mine.” But then his manner changed, and he became serious. He said, “But, listen here; something has come up in the interval which has surprised me greatly: I have heard from Miss Bennet that you had actually proposed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet—is this true?”
Darcy could not deny it. “It is,” he said.
“But, great Heavens, Darcy; why did not you tell me?”
“What was there to say, that could be of use to either of us? You had troubles enough of your own, and there could be nothing you might say that would improve my situation. No, it was better so.”
“Yet it was you who recommended a return to Netherfield. I cannot imagine what pain it must give you to be with her; what could induce you to willingly be in her company again?”
Darcy eyed his friend with mild surprise. “The need to correct my error concerning you and her sister, of course. No matter what my sentiments might be in the circumstances, I could not let my interference stand, when I could no longer be certain of my conclusions. And, as I was not unaware of your continued regard for Miss Bennet, there was nothing for it but to convince you to return.”
Bingley very sincerely offered Darcy his hand; the two shook warmly without speaking.
“Have you any plans for to-morrow?” was Bingley’s next question.
“I do—I owe Miss Elizabeth Bennet an apology for a visit she recently suffered from my aunt, Lady Catherine.”
“An apology, Darcy? How so? I know she visited, of course, but it was merely to pass on news of the Collinses, was not it?”
“I wish it were that benign; no, she came to insist that Miss Elizabeth Bennet not marry me; a rumour, apparently promoted by Mrs. Collins, had given my aunt to believe that such an engagement was an established fact. Can you imagine the scene? You have not had the honour of meeting my aunt, so you can have no idea how insufferable she can be when she chooses, but based on what she told me, she could hardly have been more offensive without an actual attack on Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s person. So now I have even more to try to live down.” He could not speak of his hopes until he knew how much substance might be behind them.
“Good Lord!” Bingley exclaimed. “How disastrous! How can I help?”
“If you might just conceive a way Miss Elizabeth Bennet and I might have a word in private, that would be most helpful.”
“Nothing easier: I shall propose a walk. Neither Mrs. Bennet nor Miss Mary Bennet will ever take the trouble; Miss Catherine Bennet is no walker, and usually goes to call on the Lucases; Miss Bennet and I shall be happy to lag behind for a bit of time by ourselves, and there you are.”
“Excellent: I thank you, Bingley,” Darcy said. But he then noted, “I see this is not the first time you have availed yourself of the idea.”
Here Bingley coloured slightly, murmuring vaguely about its being “a scheme of Miss Bennet’s, actually.” The two retired not long after, and Darcy had only to wait until the morning.
On that morning, Perkins dressed him with exceeding care, although Darcy could not truly appreciate the results; his dress could matter but little: if one were intent on humbling oneself, it could hardly matter whether one was in the height of fashion, or not.
On their arrival at Longbourn, Darcy held himself in very carefully, uncertain of how he might be met by Elizabeth. Shortly, Bingley proposed their all walking out, as he said he would; Mrs Bennet declined, as did Mary, according to Bingley’s prediction. The other three ladies prepared themselves for the out of doors, and they all set off together. Darcy paid no attention to the direction they took, being too preoccupied with what he could say to Elizabeth to begin to make amends for—well, for every thing. The burden of obligation and contrition he felt towards Elizabeth was so substantial he had no idea of how it might ever be discharged. He could but begin, and trust to time; he vowed he would commit however much time was necessary, even if it meant taking a manor in the neighbourhood, if need be.
Not far from Longbourn, Bingley and Jane slowly let the others outstrip them; shortly before they receded from view altogether, Darcy turned discreetly to tip his hat in thanks to his friend. Catherine was pleased to leave them and proceed to the Lucases, again as predicted; Elizabeth made no objection, and continued with him alone. This, to his most exacting observation and analysis, seemed auspicious, and he was preparing himself to bring up the subject which had brought him thither, when Elizabeth spoke first: “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours.” At such a beginning, Darcy was prepared to be amused, imagining that another of her diverting impertinences was to follow; that she should feel sufficiently at ease with him to once again favour him with her wit was very promising, and gave him hope that, sooner rather than later, she might come—not to forget, perhaps, but to overlook: in some measure to overlook. What succeeded, however, was this: “I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
All Darcy’s hopes sank within him; all the time he had been working on the dilemma posed by Wickham, this was exactly what he had most wished to avoid: when added to their previous history and the more recent offence offered by Lady Catherine, how could she ever feel comfortable in his presence again? Annoyance heaped on top of obligation and resentment—was there a worse possible combination to foster ease or esteem? Blast! Why must every thing scheme so against him?
Wishing her to know that it had been his first object to prevent this discovery, he said with sincere contrition, “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness.” Then, realising whence this intelligence must have come, and that he must again have wholly mistaken some one’s character, he said with unaffected disappointment, “I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”
But Elizabeth hastened to exonerate her aunt: “You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars.” At this Darcy nodded, relieved that, at least in this instance, his judgement had not erred. How obvious that Lydia should have been the first to let loose the secret, flighty and inconstant as were her thoughts; at any rate, he now had a target for his anger.
Elizabeth, turning to face him directly, was going on: “Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.”
Darcy was thankful that at least she did not blame him for his interference; however, the idea that her family might be indebted to him must of course occur to her, but he could not let her think her family bore any obligation; for, aside from stopping Wickham, he had thought only of her well-being: he could not let her think he had been seeking any hold or advantage, or that he had in any way intended to disparage her family. He entreated her solemnly: “If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.” While he was trying to speak nothing more than the truth, unintentionally he allowed some of the longing he felt enter into his accent.
Elizabeth looked down and would not meet his eye again; they continued their walk. But either she took a slight step towards him, or perhaps a slight unevenness in the footing impelled her gently in his direction; in either case, this minor shift brought her cl
oser to him, and she did not directly move away. An anxious moment later, after watching intently for her to recoil to her previous distance, his desires suddenly overcame his misgivings: his newly-ascendant sensibilities insisted that this suggestion of approval from her was the sign of esteem he had been hoping to see, and suddenly he found himself once more surrendering to the demands of the heart. Almost against his will, dreading the outcome even as he spoke, he abandoned his cautious schemes and measured resolutions, and threw himself over to fate—he made his last, despairing appeal to her: “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
To his immediate dismay, the lady’s face showed nothing so clearly as confusion; she seemed hardly to know how to respond to this fresh avowal of devotion from him; she said at once: “Mr. Darcy, I…I wonder to hear it…” She paused to choose her words, and her awkwardness told him every thing; in the space of a single step all hope within him died, as it may easily be conceived how ready was he to distrust the wisdom of the heart where his own happiness was at stake. Regret and mortification overcame him, and he was prepared at that very moment to disappear forever from her life; indeed, he wished that he might instantly be hundreds of miles hence. His application had been absurdly and senselessly impulsive, and he knew not how to censure himself enough; how could he ever expect she should make such a leap, and return a favourable reply to yet another unsuspected attack—on this subject, above all others? Fool that he was, why had he not held to his original purpose, and merely apologised? All this took but the briefest moment; he was just on the point of speaking, to release them both from further embarrassment, and her, from ever having to address him on the subject again, when, making a strong effort to speak directly and to the purpose, Elizabeth went on: “That you should still hold me in any esteem at all, is more than I could have ever hoped, and is very grateful to me; I…I cannot say how happy you make me by this assurance, as from last spring I have learnt a very different feeling for you. I can say…I can say that I return your feelings, most sincerely.”
Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Page 21
