The Journey

by Hahn, Jan

  “I might as well inquire why with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to offer marriage? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?”

  “What do you mean? When have I been uncivil?”

  “Outside the room I overheard your manner of conversation — how an alliance with me would be inferior, even a degradation in the eyes of your family! If you think that sufficient inducement to matrimony, then you, sir, have little experience in proposals.”

  I looked away, aware that my breathing grew laboured because of my anger. Although I willed myself to become calm, it was a futile endeavour, for memories of his unjust behaviour began to bubble up like a stew pot boiling over on the fire.

  “But I have other provocations. You know I have. Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved sister? I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. To think that you not only acted the unjust and ungenerous part there, but you bragged about it in correspondence with your cousin! No motive can excuse such behaviour.”

  He rose, and I did also, continuing to upbraid him. “You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other — exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes — and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

  I paused and saw with no little indignation that he listened with an air that proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.

  “Can you deny that you have done it?” I repeated.

  “I have no wish to deny that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself!”

  He turned away and strode to the window, whereupon he must have observed the return of reporters, for I heard him utter an oath under his breath and cross the room briskly, placing one foot upon the hearth and his hand against the mantel before turning to face me again.

  “You must understand that I did not entertain any suspicions of your sister’s attachment to Bingley until the evening of the ball at Netherfield. Never had I observed on her part any greater preference for his company than for my own. If she had feelings for him, they were little displayed. There was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.

  “Were it not for the remarks bandied about at the ball, I would not have felt the need to caution him. You must admit that your family’s public assumption of their attachment was improper when my friend had not yet declared himself. I cannot excuse their impropriety of conduct, and I believed my warning to Bingley necessary. I know him better than most. He has a habit of easily thinking himself in love and just as easily falling out of love.”

  I was mortified at his description of my family’s behaviour, perhaps because I knew it merited reproach. I would not suffer his depiction of Jane, though. It was false and unfair.

  “You may know Mr. Bingley well, but do allow me to understand my own sister better than you do! Jane is everything good and kind and honest. If she does not flaunt her feelings enough to warrant your good opinion, that does not mean she does not possess them. She truly cares for Mr. Bingley, as she has never cared for any other. She — she loves him.”

  Mr. Darcy blinked several times and turned from my angry stare. He said nothing, as though he could not believe he had possibly been in error. He picked up the poker and jabbed at the logs.

  “Whatever the case,” he said briskly, “it has nothing to do with our present situation. If we do not marry, your sister nor any of your younger sisters, for that matter, will have the slightest chance of marrying well. Your entire family will participate in the shame and ruin of your good name. Elizabeth, you must see this.”

  “From your account, they have little chance of marrying well in either case. No, I do not see this.”

  “Then open your eyes! Reporters still remain outside Mr. Gardiner’s door. They spent last night in front of my own house. If it is made known that we are not to marry, your reputation will be shattered.”

  “Perhaps here in Town, sir, but you forget that I do not live in London. What do I care of this society? I shall return to Longbourn where I am known and loved, and no one shall ever hear of this.”

  “Elizabeth, you are not unintelligent. The London Gazette and other newspapers are read in Hertfordshire, indeed, all over England. Your parents’ friend, Sir William Lucas, boasts of his frequent trips to Town and his high connections. You cannot escape this, and neither shall your family.”

  I began to find it hard to breathe, as though a thick tourniquet had been wrapped around my neck. I strode to a small table where a tray had been placed containing a teapot, cups and saucers. I poured myself a cup and made a great show of stirring it, although I had placed neither cream nor sugar therein. I did not drink it. If I had, I felt certain I would have choked.

  “Mr. Darcy, I refuse to enter into a marriage contracted upon obligation. Nor will I marry a man whose character I cannot admire.” I placed the untouched cup of tea on the table and raised my chin in defiance.

  “It is not merely this affair with my sister on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital that I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject you have never explained your motives or actions. Indeed, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you defend yourself?”

  He now began to pace back and forth, running his hand through his hair, obviously agitated. “Wickham again! Shall I never be free of that rake?”

  “How can you accuse him so unjustly?” I cried.

  “Because I know him!” he thundered.

  He spoke with such authority and power that I found myself sinking down upon the sofa beside the table. I had heard that tone of voice before when he confronted Morgan or Sneyd as to my safety. “Will you at least do me the courtesy of hearing me out on the matter?” he asked.

  I nodded. In truth, I could do little else, for when he spoke with such force, it filled me with alarm.

  Once again, he moved a chair where he could sit before me. He frowned and sighed, a look of anguish suffusing his countenance, as he began to relate the story of his relationship with George Wickham.

  He told of how Wickham’s father had served as steward to his own father and that he and the son had played together as boys, that when old Mr. Wickham had died, his father had supported him at school and afterwards at Cambridge. Old Mr. Darcy had been fond of the young man, whose manners were always engaging, and he had hoped the church would be his profession, intending to provide a living in it for him.

  Mr. Wickham, however, had been unable to prevent the son from opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, moments that revealed Mr. Wickham’s true nature and behaviour.

  “I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman,” Mr. Darcy said.

  When the elder Mr. Darcy died some five years previous, Wickham resolved against taking orders and announced his intention to study the law. Mr. Darcy wished, rather than believed him to be sincere and agreed to give him three thousand pounds in place of the living.

  All connection between them now seemed dissolved. How he lived, Mr. Darcy did not know, but last summer Wickham was again most painfully brought to his notice.

  He leaned back in the chair, a tortured look of deep sorrow darkening his eyes. I had never seen that expression upon his face before, and it filled me with dread.

  “I must now mention a circumstance that I would wish to forget, and that no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus, I feel no doubt of your secrecy.”

  I nodded and murmured, “Of course.”

  He continued, laying before me a tale most shocking! Mr. Darcy’s sister, Georgiana, who was more than ten years
his junior, was taken to Ramsgate last summer with a lady, Mrs. Younge, about whose character Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had been most unhappily deceived. By her connivance and aid, Mr. Wickham joined them in Ramsgate and recommended himself to Georgiana to such a degree that she was made to think herself in love with him. She was persuaded to consent to an elopement.

  “She was then but fifteen years of age,” he said, his tone utterly defeated. “Unexpectedly, a day or two before the intended elopement, I arrived at the coastal town, and Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she looks up to almost as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted.”

  Regard for his sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but he denounced Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge, of course, was removed from her charge. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably the young girl’s fortune of thirty thousand pounds.

  “I cannot help supposing,” he added, “that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.” His voice broke with emotion, and it was several moments before he could continue.

  “I hope you acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. You may appeal to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam for the truth of everything here related, as he was one of the executors of my father’s will and is acquainted with every particular of these transactions.”

  I was struck dumb, any idea of speech utterly unthinkable. I could not take it all in, could not fathom how deceived I had been. To think that I had admired Mr. Wickham, a man whose character was reprehensible, a seducer of young girls, who had not the slightest qualm at betraying the trust of a gentleman who had provided for his education and future. It was insufferable!

  I did not wish to believe that Mr. Wickham had fooled me, but at the same time, I could not believe Mr. Darcy would invent such a tale. No, it had to be true. I sat staring at the fire. Astonishment and horror rendered me helpless.

  How long I sat thus, I do not know. At length, I became conscious that Mr. Darcy now stood before me, hat in hand.

  “I have given you much to think on,” he said. “I shall leave you now. You must have time to yourself. Your aunt has invited my sister and me for dinner tonight. I shall expect your answer then.”

  “I have already given you my answer,” was all that I could think to say.

  “Do not say that is your final word until you have given consideration to this new information. Remember, Elizabeth, the decision you make will affect a great many people.”

  He bowed briefly and walked out the door.

  * * *

  The remainder of the day I spent in my room except for a brief sojourn about my aunt’s garden. I was able to slip out the back door and escape the reporters’ eyes, thankful for the fence surrounding the enclosure.

  My family, naturally, had besieged me with questions upon Mr. Darcy’s removal. I had asked for time alone, however, and they granted my request.

  I observed the looks passed between them, the smile on my aunt’s face, and the relief evident upon that of my father. They assumed that I was willing to consider this arranged marriage and merely needed time to become accustomed to the idea. That premise bore not the slightest ounce of truth.

  I now knew for certain that I could never marry Mr. Darcy.

  I had gone over and over the tale he had told, ashamed anew that I had ever believed Mr. Wickham’s falsehoods. I, so vigilant to judge a person’s character, had been completely taken in by his smooth words and agreeable manner. When I re-examined his actions, I had to admit he had seduced me by his attentions in much the same way he had poor Georgiana. But for the fact that I had no fortune, it could have been me enticed into an elopement.

  I was utterly ashamed and stricken with remorse. How quickly had I believed him, and how easily I had denounced Mr. Darcy! Until that moment, I never knew myself.

  My mind wandered back and forth over the past months since I had met the gentleman. Never had I actually seen him do anything that bespoke immorality, anything that betrayed him as unprincipled.

  No, the more I thought upon it, the more I could see he was exactly the opposite — a man of integrity, almost to a fault. When he saw a wrong, he attempted to right it. He honestly believed, although greatly mistaken, that his friend loved a woman who did not return his affection and sought to rescue him from the clutches of a fortune hunter.

  When I was in danger of God knows what evil, he immediately stepped forth and offered himself for ransom, attempting to protect me. Again and again, I thought of instances in which he had put himself in peril for my sake. And now, he was willing to throw away his chance for happiness — to forsake any opportunity of a suitable marriage so that my name would not be tarnished.

  How could I allow him to make such a sacrifice? “Impossible,” I said aloud.

  I knew he did not love me. His words rang in my memory — a mistake! He kissed me but once and pronounced it a mistake. How could we live together the remainder of our lives when I knew that he would regret it every hour of every day?

  No, I would not marry Mr. Darcy. No matter how I loved him, perhaps because I loved him, I would not permit him to make another mistake.

  * * *

  Dinner that evening was a strained affair, to say the least. My aunt had failed to tell me that she had also invited Mr. Bingley and Caroline to dine with us. Or perchance she had told me, and it flew right out of my head, for my brain was spinning wildly from all that had happened.

  In any event, when dressing for dinner, I was surprised to see Jane take special pains with her appearance, and when I asked the reason why, I realized for the first time that we would have additional guests joining us. Of course, I was delighted for Jane to be with Mr. Bingley, but my heart filled with foreboding knowing I would be forced to face Mr. Darcy so quickly.

  “Lizzy,” Jane asked as she adjusted the combs in her hair, “you have made it plain that you do not wish to be questioned, but surely you can tell me. Shall you accept Mr. Darcy?”

  “I feel such pressure. Will you think badly of me if I do not?”

  “Of course not, but I am confused. Last night you were certain he would not ask for your hand. Now that he has proved you wrong, you are the one who appears to be against the marriage.”

  I made no answer, but lowered my head to adjust my stockings and wondered how much I should reveal to my sister. I had not told her of the intimacies between Mr. Darcy and myself, of his kiss, or even that we had shared a blanket at the cabin and huddled together under my coat during that long night in the cave. She knew only that we had been forced to stay in the same room both day and night.

  “You talked in your sleep last night,” she said. “Did you know that?”

  Grateful for the change in conversation, I looked up immediately and smiled, moving to stand behind her at the dressing table and smooth the back of her coiffure.

  “Did I? One never remembers what one says while sleeping. What did I do? Scream at one of those highwaymen?”

  “No, I must have pulled at the quilt, for you said something like, ‘Sorry, Mr. Darcy,’ muttered words I couldn’t understand, and then said ‘You take the blanket.’ After that, you turned over and rolled so close to the edge that I feared you might fall out of bed. I cannot believe you dreamed of Mr. Darcy, for surely you did not imagine sharing a blanket with him!”

  She looked up to meet my eyes in the reflection in the glass. “Why, Lizzy, what is wrong? You have quite lost your colour. Are you faint?”

  She jumped up and bade me sit in her chair. I made little of her fears but accepted the glass of water she fetched, glad that my pallor provided a diversion and that I was not required to answer her questions about my nocturnal ramblings.

  Eventually we were forced to quit primping and make our way to the drawing room. Mrs. Gardiner gave her approval to our dress, stating we did not need to pinch our
cheeks for our natural colour was heightened.

  I was surprised at how quickly my countenance had recovered and hoped the arrival of our guests did not cause another drastic change in my appearance. I was filled with disquiet at seeing Mr. Darcy so soon, knowing he was coming in anticipation of an answer. I wished with all my heart that he would send his regrets. It was not to be, however, for within the hour, they arrived, and the small drawing room became filled with guests and conversation.

  I watched Miss Bingley’s eyes roam about the furnishings. A pinched look pursed her lips, and she lifted her nose higher as though she smelled something distasteful.

  Mr. Bingley joined Jane almost immediately, and I was gratified to see that his attentions had not lessened since I had last seen them together. No matter Mr. Darcy’s warning, it appeared that Mr. Bingley still found my sister enchanting.

  I avoided facing Mr. Darcy, fearing the tension between us might be as apparent as if a trumpet announced it, blaring forth for all to hear. My aunt and uncle, however, made every attempt to keep things light, the conversation stimulating, and the situation pleasant.

  My father was in good humour. He offered titbits from the latest book he had read for everyone’s enjoyment. Mr. Darcy seemed surprised at his quotes. He was well acquainted with the author and joined in the conversation.

  His sister, I am pleased to say, seemed a pleasant girl, somewhat shy but pretty. Her blonde hair and blue eyes contrasted against her brother’s dark colouring, but I could see that they both possessed the same cleft chin, and when she smiled, I recalled that similar expression upon his face.

  Caroline fawned over Mr. Darcy and Georgiana, ignoring me for the most part, which suited us both. Jane drew Miss Darcy into the conversation often, soon putting her at ease in her gentle way. Mr. Darcy appeared pleased that she was getting along so well, and I looked up more than once to find him smiling at me. I should have found pleasure in such rarity, but it felt more like a dagger piercing my heart.

  When seated in the dining room, I looked around the table and felt sick to my stomach. The smells of the food, which I knew was delicious, now nauseated me. Except for Miss Bingley, they all thought I would be his wife, and perchance even she accepted it. There could be little doubt, for I had always been sensible. Only I knew the truth.