Into Hertfordshire

by Stanley Michael Hurd

  After a period of aimless conversation, Bingley asked with some seriousness, “Darcy, you have not been yourself of late. Is there anything I can do?”

  Darcy looked at his friend with affection. While Bingley’s amiability had first drawn his notice, it was his generous nature and true concern for Darcy’s well-being that was the foundation of their friendship. With Bingley, as with no other outside his own family, he could count on his friendship and trust his active and disinterested good will. “Thank you Bingley, but no. I am in no difficulties, really. It is only that…well, I suppose I would have to say that the world has weighed rather heavily on me this last year.”

  “It is not…anything financial, is it? I should be happy to…that is, if you…”

  Darcy stopped him. “No, no; my dear Charles, please. The family fortunes are flourishing, I assure you. No, it is just…people—you know: Society, acquaintances, one’s associates—the whole blasted breed, or so it seems to me at times. Save for a very small group—yourself included, naturally—the whole lot of them are no more than a blemish on the face of this, our fair island, and I do believe the place would benefit from a bit of a cleaning.”

  They walked a little further on in silence, until Bingley said, “For the life of me, Darcy, I cannot imagine what man—or woman, for that matter—could have got across you so.” A thought struck him. “It is not Caroline, is it? I know she can be a bit wearing at times, but…”

  Darcy waved him off. “No, of course not.”

  “And Hurst is a bit of a wart, but we could take ourselves off to-night, and forego his company, if you wish.”

  “Bingley, no!” Darcy smiled and shook his head. “Truly, it has nothing to do with you or yours.”

  “If it did, would you tell me?” Bingley asked frankly.

  Darcy favoured his friend with a grin. “Bingley, I am not a man known for his charitable and forgiving nature. You must face that fact with unflinching fortitude, as have I.” Bingley laughed and Darcy went on: “And you know I am not shy with my opinions. Given these unfortunate defects of character, if I did harbour such feelings, would I even be capable of dissembling them, supposing that I wished to?”

  Bingley gave his friend a wry smile. “Perhaps not.”

  “No, I should think not,” Darcy agreed. “Now, does that put your mind at rest?”

  Bingley allowed that it did, but then said, “It still does not explain this mood you have been in. I have never seen you so bleak.”

  After walking a bit further Darcy seemed to take up a new topic. “Bingley, do you know, I was actually rather pleased for you last summer, when you seemed so taken with Miss Grantley? If we accept that man is meant to marry, then if any one can be happy in the married state, I am sure it will be you. I know none so deserving, nor so likely to succeed. Your informed understanding and great good nature must protect you from most of the unhappiness we see about us.”

  Bingley looked at him in surprise; Darcy did not make a habit of speaking his inner thoughts. “It is quite true,” Darcy assured him. “But I own that for myself I can entertain no such happy prospects. My expectations are too high and my temper too quick for me to hold out much hope for domestic felicity.” They walked on a moment without speaking, as Darcy appeared to be resolving in his mind whether to continue or not. Finally he spoke: “Do you know who set her sights on me last Season? Miss Lavinia Hartsbury.”

  “No! Darcy, you must be joking! The Rabid Rabbit?” The unfortunate Miss Hartsbury, a remarkably wealthy heiress, even by London standards, was possessed of a very assertive personality and even more assertive front teeth; coupled with a weakness in her eyes that caused her to blink almost incessantly, these prominent qualities of her person were also the source of her soubriquet.

  “Unfortunately, my friend, I am in earnest. After nine years in Society without choosing a wife, this attack by Miss Hartsbury forces me to conclude that, inasmuch as I have spurned the attentions of those women in our circle possessing what one would consider the conventional enticements of form, fortune, and standing, those of more marginal charms are becoming emboldened.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “Yes; to such depths I have fallen. I am now become suitable prey for such as Miss Hartsbury.”

  Bingley laughed with perhaps more open candour than was perfectly polite.

  “Well may you laugh,” said Darcy dryly. “I fear, however, that I cannot join in your amusement. From my side it was a rather more dour experience, I can tell you. If my reasoning is correct, I shall become the target for every oddity in our acquaintance. And there is worse, still. While I was the object of Miss Hartsbury’s campaign I actually asked myself, ‘Well, and why not?’”

  “Darcy, no!”

  “Bingley, yes. I swear to you on my honour; she is not without character, after all, and I actually asked myself whether it did not follow that, since I obviously had no interest in the women one would consider most eligible, I must be looking for something else. Empirically speaking, the question must be allowed.”

  “Darcy, one cannot analyse the workings of one’s affections like a naturalist studying an insect!”

  “No? I beg your pardon; I must have missed that bit at school. Pray, where is that written?”

  “The heart and mind are two separate and distinct entities; you cannot examine and control the one by the other,” Bingley said with a confident dogmatism which would have better suited a somewhat younger man than himself. “I know you took a First in Philosophy, Darcy, and look upon Socrates as a mere rustic muser, but in one’s daily life, with real people, one cannot always resolve the differences between one’s emotions and the urgings of reason.”

  To Darcy this was heresy: his faith in the intellect was complete, and his reliance on his own had always served him well. “Such misguided notions are just what I should expect of man of your sensibilities, Bingley,” he scoffed. “How could you possibly know what influence the mind might have on the emotions? You, who have fallen in love at least a dozen times to my certain knowledge, and never subjected your affairs to even the most cursory examination by your higher powers—if we can allow you to possess any.” At this Bingley doffed his hat and swatted it at Darcy’s head, who dodged sideways with a laugh.

  “But come now,” Darcy demanded in a provoking manner, “do I understand you then to say that it is not possible to love with both the heart and the mind?”

  “No! I am sure that it is possible,” stated Bingley with assurance. “It must be! That is my point; such attachments must be possible, else why would they be so much sought after?”

  “Your logic is execrable, but leave that. Allowing your assertion to stand, I must again insist on having your authority for this information; my own experience is to the contrary.” When Bingley began to expostulate, Darcy interrupted him: “My own parents excepted, and you know my feelings on that, I cannot claim knowledge of any one so blest. Not only can I point to no one amongst my own acquaintance, never have I even heard of such affection, capable of combining tenderness of regard and honour of the mind. And I am afraid all of literature is against you: I defy you to name one work on the subject, either prose or poetry, wherein the principal characters love well and without conflict—either of reason, honour, or propriety.”

  “Stories! What do they mean? Of course they’re full of drama and anguish; who would want to read about a quiet, happy, faithful love affair? No, we must have conflict to make a tale; but why so in real life?”

  “That, I cannot say; but it does most assuredly seem so to me,” Darcy said with an air of finality. They were nearly at the Hall. Darcy shook his head like a horse bothered by a fly. “I pray you, Bingley, let us leave off this discussion; I hear it all too often echoing back and forth in my mind: I am heartily tired of it, I can tell you. What say we drop these conies off with Nicholls and get some tea? It has gone a bit chilly.”

  Chapter Seven

  That next Saturday morning Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley
were to be at home to the ladies of a number of the local families; the two eldest Miss Bennets were to be amongst the company. The attendance of the gentleman was not, strictly speaking, required, but neither of Bingley’s sisters were surprised when he arrived in the drawing-room, dressed very smartly indeed, a quarter-hour before the first guests were expected. But that Mr. Darcy should also appear was a source of surprise and comment. Even Bingley took notice, and his thoughts certainly were not centred on Darcy at that moment.

  “What! Has the leopard changed its spots?” said he to Darcy. “Have you become a member of Society at last, then? Let me caution you: a man of your advanced years must avoid these sudden shocks to the system, lest you be overset.” Bingley, being six years’ Darcy’s junior, enjoyed reminding him of that fact.

  Miss Bingley would not allow this slight to Mr. Darcy to go unchallenged. “Charles, what nonsense! Mr. Darcy knows very well what his duties are as master of Pemberley and our guest; he knows better than you, I dare say, how important it is to observe the conventional civilities in a country society.”

  Bingley defended himself with feeling, going even so far as to remind his sister of his seniority and of his incontestable right to banter with a friend. When she saw that Darcy was leaning towards her brother’s side of the affair, Miss Bingley abandoned her position and demurely accepted his as being proper and correct; as she did so, however, her eye was on Darcy. He noticed her careful observation of his reaction, and interpreted it correctly: she had divined by some means that her occasional lapses of correct behaviour grated on him, and she was assuming this guise of diffidence to curry his favour. His eyes hardened at her calculated dissemblance, but he said nothing.

  The argument between the two of them did serve to move the focus of conversation away from him, and that was just as well; the question of what had compelled him to come down was one he could not very well have answered. It certainly was not, he assured himself, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was expected. With a train of logic worthy of Bingley at his finest, Darcy assured himself that he was safe from any serious interest in her direction, as her connections made any alliance unthinkable, and he was not one to dally with a lady to satisfy his own conceit. And surely, merely to be in her presence was insufficient reason to subject himself to an almost exclusively female society for hours on end. So, while entirely certain of the reasons that did not bring him to the drawing-room, he would have been hard pressed to explain the reasons that did.

  Nevertheless, he did subject himself to such society, and, to those who knew him well, he did so with the appearance of perfect composure—even enjoyment. The only ones in the room, however, who were sufficiently intimate with his ways to be able to observe this were Bingley and his sister Caroline. Bingley’s attention, of course, was completely consumed by Miss Bennet; Miss Bingley, on the other hand, was so given over to watching Darcy, that several of her new neighbours wondered at her distraction. Yet there was very little for her to see: he spoke but seldom, and never at length; nor did he appear to have a particular object singled out for discourse. She did observe, though, how often his eyes strayed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and how he stilled his own conversation whenever she spoke in his hearing.

  Therefore, when, in the course of the following Tuesday morning, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were discussing how they were to manage to exist another day in the country and Miss Jane Bennet’s name was put forward as a means of diversion, Caroline was careful to exclude Miss Elizabeth Bennet from her invitation.

  The invitation to Miss Bennet was a happy one, for it began to rain heavily just before noon and the sisters would be forced to stay indoors all day. The men had taken the coach into Meryton in the late morning, and were to have dinner with the officers under Colonel Forster, so the two sisters would be sorely in need of additional conversational resources.

  The men’s business in Meryton, being a matter of no less importance than that of procuring Mr. Hurst a new snuff box, was soon over, and they spent a pleasant afternoon watching it rain over tankards of ale in the principal inn of the village. The ale there was not the best to be had in Meryton, but the inn did afford the finest view of the square and therefore the most diverting scenes of people scurrying about their business through the rain. The highlight of the afternoon was the sight of a very rotund and prosperous-looking gentleman, who, descending incautiously from his chaise, sat down heavily in a puddle. The expression on his face was humorous as he sat where he was for several moments without moving, as if unable to believe the position in which he found himself, as was his obvious disgust as he laboriously extricated himself. Mr. Hurst, particularly, was amused by the gentleman’s predicament, and laughed heartily when the gentleman lost his balance a second time as he sought to regain his feet.

  This episode, with proper embellishment, was retold at the officer’s mess with great success. The dinner conversation in general was good, spiced with bits of little-known intelligence on the war with France, caustic wit at the expense of the Government, and the occasional ribald jest. The three gentlemen were feeling very mellow as they returned through the storm to Netherfield.

  There, however, they found a mild flurry of activity underway. First off, Bingley received the information that his sisters had invited Miss Bennet to visit in his absence, which he resented as a most invidious stratagem. And secondly, he was informed that she had become ill after her arrival, perhaps as a consequence of having come on horseback through the rain, which made him wild with concern. The apothecary had been sent for, and Miss Bennet had been taken to bed. Bingley ran off to find the apothecary to hear his diagnosis first-hand. It struck Darcy as odd that a country miss should have been so imprudent, as he was himself, after all, Country-bred and thoroughly aware of the probable result of such injudicious behaviour. Had she been a member of London’s Society, he would have been tempted to think it had been done intentionally in order to secure a stay at the Hall: a gambit in her bid for Bingley’s attentions. But this did not at all fit with what he believed Miss Bennet’s character to be; he might readily believe such of Miss Bingley, but Miss Bennet’s gentle nature did not seem consistent with the use of arts and cunning in a try for a man’s heart.

  Once the first fit of activity and concern had subsided, Bingley was, of course, very much the thoughtful host, and nothing was spared for Miss Bennet’s comfort. In the morning, as she was no better, Miss Bennet requested that a note be despatched to Longbourn to give her family notice of her illness and to say that she would remain at Netherfield for the time being.

  Miss Bennet was too ill to join them at breakfast, but when Darcy was reading the paper over his second cup of coffee, the footman entered to announce “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Bingley immediately jumped to his feet and cried, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I am so glad you have come! Your sister, I am sure, will be very relieved to see you.”

  Darcy, with tolerant amusement at his friend’s effusive, if somewhat unpolished, greeting, rose and said with a perfectly correct bow, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet; it is a great pleasure to see you again. I am very sorry that your sister’s illness should be the occasion.” Her modest curtsey in return pleased him, showing as it did that she shared his appreciation of proper behaviour. Hurst barely sketched a bow from his chair and turned his attention back to his sausages. While Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst added their greetings, Darcy took the opportunity to enjoy the picture presented by Elizabeth. She had obviously walked the three miles from Longbourn: her face flushed and eyes shining, and with some wind-blown curls having escaped to frame her face like a wild dryad’s, she made a portrait worthy of a master’s brush. Part of him wished he had been with her; an hour’s walk through the Hertfordshire countryside with her would have been charming, indeed. His practical side wondered, though, at her coming: surely Miss Bennet was not in extremis; there could be no need for the family to attend her. But the sisters were very close, he knew; therein must lie the reason. He honoured the warm heart that would impel her
to make such an effort to comfort a sick sister.

  She was shown up stairs directly and Darcy returned to his breakfast. His attention wandered, though, and he laid the paper aside. While the ladies clattered on about the news from London, he could only stare out the window and let his coffee grow cold.

  Chapter Eight

  After breakfast Bingley and Darcy had spent half-an-hour in the library, where Darcy had set up to review Netherfield’s books and school Bingley in the duties of a landowner. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst went up stairs to entertain and care for the invalid. The apothecary having arrived while the two friends were still at their books, he came to them to announce that Miss Bennet had a severe cold and a fever, and that he had prescribed her some draughts. The palpable obviousness of this pronouncement brought to Darcy’s mind one of Voltaire’s exercises of wit on physicians: “Doctors pour drugs of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, into human beings of whom they know nothing.” Bingley, however, was quite distressed, plying the man with question after question regarding the care and ultimate prognosis of his guest. Darcy was forced to admit to himself that the man handled this inquisition with both good humour and a very appropriate degree of earnest attention. He himself was ready to bite off his friend’s head before it was done, and he was not the one having to invent a dozen ways to answer the same question. Mr. Jones assured Bingley repeatedly that Miss Bennet was in no great danger, and he at length released the man. Shortly after the apothecary’s departure, the two men took to horse to inspect some outlying barns and fields.

  In the afternoon they stood looking at some trenching while Darcy was attempting to explain to Bingley some alterations to the system of ditches that he had employed successfully at Pemberley, but Bingley was not attending. “Bingley, where are your thoughts? You have not heard a word I have said.”