“Perkins,” asked Darcy, “do you know if Mr. Bingley is awake?”
“Yes, Sir; Master Bingley was just finishing his breakfast as I was coming up, Sir.”
“What! Good Lord! Why must he choose this day to become an early riser?”
To this his man offered no reply. Darcy hastily finished dressing and nearly ran down to the breakfast salon to find only the servants clearing and straightening. He moved with haste to the main hall; there he heard voices from without the door. On gaining the stairway to the drive, he observed Bingley just in the act of mounting his horse. “Bingley!” he called out.
“Darcy!” His friend, startled to see him, nevertheless offered him one of his smiles. “What brings you out at this hour? I thought to leave before any one else was stirring.”
“I am rather surprised to see you about so soon, yourself,” replied Darcy. Waving faintly back towards the house, he said, “I was hoping to have a word with you, before you left.”
“I do have that meeting in Town, and I should hate to be late.” Bingley looked curiously at his friend. “What is it?”
Darcy looked at the groomsman holding Bingley’s reigns and thought of the footman at the door, both of them new to Bingley’s service, and was reluctant to go into the matter in front of them; at Pemberley he was sure of his people, but here? If Perkins might bring information to him, to whom might they convey such matters? His hesitation decided his friend. With a laugh Bingley said, “Well then, as you are undecided—which I can only set down to your having had no coffee as yet—and as I value your good opinion, I shall follow the true Darcy manner and bid you au revoir. I shall be back by Saturday, and we shall take it up then.” So saying, he urged his horse to a canter and rode off down the drive, still laughing. He called over his shoulder: “If it comes to you, Caroline knows where I will be staying!” Darcy, at a loss, could do no more than watch blankly as he rode away.
Darcy turned reluctant footsteps back to the Hall and the breakfast salon, vaguely but bitterly condemning Wickham for every thing that had gone wrong in the entire week preceding—for it was his arrival, after all, that had touched off this flood of misfortune. He deeply lamented the prior evening’s proceedings, but could find nothing to condemn in his own conduct; to him it seemed clear that, without Wickham’s lies and interference, the evening would have taken a much different turn.
Darcy was still at the breakfast table when Miss Bingley came down. He arose with a bow and prepared to take his leave, being disinclined to share in the enjoyment of assailing the characters and conduct of her guests of the evening before—especially the Bennet family. As he turned to go, however, she reached out a restraining hand. “Pray, do not go, Mr. Darcy,” said she. “There is something I must speak to you about.” Darcy, caught by the sincerity of her tone, slowly sat back down.
“Mr. Darcy, I am very greatly troubled by my brother’s behaviour last evening,” she began hesitantly. “I cannot help but think he has allowed himself to become attached…attracted to Miss Bennet.”
To this Darcy responded with a solemn nod: “I do not think ‘attached’ is too strong a word, Miss Bingley. I, too, was aware of his attentions in that direction. Indeed, I believe it was very much discussed throughout the entire company.”
“Then you must sympathise with my revulsion at the very idea,” she said miserably. “Such a connection would be unendurable! It is not to be thought of!”
“I can agree that the Bennet family, as a whole, cannot be regarded as desirable; but I am the more concerned by the lady’s lack of reciprocal feeling,” Darcy corrected her mildly. “Your brother is not the sort of man to worry about her connections, or lack thereof, no matter what his friends might think. But when I became aware that their relationship had become the subject of general conversation, I watched them most carefully through the evening; I am sorry to say that I became convinced she does not meet Bingley’s affections on an equal footing.”
Miss Bingley sniffed disdainfully: “I should not think she cares two figs about him. It is perfectly clear that she can only be interested in his position, and his capital.”
“There, I cannot agree with you, Miss Bingley,” said Darcy even more pointedly. “I have seen nothing in Miss Bennet that bespeaks mercenary tendencies. I see nothing to censure in her behaviour; I merely observe a lack of any special warmth, any particular tenderness towards your brother.”
Miss Bingley opened her mouth to retort, but closed it again after a glance at Mr. Darcy. “Of course, you are right, Sir. Miss Bennet is a very sweet and innocent young woman, who can have no thought of material gain through matrimony.”
While aware that Miss Bingley’s agreement was forced and artificial, Darcy passed it without comment. He said, “The salient point is this: what is to be done about it?”
Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed as she considered. “He will never give over for the sake of his own best interests,” she mused aloud.
“Perhaps not,” agreed Darcy, “although I should not care to use that phrase in speaking of matrimony to a woman of Miss Bennet’s character. But I am very sure that he would never importune a lady, whose affections he had any reason to doubt.”
Miss Bingley turned a calculating eye on him. “Precisely!” she cried, after a moment’s reflection. “And would you, Mr. Darcy, be willing to give him your observations, your assurances, on that point?”
Darcy admitted without enthusiasm: “I fear I can do no less. I have no wish to be the instrument of his disappointment, but I cannot, as his friend, stand by and let him marry a woman who, no matter how amiable, does not love him as he deserves.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are a true friend!” Miss Bingley cried. “Would that all men could be such as you!” So saying, she leaned over and placed a grateful hand on his.
But in her concurrence and approbation, Darcy found a deep and alarming cause for further doubt, and reason to grow cautious again. Perhaps, he felt, it would be as well to take stock of his observations in the cold light of day. Therefore, withdrawing his hand from hers with a decisiveness that robbed her gesture of its intended warmth, he excused himself that he might review his observations and conclusions in private.
Off and on throughout the day, he considered and reconsidered what he had seen, and what he had concluded; but he found nothing to cause him to reverse his decision—other than that he found himself on the same side of the matter as Miss Bingley. Further, when he considered that Bingley and Miss Bennet had known each other less than six weeks, he was persuaded to believe that neither of them could have formed a truly abiding attachment. But there was no time to be lost; if Bingley was to be deflected from this course, it must be done without delay. He must follow his friend to London, and keep him there until his infatuation faded, and the diversions and gaiety of the Season could help him recover from his attachment to Miss Bennet. He did not forget that this would most probably mean there would be no return to Hertfordshire, and that he would likely never see Elizabeth again; but his actions would be the best for every one, and so must mean the least pain for all, in the end. He told himself this several times before his wishes would stop their protests, but he was satisfied with his decision, and was certain his feelings, too, would correct themselves, given time.
Late in the afternoon, having made his decision and his plans, he felt called on to attend to his sister, Georgiana; he had not written her since the prior Thursday, when he had sent her a short note in response to her express, stating his intention of staying to the ball as she had requested. He had not then told her of Wickham’s presence in the neighbourhood, and its influence on his decision; and he had also yet to tell her the outcome: he only hoped her regrets might be less than his.
Dinner that evening was a nearly silent affair, as each diner was absorbed in thought. That suited Darcy well enough, as the unchecked prattle of the two ladies rarely afforded him any pleasure, and with Bingley away, there was no one to govern their giddy spleen. But on t
his occasion their thoughts remained fixed on only one topic: what could be done to ward off a connection with the Bennets?
At length, Darcy rose from the table and said, “I fear I must leave you, Miss Bingley, for London. I do not believe I can defer speaking with your brother until his return; I shall leave first thing to-morrow.”
Miss Bingley cast a quick glance at her sister, saying: “But we ought to accompany you, Mr. Darcy, surely. You must not take this wholly upon yourself. And what should we do here alone? For I am certain it would be best if Charles were not to return to Netherfield, at least for some little while. Do not you agree?” To this Darcy bowed his silent acquiescence, and retired to his chambers; there he found Perkins already beginning to pack up his things.
Correspondence
EDITOR’S NOTE
N.B.: It is not necessary to follow the correspondence in its entirety to understand or appreciate the history contained in the body of the work; when important to the movement of the story, the letters, either in part or in whole, have been included in the text. As the written word was so important a means of communication during the time before the advent of electronic communication, though, the letters, even those with no part to play in the story, are included separately to give the reader a chance to follow the story from a different, and perhaps even deeper, perspective, and at a pace more consistent with that experienced by the story’s characters.
The correspondence between Mr. Darcy and his sister is given in chronological order by correspondent. The various threads interweave in time, making it all but impossible to follow each thread individually with a proper chronology; it is necessary therefore to separate them in this way. References are given to the appropriate replies, where applicable, to facilitate following the chain of correspondence correctly.
Letters from Miss Georgiana Darcy
*****
*Pemberley
Monday, October 7, —
Dearest Brother,
Thank you for sending Mrs. Annesley to me; she is very gentle and obliging. We spend time every day on my music and reading. Pemberley has been cold since you left, but as I have no wish to go out this is no hardship on me. Colonel Fitzwilliam has stopped in to visit, although you are doubtless already aware of that. He is all kindness, but his solicitude is a constant reminder of my transgressions, and, indeed, I need no such reminder. The Colonel means well, I know, and next to you he is the dearest of my relations, but I do not deserve his concern and my spirits are not sufficient to make me good company. I do not ask a boon, Brother, as I merit none, but I do think my cousin’s time would be better spent elsewhere. Perhaps, dear Brother, if you see this as I do, you might suggest to him a different and more worthwhile endeavour? I cannot bear to have him waste his time and care on one such as I.
Your devoted sister,
Georgiana
*For reply, see Darcy, October 10.
*****
*Pemberley
Sunday, November 10, —
Dearest Brother,
Please forgive me for not having written before. I know I am not the correspondent I should be, but please do not think me unappreciative of your letters. My spirits have been low and I have lacked the energy to write; but I have read and reread your last, for the comfort I find in it is my only support. I carry it with me; indeed, at times I cling to it as a drowning man clings to wreckage.
But you must not think me desperate, and thinking of doing myself an injury. No—I see well enough that those are childish, romantic notions, and I no longer feel myself a child. I have died once for love—it will not happen again. One who has truly known pain would never seek to inflict it on oneself.
Music is my distraction, and Mrs. Annesley recommends that I ride more; I am trying.
Please, dear Brother, write again soon.
Your sister,
Georgiana Darcy
*For reply, see Darcy, November 13.
*****
*Pemberley
Friday, November 15, —
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
Forgive me, please, for not having written this last week, but in truth I feared to do so until I received your reply. I so dreaded your censure; you may imagine my relief, therefore, when…(she struck through this last, and began again). Words cannot say how much it means to me to have your strength to support me. Thank you again and again for the kindness and gentleness of your instruction; you are the most compassionate and generous brother any one might wish for.
What you have written argues strongly with my feelings, and while I am not as accustomed to using logic to guide my life as you are, of course, I own that your arguments appear to me to hold a great deal of truth. Never before had I felt the full force of life’s sorrows—not even when Mother and Father passed—but even so I knew I should survive the events of July. Even when I could not see how or why I should live, I knew that I should not succumb to my pain. Until now I had seen this as a punishment; I could not see, as you did, what it must say about eventual recovery.
But while your reassurances are felt more deeply, perhaps, than you can know, in a way it is almost more important to me to know that some one like yourself can possess such acute sensibilities; if not for you and the dear Colonel, I must sometimes despair of there being any feeling among your sex at all. It is hard for me to believe that you and the man who betrayed me are of the same race! How one could be so cruel, yet seem so sweet, and the other be so warm and sensible, yet seem so cool—headed, is beyond my understanding. How will I ever know how to trust, if such a one as he can disguise his true nature so completely? Do we ever learn to distinguish? But no; did not he deceive Father? Oh, Fitzwilliam, tell me how I shall ever trust again!
No; I must not let my feelings distort my thoughts—pray forgive my lapse. My doubts press upon me too strongly at times, but it passes. There is truth and warmth among my fellow creatures—in my family there is, I know: you, the Colonel, dear Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Jonathan, these are my proofs. I must hold firmly to these, and barricade my heart against the rest. My family shall be my bastion and my talisman. There, it shall be so. Yes; I have my anchor, and I shall no longer be tossed about in the storm. I shall learn to be myself again, I promise you, dear Brother.
Your idea of impoverishing the family I found inexpressibly shocking, Fitzwilliam; I am mortified by the very notion. I should not have thought it possible that you might be so sensible of my condition as to even imagine such a thing. I could never allow you to take any step that might injure our family further on my behalf. You must never think on this subject again. I am very aware of the trouble I have been, and I am ashamed to have caused you such difficulty and distress; I know it must have cost you a great deal to write on such distasteful matters without giving way to a very natural abhorrence. Your clear-headedness amazes me; I am not yet able to keep my despair from intruding into my calmer thoughts, although I am trying with each day to push it farther from me. Your composure in dealing with these matters will be my model, and I shall try with every day to gain a better mastery over myself.
Do not concern yourself by your absence; I need reflection more than diversion. Do not, therefore, leave your friends on my account. Know, too, that I would not hesitate to call you home if there were need; but though there are times, I confess, that I would be glad of the sight of you (never more than at this moment, dear Brother), I still feel as I did before: that it is best that I have this time to myself.
Tell me more of Mr. Bingley’s ‘country miss,’ and her sister—I have never heard you speak so of a woman; she must be beyond amiable to have earned your approbation. You approve of her conversation and countenance, but what is she like? Is she kind? She is there to care for her sister, so I assume she must be a good-hearted lady. What are her accomplishments? What is it about her that has won your good opinion? You must write more fully.
In closing let me thank you again, Brother dear, not so much for your letter as for being yourself. I feel most fo
rtunate, yet so undeserving, to have your love and care.
Yours, most truly,
Georgiana Darcy
*For reply, see Darcy, November 18.
*****
*Pemberley
Saturday, November 16, —
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
It is you who honour me with your trust, dear Brother—how you can continue to extend it to me surpasses my understanding; I am deeply sensible that I have forfeited any right to expect it, but I am so very, very grateful to have it. As for forgiving you for your unreserve, there can be no need, surely; having already placed myself in the midst of scandal, I can hardly be offended by your composure and openness in advising me on how it might be dealt with. How could I object to your words, when they do but speak to my actions? And to suggest that it might be in my power to forgive you, you who have been so blessedly forgiving to me, makes me feel all the more deeply how little worthy I am to do so.
I do not view what you wrote as lecturing, you must never think that; I welcome your thoughts from my heart. My feelings, indeed, have so clouded my abilities, crowding out reason and calm deliberation, that having your abilities to rely on is a great relief to me. To know that your words still hold true after a day’s deliberation is most reassuring. But there is one thing I do know full well, Brother; you must give over your attempts to take the blame for my actions upon yourself. It was not your inattention, but my foolish heart, that led me to my present discreditable state. If we allow ourselves to let others take the blame for our misdeeds, where would it end? No; if my reflections have led me to any truth, it is that my own weakness and foolish, romantic inclinations were responsible for my naïve faith in his lies and flattery. I allowed his persuasions to lull to sleep that sense of duty which told me I was acting wrongly.
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