Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home

by Stanley Michael Hurd

  The wedding between Wickham and Lydia was to take place on the last Monday of the month, so on the Saturday before, Darcy again took leave of his guests. The ceremony itself was uneventful, and barely noted by any one outside of their own family circle. Lydia was in exceedingly high spirits, smiling and waving to any and every one she passed; Wickham was more subdued, no doubt reflecting on his future state of connubial bliss. When it was all over, Darcy let out a great sigh of relief; he had always feared that something would come up and prevent the ceremony from being performed: another wife, perhaps, or an angry mob of creditors who would carry Wickham off before the parson could finish. But here they were, every thing complete, secure, and satisfactory.

  Corporal Sands was there in his regimental jacket, which, while somewhat the worse for wear, nevertheless still fit him well, and was undoubtedly his best. After the service was over, Darcy asked, “Are you here on God’s business, or mine, Corporal?”

  “I’ve always had a soft spot for marryings, Major; I let the lads outside take the watch.”

  “Very good. How is Tewkes?”

  “‘E’ll be ‘imself in no time,” the Corporal assured him. “‘E won’t ‘ave no trouble keepin’ up with this ‘ere fellow in Newcastle; and you can bet ‘e won’t be lettin’ ‘im get away.”

  The party was just then leaving the church, and the two men followed them out. Once the newlyweds were off with the Gardiners, taking the carriage back to Gracechurch-Street, with Lydia leaning out the window and preening and waving her ringed hand at every passer-by, Darcy saw two of the Corporal’s men walk off after them around the corner.

  He and the Corporal watched them go, then Darcy asked, “Am I to understand, Corporal, that you have decided to take me up on my offer?”

  “Well, Major, you never really did make no offer,” said the other. “‘Ow much is it worth to a man to be a constable?”

  Darcy mentioned a figure that he knew to be more than the Corporal would have made in the army.

  “Coo!” exclaimed Sands. “That’s a nice little sum. I think a man could make do on that. Well, then, Major, you’ve got yourself a constable.” As Darcy had seen the boy Tibbs do, the Corporal spat on his hand and held it out to Darcy; after the briefest of hesitations, Darcy removed his glove and did likewise, and they shook. The corporal then grinned and gave a cheery whistle, pointing at Darcy and wiping his hand pointedly on his breeches. Darcy laughed and with careful deliberation drew his handkerchief for the purpose, looking at the Corporal as though to say, “This is how a gentleman sees to such things.” Then he whistled and pointed his finger at the Corporal; they both of them laughed at this, and Darcy departed, telling the other he would send for him from Pemberley as soon as he arrived.

  The next day Darcy dined at the Gardiners; again he was glad to have come, as the Gardiners were comfortable people to be with; Mr. Gardiner’s views and address Darcy found to be well-informed, pleasant, and amusing, and Mrs. Gardiner had a caring, refined nature that was at once elegant and agreeable.

  Mr. Gardiner began with a toast: “To a successful conspiracy!”

  The other two heartily endorsed this, Mrs. Gardiner adding, “I own that I was terrified throughout that something would come up to put it off.”

  “As did I!” Darcy exclaimed. “I kept looking over my shoulder to the doors, for fear he had another wife somewhere who would turn up at the last moment.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a jealous husband, and gun-fire,” said Mr. Gardiner, “but the sentiment was the same.”

  “But here it is, done at last, and we may breathe easy,” said his wife.

  “I imagine the family at Longbourn has been apprised of events?” Darcy asked, hoping perhaps to hear something of Elizabeth.

  “They have, indeed; and the happy couple have gone to the house of her father, there to be fêted with the fatted calf,” Gardiner said sardonically. “Or perhaps a cold shoulder of mutton—no… —goat, I should imagine.”

  “Lydia would neither notice nor care,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I swear she cannot see anything past her own nose; she still has no more idea of having caused any trouble for the family! —I have no patience with her.” She looked apologetically at Darcy for having spoken so freely, but she was determined in her anger.

  “I fear I must agree with you,” said he. “On the few occasions I have attempted to sway her, or even inform her, I admit I failed so completely that I wondered if she had even heard me.”

  “That is my niece,” agreed Gardiner, “but now, at least, she has only her husband to vex with her genius for inattention.”

  “That, I will drink to,” said Darcy. “To Wickham’s lasting vexation!”

  The Gardiners both laughed and tipped their glasses to this.

  “The Bennets are pleased, then?” Darcy pressed, still hoping to hear of Elizabeth.

  “I have heard only from Mr. Bennet himself,” said Gardiner. “His letters are always brief, but his tone in the last was not what I would call conciliatory; at least where his daughter and her husband are concerned.”

  “I had a letter from Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Gardiner told Darcy. “She was, of course, very pleased, as she can see nothing but the good in any situation; but her sister Elizabeth has been oddly quiet on the affair.” She looked at Darcy here, as though expecting him to have something to offer.

  “Miss Elizabeth…Miss Elizabeth Bennet is well, I trust?’ he asked.

  “She is quite well,” Mrs. Gardiner assured him, still looking at him in that expectant manner.

  Darcy nodded and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. He, of course, had no news to supply, and was rather puzzled by her air; but he did understand by this that there was nothing to be gleaned about Elizabeth’s sentiments at the moment, so his questions were answered, even though in an indirect fashion.

  After a very pleasant evening, Darcy took leave, thanking the Gardiners again for their help and hospitality, expressing the hopes that they might meet again soon, and inviting them to visit Pemberley any time they might happen to be traveling that way.

  His work in London having finally been brought to a satisfactory close, he left the next morning for home. On the way back to Pemberley through the fading summer colours of the English countryside, Darcy thought over the diverse and very disparate views he had had of marriage, and more generally, love itself, in the year preceding. It was just about this time a twelvemonth ago he had escorted Georgiana back to Pemberley, thus beginning a period filled with all manner of perspectives on the subject. With all the disappointments and trials, the mismatched principals and their quite impossible hope of any kind of happiness, was it all a delusion? For Mr. Collins, and for Lydia, it surely was; but was it ever real, and lasting—that eternal enchantment immortalised by Donne? Would Miss Hartsbury and Sir Neville prove the exception? Every one, it seemed, sought love most diligently, but what was it they sought after, in reality? Was it the search for the other half of their soul, as the poets would have it, or merely the blind, imperious drive to increase their kind? Why did both the wanting and the having seem to bring equal pain? Watching the miles pass by outside his coach window, he saw villages and farmhouses, churches and markets, all teeming with people who, in spite of their myriad natures and pursuits, all felt love’s compulsion and power; whether living in it and for it with all the fervent sensibility of a young girl in the bloom of first love, or with the defeated, ashen yearning of the old man whose hopes had failed, no one, it seemed, escaped its pull. But to what end? —that was the point.

  The answer provided by the intellect—that the end sought was a phantasm, merely a cruel will o’ the wisp—was instantly and utterly rejected by the heart; to which ought one listen? Did it even matter, when each side was fraught with the potential for disappointment of the bitterest kind? But then he remembered his aunt’s words: “Overmastering passions overmaster us.” —Did one even have a choice, then? Absurd, Darcy thought: what is a man if not the c
hoices he makes? But what, then, of Bingley? He was as good a man as any one could hope to meet, but Darcy would take his oath he hardly ever made conscious choices—certainly not in matters of love; he was led by the heart, not the head.

  It was at that moment that Darcy came to the astonishing realisation that his touchstone and ideal, the intellect, was not the only sufficient guide through life; indeed, it was not sufficient at all: his devotion to it had not made him the better man, nor had Bingley’s disregard for logic and reasoning made him the worse. Darcy’s overbearing manner and arrogance in guiding his friend’s choices now appeared to him to be nothing but the worst sort of pride—and empty pride, at that, as he had nothing to show that his was the superior guide in life. This revelation left poor Darcy in a pitifully confused state of mind; of a sudden, his polestar disappeared from his firmament, leaving him adrift and rudderless; if not to the intellect—open, logical, and long-sighted—to what did one turn, to direct one through the endlessly ramifying paths and alternatives of one’s life?

  It was not before many minutes, and many miles, had passed, that Darcy came to recall Pender’s having once said, “Each discipline has its own tools, and its own language. One does not analyse history with the Calculus, nor does one measure a journey in iambs and anapaests.” Though not within the compass of Pender’s teachings, Darcy now grasped that this could be taken to mean that the heart had its own realm, too, over which it wielded its influence undisputed, and which only it was competent to rule.

  Well, and what, then, did his heart have to tell? That which the intellect had fought so long to deny: that Elizabeth, and only Elizabeth, held sway in his heart’s realm. This was hardly a revelation to him, but his new viewpoint did allow him to admit to the depth of his attachment to her, and cease his attempts to hold it off. His aunt had been right about overmastering emotions, but having been overmastered did not mean that happiness was to be his. That Elizabeth was mistress of his heart could no longer be denied, but she had declined to accept it and make it her own—and their history made it all but certain she never would; that was his fate, and, if literature was any guide, he was not the first, nor would he be the last, to find himself in that situation.

  Having contemplated these points for some miles, it then occurred to him to reconsider his inability to distinguish Elizabeth’s feelings for him—or rather, her lack thereof—at Rosings; he had tried his best not to listen to his heart in that case, so was that the source of his great misunderstanding of her disposition towards him? This thought was succeeded in time by the question: if he could so entirely mistake a character as animated as hers, might he not also have mistaken her sister’s? Miss Bennet was, after all, much more composed and reserved by nature, and offered less to the observer for interpretation; he surely had not listened to his heart, or even made enquiry of it, in that instance. This brought back to mind Bingley’s persistent lowness, and his comment after their meeting with Elizabeth in Lambton; he obviously still harboured a fondness for Miss Bennet. Almost as a test, Darcy asked his heart for an answer: did Miss Bennet love his friend? There was now no answer forthcoming on the point, but of his friend’s continued esteem he was certain. Now that his prior conclusions were thrown into doubt, however, he was forced to acknowledge that he lacked any deep conviction of the lady’s relative want of admiration for Bingley, and all his actions to separate them were rendered suspect, to say the very least. His inaction where Wickham had been concerned, he had seen as very blameworthy; what then was this very active transgression, in Bingley’s case? If his faults where Wickham was concerned necessitated the efforts to which he had just put himself, what did not this injustice towards his friend positively demand? He had hoped his exertions were over, and that he might be granted a period of rest and peace at Pemberley, but he now foresaw another lengthy period of activity; he now must make sure that he had not stolen from Bingley his chance at happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Georgiana had been listening for him all morning, and came again to meet him as the coach swung into the stable yard.

  “Is it done, then?” she asked immediately as he came down from the coach.

  “It is,” he answered with a sigh. He drew her into a quick hug, then gave her his arm as they walked the long way around to the front hall.

  “You must be happy,” she said, looking up at his face.

  “Yes, happy enough,” he said, although with little spirit. “But, truthfully, Dearest, I hardly know whether I have done good or ill for all concerned.”

  Georgiana looked surprised and concerned. “What else could be done? How could you have made it better?”

  “That is exactly what is troubling me: what could I have done better? It is impossible that the two of them should be at all happy, or that their marriage should be marked by any degree of warmth or steadiness; so, was there anything else that might have served better?”

  “Fitzwilliam, if, after having thought of little else for a month or more, nothing suggests itself to you that would have served better, surely that must suffice.”

  “True, but still…” He shook his head to clear away those thoughts. “I am sure I do not know, but the doubts remain. But I now find myself plagued with other doubts, too.” He quietly and briefly described to her his fears where his friend was concerned. He then told her: “I have to make certain of the thing, and so I fear I must absent myself again from Pemberley, and you.”

  “Oh!” she cried. “Must you? I had hoped you would be able to stay with us for a nice while.”

  “I had hoped so, too, Dearest. But I must revisit all my observations, for it now appears that I may have taken something from Bingley that must be returned: if I have taken him away from the lady he was intended for, it cannot be mended soon enough. This means I shall have to contrive a way to get him to return to Netherfield; but for you, anyway, there will be a choice: the Hursts and Miss Bingley will, I should imagine, carry on to Scarborough as they planned, so: should you rather go with them; return with me to London, knowing I shall be leaving for Hertfordshire shortly thereafter; or stay here at Pemberley?”

  After consideration, Georgiana replied: “I shall stay here, I think. I do so love the autumn at home; and in truth, I am in need of some time to myself; as much as I love my aunt and uncle, and as greatly as I have enjoyed our travels and friends, I have been in company far more than I am accustomed to, and I should be very glad of a period of quiet.”

  “Yes, as would I,” agreed Darcy. “But I cannot rest whilst this hangs over my head. I should like nothing better than to stay here quietly with you, but if things go as they might, I shall be able to return within a month or so. Perhaps we might have a quiet Christmas here this year?”

  “I should like that very much, and I shall count on it, so you must not let your business with Mr. Bingley keep you from home that long.”

  “It will not; in any event, it will be resolved within weeks. I just wish I might have a bit more time here first; but if I have erred, it must be mended soonest. I shall see if I cannot persuade Bingley to go back to Hertfordshire for some hunting.”

  Therefore, after having spent a pleasant evening with his friends, during which nothing more telling was at issue than the best way to defeat Hurst and his partner at whist, on the next day Darcy addressed his friend in the morning, when the two were alone at breakfast.

  “Bingley, I have been thinking of doing some hunting; what say you?”

  “I should like nothing better,” he replied. “A hard day or two in the saddle would be just what I need. Is there a chase here you favour?”

  “Actually, the reports of game here in Derbyshire have been poor; I was thinking rather of Hertfordshire.”

  Darcy watched attentively as Bingley’s face showed his conflicting emotions. Darcy said casually: “I happened to hear something in Town concerning the Bennets; actually, there has been a marriage in the family.”

  Bingley looked up quickly. “Who was married?”
he demanded.

  Darcy instantly calmed his friend’s alarm with: “The youngest: Miss Lydia Bennet has married.”

  Bingley’s features relaxed, and he asked, “To whom? Some one of our acquaintance in the neighbourhood?”

  “To Mr. George Wickham,” Darcy supplied.

  “That fellow? Lord! Poor Miss Bennet, to have such a connexion!” Catching himself, he went on, “That is, one naturally feels sorry for the family, but Lydia always was a silly creature. I suppose we can be relieved it was not worse, and is accomplished while she is too young to have got into any real mischief.”

  “If we go to Hertfordshire, we could take the opportunity to offer our congratulations…or condolences, as the case might be,” Darcy said with a grin.

  Bingley grinned back. “Both, I should think, depending on whom one was speaking to,” he said.

  “Indeed. And, do you know, I rather feel that I have left some unfinished business in Meryton,” said Darcy.

  “You, Darcy? I confess I have never felt easy with how we left the place, and I…to be honest, I have to admit I have never completely got over my memories of …well, I, too, feel I left some things unfinished. But what could you have left undone, Darcy?”

  “In all truth, I cannot be sure; I was aware you regretted the way we left the place, nor have I been able to rest entirely easy on the point of our leaving. I can hardly tell you what I hope to accomplish, but I find the need in myself for a visit, to put the ghosts to rest; perhaps it would be best for both of us to go back, and put our minds at ease.”