by Mary Street
‘If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh.’
There was no mention of those other objections which might keep Elizabeth from marrying me, but I was sensible of them, all the same.
My aunt was not. ‘She is a selfish, unfeeling girl! She must know such a connection would disgrace you in the eyes of everybody.’
‘I daresay you were so obliging as to inform her of it,’ I said coldly.
She had, and Elizabeth had told her she would not trouble herself over the family, because the world in general would have more sense.
I had but little time to indulge my faint stirrings of hope, for my aunt, perhaps noticing I was better pleased than she was, now began to represent to me all the advantages of marriage with my cousin, informing me once again that it was expected by the family and had been my mother’s dearest wish.
‘It was not my father’s dearest wish,’ I said. ‘I know he tried to dissuade you from this ambition. Neither are the rest of the family especially desirous of the match, whatever you choose to believe. I am sorry to be so blunt, but you leave me no alternative. Understand me now, madam, once and for all: you will not persuade me into marriage with my cousin: I have no inclination for it.’
My aunt was shocked and outraged. ‘Do you refuse to honour the wishes of your sainted mother?’
‘I doubt my mother would have insisted upon it. Even had she done so, I must go against the wishes of one parent, for my father wished it not at all.’
The reproaches of my aunt left me feeling very uncomfortable indeed, for she did not scruple to lay before me the charge that I was disappointing all my cousin’s hopes and expectations of felicity. ‘Are you so lost to all feelings of delicacy?’ she demanded.
‘Madam, I see little delicacy in your soliciting my hand for your daughter, and still less in the methods you employ. You have encouraged my cousin in whatever expectations she has of me. I have not. If she is truly distressed, you must console her as best you can. You have my leave to tell her I would make an abominable husband.’
‘I am astonished, sir, shocked and astonished to find you so obstinate. I had thought you more sensible of what was due to your position than to be taken in by the designing aspirations of one so far beneath you, in birth, in fortune, everything! Are you so infatuated with this girl that you cannot see where your duty lies?’
‘It is not my duty to marry my cousin and I know that many attempts have been made to warn you of my decision on the matter, for it was made a long time ago, certainly long before I met Miss Bennet,’ I said. ‘Even had the lady agreed to oblige you, I would not change it.’
My aunt, however, continued to lay the blame for her own failed plans on what she chose to call my infatuation for Elizabeth, which, in turn, had been created by her designing arts and allurements. She reminded me of Elizabeth’s connections, told me the disgraceful facts of the patched-up marriage between Lydia and Wickham. She ended by threatening me: she would see to it that Elizabeth was never accepted by the family. She would make sure Elizabeth was censured, slighted and despised by everyone connected with me.
‘No lady bearing the name of Mrs Darcy will be censured, or slighted or despised, madam. Certainly not at your instigation. You are not so high you can browbeat me.’
I had spoken very quietly, holding my rage in check, but something must have shown in my face, for my aunt clearly had second thoughts about delivering the rest of her invective. She did not go so far as to back down, however. She merely counselled me to think about what she had said, assured me she had my welfare at heart, and expressed her own certainty that I would, when I brought reason to bear upon the matter, see it in a different light.
Such reason as I had, was, after my aunt left, employed in wondering how far I dared to raise my hopes again.
I had no time for reflection, for my aunt had delayed me, and I had a dinner engagement to keep. But all throughout that evening, as I talked with my companions or listened to the musical entertainment provided, part of my mind was engaged with the extraordinary intelligence my aunt had brought me.
Elizabeth had refused my aunt the assurance she would not enter into an engagement with me. I could not wonder she had treated the application with such scorn.
Yet there were other ways of expressing scorn, ways more suited to the open and frank nature of Elizabeth’s disposition. I found it quite astonishing that my aunt had heard nothing of that disapprobation and dislike which had been so forthrightly expressed last April and which, in all my later dealings with Elizabeth, had so frequently served as a check upon my hopes.
I could not be mistaken: had Elizabeth been wholly decided against me, she would have no scruple in explaining this to my aunt, possibly expressing whatever opinions she held of me, and her certainty of miserable prospects in store for any lady unwise enough to marry me.
Perhaps Elizabeth was not wholly decided against me, after all. But still I could not hope, for the memory of that last, unhappy evening at Longbourn was with me. Certain I was that Mrs Bennet’s civility to me had a purpose. Her design had been to keep me separate from Elizabeth and I could see no reason for it unless she was honouring a request from the lady herself.
Which just shows how far my wits had gone a-begging, for it was not until later, much later, as I paced the floor of my bedchamber unable to sleep, that I eventually hit upon the real explanation. When I did, I was amazed at my own stupidity in not realizing it sooner.
Mrs Bennet had succeeded in her true design as well as in the one I had imputed to her. The lady had been concerned, but not for Elizabeth, all her contrivance had been for Jane: her intention had been to keep me out of Bingley’s way.
Another review of our last two encounters at Longbourn taught me it was possible, just possible, that Elizabeth had not been displeased with me, as I had thought. We had, after all, been in company, unable to speak freely. I had felt awkward and embarrassed: perhaps she had felt the same way.
Another review of my aunt’s visit now dared me to hope.
Tomorrow I would return to Netherfield: as soon as possible I would contrive private speech with Elizabeth. My resolution was fixed: I was determined to know everything.
Seventeen
WHEN I ARRIVED at Netherfield on the following day, I was told Mr Bingley was at Longbourn and not expected back until late that evening. He returned eventually, pleased to see me, and I spent an hour then listening to his discourse on the perfections of his lady.
‘Oh, Darcy,’ he sighed, ‘I wish you could be as happy. I wish there was another Jane for you.’
‘I thank you, but I think a less agreeable lady would suit me better,’ I said.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Bingley was at once conscience-stricken. ‘Darcy, what was I thinking of? I would not for the world—’
‘It is of no consequence,’ I said. ‘Have you spent all your time at Longbourn whilst I have been away?’
‘Most of it.’ He went on to give me a description of Mrs Bennet’s ingenious stratagems to leave him alone with Jane so he could propose, most of which had been foiled by Elizabeth’s determination to spare her sister’s embarrassment. When Mrs Bennet had eventually won, he and Jane had laughed so much it was a wonder he had been able to declare himself at all.
He talked on, but told me nothing of what I wanted to know. Either he was ignorant of my aunt’s visit to Longbourn or else he saw no significance in it, for it was not mentioned, even when I said I had seen Lady Catherine in town. I watched him carefully, but there was nothing in his expression to suggest he was concealing knowledge of it.
Elizabeth, I concluded, was still keeping her own affairs private, even from Jane.
Bingley was, quite understandably, far more interested in his own present situation than in my affairs. When I said I would accompany him to Longbourn the next day, it did not appear to cross his mind I had any design o
f my own.
Elizabeth looked a little pale, a little surprised to see me, but she quickly assumed her blank-faced expression and I could detect nothing of her feelings.
When Bingley proposed we should all walk out together, she agreed to it. Mrs Bennet was not much in the habit of walking; Mary Bennet declared she had to study; Catherine Bennet looked as though she wished she could think of an excuse to remain at home.
I also wished she could think of an excuse to remain at home. Clearly, Bingley intended to be alone with Jane and I was destined to accompany the other two ladies. Resigning myself to this, I hoped Catherine would somehow become detached from us, if only for a few minutes. Then I could make a quiet request of Elizabeth for private conference at some later date.
Five of us set off together. Bingley and Jane soon lagged behind and although Catherine Bennet had been unable to find an excuse to stay at home, she quickly found an excuse to leave us. She requested we should walk in the direction of Lucas Lodge, saying she would like to call upon Maria Lucas, if we had no objection.
Elizabeth said she had no objection, neither did she express any desire to call upon the Lucases, herself.
I said nothing. Elizabeth knew we were going to be alone together and if she had not contrived the situation, she had made no attempt to avoid it, either. She was uneasy, which troubled me, for I had perceived she had a purpose of her own.
I swallowed and braced myself, for if she had something to say to me, I could only assume it was to do with my aunt’s ill-judged visit to Longbourn.
I was wrong: Elizabeth’s mind was occupied with a very different matter, one so far removed from my own thoughts that I was quite startled to be reminded of it.
My attempt to conceal my part in arranging the marriage of her youngest sister to Wickham had been less successful than I thought.
‘Mr Darcy,’ she said, ‘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.’
There were tears in her eyes as she spoke and I felt an ache in my throat, for I realized she had been carrying this burden alone for some time. Never had it been my intention she should know of it and I said so, adding, rather sadly, ‘I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.’
‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said quickly. ‘Lydia’s thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter, and, of course, I could not rest until I knew all the particulars.’
She resumed her thanks, on behalf of her family.
‘If you will thank me,’ I said, ‘let it be for yourself alone. Your family owe me nothing. I thought only of you.’
Elizabeth looked away, pink with embarrassment and I realized that I had, in a moment of uncomfortable emotion, unwittingly declared myself. Now, it was absolutely necessary to go on.
Quite forgetting the pretty proposal I had rehearsed, I simply begged her to tell me at once if her feelings were still the same as they were in April. ‘My affections and wishes are unchanged,’ I added, ‘but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’
‘I think you know,’ she said, glancing at me and then away again, ‘that my feelings are not at all what they were last April. How could they be, after everything that has happened, everything I have learnt? I think you know that … er … since that time … my feelings have changed … more than I would have … thought possible….’
The rest of her reply descended into such incoherence that I could only catch the occasional word, but I understood what I was hearing: it was not what I had feared I must hear, but rather what I wished to hear.
Anxiety gave way to relief, relief brought with it all sweet sensations of happiness and I gazed at her in wonder and delight as I thanked her. I told her how beautiful she was, I told her all my love, my joy, my fervent intention to devote my life to ensuring her happiness. And she listened and blushed and smiled, but still she would not look at me.
We walked on, too busy with our own concerns to look around us. Having told her how my aunt’s visit had restored me to hope, we fell to discussing the past. I told her how ashamed I had been, and still was, of my behaviour towards her; of how I understood how fully deserved her reproofs had been; of all the painful but valuable lessons I had taken from them.
And I learnt that upon reading my letter, she, that dear lady who had no cause for self-reproach whatever, had, nevertheless, reproached herself. She confessed she felt she had been foolish, blind and prejudiced and had, in her judgement of me, driven reason away.
We walked on. We talked of our meeting at Pemberley, and I told her how delighted Georgiana had been to know her and how disappointed when she had to leave Derbyshire so suddenly. We spoke again of the reasons for that departure, but I could see the subject still pained her and I quickly moved on to a happier topic: the engagement between Bingley and Jane.
‘I must ask whether you were surprised?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.’
She nodded. ‘That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.’
‘My permission! He did not need—’ I stopped, recalling how agitated Bingley had been when he was telling me he meant to go against what he thought were my wishes. I sighed. Perhaps Elizabeth was not so far wrong, after all.
I gave her a brief account of my talk with Bingley and it must have lost or gained something in the telling for Elizabeth seemed to be diverted by it.
‘He will be happy,’ I said, ‘and so will your sister, for Bingley is the most amiable man. I am very much afraid,’ I added, ‘that of the two of you, your sister is getting the better husband.’
Elizabeth did not contradict me. ‘Jane deserves it,’ she said, ‘for she has truly the sweetest nature of anyone I know. Would you believe she always refuses to think ill of anyone, even of you? Astonishing, I know, but so it is. So you see, your friend is wiser than you in his choice of wife.’
I smiled, knowing that Elizabeth, even in the worst of her humours, was far better suited to my own disposition. She would scold me, quarrel with me, torment me, tease me and laugh at me as often as may be.
I was the happiest man in the world.
We were late arriving back at Longbourn. We stayed apart, keeping our news to ourselves, for Elizabeth had expressed a desire to acquaint Jane privately with our situation before it became known to the rest of her family. The length of time we had been absent was remarked upon, but no one, not even Bingley, seemed to be at all suspicious.
The evening passed quietly. I noticed Mrs Bennet gazing fondly at Bingley and Jane. Nothing would ever give that lady wisdom, but I saw she was quieter, more sedate, now her worst fears had been laid to rest.
On the way back to Netherfield, I told Bingley that Elizabeth had consented to be my wife.
Bingley said the silliest thing. ‘Oh, Darcy, are you sure?’
‘I fully acknowledge,’ I said, ‘that I have made a fool of myself in fifty different ways: I am not, however, quite as delusional as that implies. Of course I am sure. Somehow, she has come to a better opinion of me. She loves me and we are engaged.’
He was incredulous, delighted, demanding to know every particular, and many hours of the night were spent in talk.
The warmth of Jane’s smile as she greeted me the following morning left me in no doubt she was as pleased as Bingley had predicted she would be. Mrs Bennet, still desirous of getting me out of Bingley’s way, proposed Elizabeth and I should walk out together, assuring me I would be most impressed with the view from Oakham Mount.
I meant to ask her father’s consent that evening. Elizabeth looked a little uncomfortable when I suggested it and I smiled at her. ‘Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. I know I am not a favourite with your parents: I shall know how to deal.
’
‘It is so unjust!’ She was burning with anger. ‘To treat you in so cavalier a fashion, when we owe you so much.’
‘They know nothing of that,’ I reminded her.
‘Well, I do, and it pains me to see them making such a fuss of Bingley and yet treating you so coldly.’
I smiled at her, not minding in the least.
‘I would feel easier if Papa was expecting it,’ she said. ‘But he has not the smallest suspicion. He received a letter from Mr Collins a few days ago. Can you guess what it said?’
‘Something to the effect that Lady Catherine does not look upon our union with favour?’ I suggested.
‘Papa found it excessively diverting,’ she said gloomily. ‘He said the Lucases could not have hit upon a more absurd idea. He believes you have never looked at me in your life. So certain he was, I almost believed it myself.’
‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Believe that: now we are come together, all other things are possible.’
It was Mr Bennet’s habit to withdraw to his library soon after dinner: that evening, I followed him.
He was astonished to see who sought conference with him. ‘Mr Darcy! I had not—’ He rose from his chair. ‘You wish to speak with me, sir?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I made my most respectful bow. ‘I am to inform you, sir, that your daughter Elizabeth and I have formed an attachment for each other. We wish to be married, sir, and I come now to ask you to consent to our union.’
My application did not receive the most flattering of receptions. His initial astonishment gradually gave way to such dismay that the blood drained from his face. He sat down again and it was several minutes before he could speak.
I was sorry for him, for it was clear he had no idea what to make of it. I waited in silence, feeling that neither my sympathy nor assistance would be welcome in this extremity.
Recovering at last, he invited me to sit and then said, ‘You must forgive me, Mr Darcy. I had no idea of such attachment. We have seen but little of you at Longbourn. I confess I am at a loss to understand how it has come about.’