“Miss Bennet, last April you said that I could not have made you the offer of my hand in any possible way that would have tempted you to accept it. Even if your answer remains the same as it was then, please allow me to speak a second time upon this subject.”
“As you wish.”
“Miss Bennet, few people get to see into the future and what joys or calamities may be waiting there. Last night I was fortunate to get a glimpse of my future. I do not know if it was a dream or a vision, I only know that the future that lay before me was bleak and stark and lonely because you were not in it.”
Elizabeth knew from the look in his eyes that he was telling the truth.
“So I am asking you to share the future with me, to change that wretched existence I saw into a one of great joy and happiness. I love you. I shall always love you. I am willing to wait with a hope that someday you will return my regard. Please say that I may have some hope.”
“You may, for it would not be a very long wait,” said Elizabeth. “Not long at all.”
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, would you do me the very great honor of accepting my offer of marriage?”
Elizabeth, feeling all the common awkwardness and anxiety of the situation, now forced herself to speak. “I wish you to understand that my sentiments have undergone so material a change since that time, that your present assurances fill me with gratitude and pleasure and the only answer I can give is… yes.”
The happiness that this reply produced was such as he had never felt before, and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. “Thank you,” he raised her gloved hands to lips and kissed each one. “Thank you, I will endeavor to make sure you never have cause to regret your decision.”
Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
“You are cold,” he noticed and was immediately concerned. “Let us return to the house so that you can be warmed.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, it is too soon to return to others, to be amongst them. Let us walk for a bit; that will take off any chill.”
So they walked, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought and felt and said for attention to any other objects.
“I should not have waited so long to come to you. Last fall, I had a visit from my aunt, who called upon me in London, and related her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with you, peculiarly denoting your perverseness—her words—as she sought to obtain that promise from me, which you had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I should have come then.”
“Why did you not come? Surely you knew enough of my disposition to be certain, that had I been absolutely, irrevocably decided against you, I would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.” Elizabeth colored and laughed as she continued, “After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”
“Fear, doubt, pride. My aunt can be quite overbearing, and I feared you simply would not provide her the satisfaction of giving her the assurance she demanded. Your previous refusal has weighed heavily on my mind. I was doubtful that even if your feelings for me had changed for the better, they may not have been strong enough to accept a proposal, and I felt my pride could not withstand another rejection, no matter how gently or kindly given.”
“And I had not treated your feelings so kindly in the past.”
“My behavior to you at the time merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence and was doubtful that you could ever forgive me.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. But since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said—of my conduct, my manners, and my expressions during the whole of it—is now, and has been for many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me, though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their ever being felt in such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling; I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh! Do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
“My letter, did it,” asked Darcy, “did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”
She explained what its effect on her had been: “My feelings as I read your letter can scarcely be defined. With amazement did I understand that you believed any apology to be in your power; and I was steadfastly persuaded that you could have no explanation to give that would be acceptable. It was with a strong prejudice against everything you might say that I first read your letter,” Elizabeth was embarrassed to confess.
“Your belief of Jane’s insensibility I knew to be false. Your account of the real and the worst objections to the match made me too angry to perceive any justice in your words.” Elizabeth gave Darcy a wry little smile. “And it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice. As to Mr. Wickham, every line proved more clearly that in matters between you and him, you were entirely blameless throughout the whole, which I would have believed to be impossible before reading your letter.”
Darcy wanted to offer her some comfort, but Elizabeth spoke before he could do so. “I was absolutely ashamed of myself. I had been blind, partial, prejudiced, and absurd. It was a hard realization to face, for I had prided myself on my discernment!” Elizabeth shook her head at her folly.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain; but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part, especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; however, though we both have proof that my opinions are not entirely unalterable, they also are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness; but it did not end so.” Elizabeth stopped to look at him. “The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote it and the person who received it are now so widely different from what they were then that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
A quick flash of those memories he experienced the night before came to mind. “Many retrospections are so totally void of reproach that only contentment arises from them. The moment you agreed to marry me I will always treasure. However, painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled
. They can teach one a lesson, hard indeed at first to learn, but really most advantageous.”
“You are becoming quite philosophical, Mr. Darcy.”
“So formal, Miss Bennet? I would wish that you would call me by my given name.”
“Fitzwilliam, then,” Elizabeth said before continuing on their walk. “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
“No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.”
“Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due.”
“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance: “I know she will be quite happy to learn that you are to be her new sister. She was quite disappointed not to further the acquaintance last summer.”
“If Lydia had not eloped,” she began, “this happy day may have come about much sooner. I wish to tell you how grateful I am, again, at your intervention in the matter.”
“I thought only of you,” Darcy told her. “Before I quit the inn, I had resolved on quitting Derbyshire in a quest for your sister. Your distress I could not bear, and as I believed it to be within my power to relieve it, I set about doing so.”
This is what love truly is, Elizabeth thought, her heart thumping joyfully. She gave him a wistful smile. “I was sure that I would never see you again. The moment that you walked out the door of that inn, I knew I loved you, and I felt it would all come to naught. Now such a painful subject need not be dwelt upon further.
“So, what persuaded you to renew your addresses now? Was it the vision you spoke of earlier? It must have been a very convincing one. Do tell me about it.”
“Someday perhaps. It is a rather long and somewhat fanciful tale, too much to relate just now. The afternoon sky has darkened and I can see a servant has been sent out to search for us. I will say that the vision served to reinforce the wishes and desires I already possessed and gave me the courage to pursue them.”
They headed back to Bingley’s house. Elizabeth entered before Darcy did. Alone in the garden he spoke aloud, “Thank you, Father and all the Spirits. I appreciate what you did for me and I will remember it always. I will do my best to see that Elizabeth is happy, for in her happiness is mine. I shall be worthy of the gift you have given me.”
As Darcy entered, he saw that Elizabeth was standing under a ball of mistletoe, brightly trimmed with evergreens, ribbons, and ornaments. And his eyes lit up.
“Elizabeth, do you realize where you are standing?”
Elizabeth looked up for a moment. “Certainly, I have very good eyesight.”
So Darcy gathered Elizabeth in his arms and used the kissing bough for it proper purpose. So engrossed were they in the activity, neither heard the approaching footsteps.
“Elizabeth Bennet!” cried her shocked mother.
“Mr. Darcy!” exclaimed the equally shocked Miss Bingley.
“At last,” Bingley said as he winked at his wife, who smiled happily in return.
Epilogue
Christmas 1843
“Look at Grandmama and Grandfather under the kissing bough,” cried young Master Timothy Darcy from the top of the stairs.
“It is a long-standing Christmas tradition,” his father, Bennet Darcy, informed him.
“Is everyone here? Will there be dinner soon?” Timothy asked.
Several Bingleys made their way into the hall. “Are we the last to arrive?” asked Jane.
“We are only awaiting the arrival of Uncle Gardiner. Now, Timothy—and is that Belinda and Bettina?—why don’t the three of you run along to the back parlor and visit with your other cousins,” Elizabeth told them.
“Yes, Grandmama, but will he be here soon?” he called out.
“Very soon, my dear, very soon.”
“Do you ever find yourself losing track of who’s who among our minor relations? Lord, there are more of them every year it seems,” declared Charles Bingley.
“Well, you would have a large family,” Darcy reminded him.
“It is not all my fault you know; between our children and grandchildren, the Gardiner progeny and your sister’s offspring, family gatherings can get overpopulated rather quickly.”
They made their way into the parlor where the adult members of the party had gathered. Darcy thought it a good thing that not all the connected relations were able to come. The ballroom would have had to have been opened to accommodate them all for dinner.
Jane and Elizabeth lingered in the hallway, wishing each other a Merry Christmas and exchanging tidbits of family news when the front door opened and Mr. Gardiner entered.
“The most extraordinary thing happened today,” Mr. Gardiner exclaimed as a footman helped him remove his coat. “A most extraordinary thing.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you also, Uncle,” Elizabeth cheerfully greeted them.
“I apologize, my dear,” returned her uncle with a twinkle in his eyes. “The very best of Christmases to you both. You are looking well, very well indeed. And best wishes on your anniversaries. Neither of you look older than when you were brides.”
“You are a flatterer, sir, but my appearance is appropriate for a matron of my years.”
“You cannot be that old, Elizabeth, for that would make me ancient.”
“I regret to inform you that you are indeed ancient”—Elizabeth smiled at him—“and I am glad to have it so. Shall we join the others in the parlor?”
After greetings were exchanged and everyone was made comfortable, Jane asked, “What is the extraordinary thing that happened to you, Uncle?”
“Do you have a story to tell, Uncle?” asked Bingley. “I for one would be delighted to hear it.”
“Part of my tale is already known to Darcy, for he was there at its beginning and can attest, in part, to the truth of my words. Yesterday, our Gentlemen’s Benevolent Society went about asking for donations from various businesses. Darcy and I came upon the most miserly gentleman I have yet to meet. His office was so cold that it was impossible to know inside from out by temperature alone.” The servant offered some wine to Mr. Gardiner. “Thank you. It is just what I needed.”
“Do continue your tale, Uncle, for you have whetted our curiosity,” Jane begged and the others in the room also begged for the tale.
“Well, my dear, Darcy and I went forth to gather funds in the area of town where Mr. Scrooge has his business. ‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?’ asked Darcy.
“‘Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,’ Scrooge replied. ‘He died this very night.’
“Now, a chill went down my spine when I heard this, but whether it was from the lack of warmth in the office or in Scrooge’s tone, I cannot tell, but Darcy carried on, ‘We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,’ he said.
“Scrooge frowned and shook his head. The cold seemed to freeze his features, nipped his pointed nose, and shriveled his cheek. Frost had settled on his head and on his eyebrows and his wiry chin.”
“Stop teasing, Father,” Alice exclaimed.
“I do not exaggerate,” claimed Uncle Gardiner.
“At least not very much,” Darcy responded dryly. “I explained the purpose of the visit, of gathering funds to provide some slight provisions for the poor and destitute.”
Mr. Gardiner continued, “I swear his eyes turned red, and his lips compressed into a thin blue line. In a grating voice he demanded ‘Are there no prisons? Are the workhouses still in operation? Are the Tr
eadmill and the Poor Law still in full vigor?’
“When we agreed that indeed these institutions were still in operation, he said, ‘I was afraid that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course.’
“I then explained that these places could hardly supply much in the way of a Christmas celebration and asked how much he wished to contribute.
“‘Nothing!’ Scrooge replied.
“‘You wish to be anonymous?’ asked Darcy.
“‘I wish to be left alone,’ said Scrooge. ‘Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned—they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.’”
“Oh, he sounds a horrid fellow, Father,” exclaimed Alice.
The door to the parlor opened, and a young girl of perhaps six or so came into the room.
“Grandpapa!” she exclaimed and made her way to Mr. Gardiner for a welcoming hug. “Did you know we are to have turkey and stuffing and Christmas pudding? Very soon, I hope.”
“Rebecca, you should be in the back parlor with the rest of the children; the turkey will be in the dining room when it is ready,” her mother scolded.
“I can remember a time when you liked a roast goose well enough yourself, Alice,” recalled Mr. Gardiner, setting his granddaughter on his knee.
“I did not forever go on about it,” Alice said.
“Oh, did you not? Rebecca, your mother used to—” Robert started.
But Alice quickly interrupted. “Father has not finished his story. What happened then?”
“Where was I? Ah, yes, the poor were to go to the publicly supported institutions. I then replied that many would rather die than go to such places. ‘If they would rather die,’ said Scrooge, ‘they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.’”
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