"Well, and what do you want to do, my dear? Send them off?"
"Oh, no! That would be too unkind. I think that Cloe, at any rate, will profit from her lessons here, and her desire to be a governess is so laudable I cannot put obstacles in her way. She will be a real help to her mother. And Jane will so enjoy her company, in the gaieties to come."
"Yes, and the boy is going. He will be in York before Ember-week, that is the thirteenth of December."
"Very true. Henry is safe enough. But Fitzwilliam - that Bettina is a vixen. And her manners! I fear it is a case of courtesy being cumbersome to those that know it not - and with such a father and mother, how should she? Bettina is exactly like Lydia - no, worse, for she has more craft about her than poor heedless Lydia ever had. It is like her father's craft. Oh, dear, it is horrible to have such suspicions; but I am afraid she is determined to turn Fitzwilliam's head entirely."
"There is some safety," her husband observed, "in that her methods are so obvious."
"I do not agree with you at all. Fitzwilliam does not see through them."
"I perceive, then, that this is all leading up to a request that I have a word with our eldest son."
"How nice that I do not even have to ask you. Yes, I would wish it. He may listen to you, where he will not to anyone else. He respects you so."
Mr. Darcy's lips curled in diversion, but he only said, "I will do it, my dear; I only hope it may produce the desired result."
Mr. Darcy spoke to his son at breakfast. Fitzwilliam was up early, for he meant to take the train to a race-meeting; and Miss Wickham was so annoyed to learn that her charms were not sufficient to fix him to her side for the duration of her visit, that she made no effort to come down to an early breakfast. Only Mr. Darcy therefore joined his son, and as they helped themselves to chocolate, honey, bread and cold meat from the sideboard, Fitzwilliam cheerfully opened the conversation.
"Good morning, sir. I'm off to Newmarket this morning, to see a man - early start, you see. Train is a fine invention; only I'm afraid if they ever run it through here, it will disturb the fox coverts."
"Of course, if the railway ever approached here, the track would have to be concealed, not to ruin the prospect," said Mr. Darcy impatiently, "but, Fitzwilliam, there is something I wish to say to you this morning. You are getting along well with your cousins, - find them pleasant, do you?"
"Certainly sir, certainly. I am not the man to neglect my own relations, even if their station in life is inferior to my own."
"An elevated sentiment. And the elder girl you like her, do you?"
"I should be telling an untruth if I said otherwise, sir. I think she is the handsomest girl that ever was seen, and the best natured. Do you know that she took a spill yesterday that was absolutely my own fault, and when I helped her up she only laughed. That is what I call a good spirit, in a woman."
Mr. Darcy had heard enough. "Fitzwilliam, I must not forbear to say what is my duty. You must not think of Miss Wickham."
Fitzwilliam looked mutinous, but said nothing.
"My reasons for saying this are few, but they are good. First, I cannot approve of cousin matches. They are not absolutely proscribed by the laws against consanguinity; but they are generally unhealthy and to be discouraged. However, even if her blood were no objection, the girl's family is more disgraceful than you, perhaps, are aware."
"They are my mother's family," said Fitzwilliam resentfully.
"Unfortunately that is true; and we have paid for the fact," said Darcy dryly. "Mr. Wickham has always been totally without principle, and has now nothing to look forward to but the last stages of a drunken decline, I comprehend - he is a most revolting and degraded object; and his wife I fear is hardly more respectable. We have supported them these twenty years and more, you know. You could not want such as they for your parents-in-law, I think."
"No; certainly not; but hang it, I would not marry them. And I am not marrying anyone at present, for that matter."
"I am glad to hear it; but sometimes, you know, a preference can lead farther than you, perhaps, at your time of life, may realize."
"Oh, damn it, I am not one to be caught.The fox is clever, but more he that catches him, ha?No, no, wedlock is a padlock, as they say, and I have no thought of it, sir."
"Pardon me, but you should think of it, long and seriously. You are four and twenty. Too early, perhaps, to settle; but your means make it highly eligible. I should wish my sons to marry well and wisely, and be happy, as I have been, in marriage."
"Well, but, sir, you chose for yourself. Surely I may be trusted to do the same."
"There is something to that; and your mother and I have no wish to ally you to an heiress, or anyone you could not truly care for. Where there is one fortune, that is surely sufficient; purposely seeking for a rich marriage is hardly decent. But I would hope that you, choosing for yourself, would select a gentlewoman, one brought up so as to be a suitable mistress of Pemberley one day, and every thing that your mother is. This, I am convinced, is not the case with Miss Wickham."
"Such a rout," muttered Fitzwilliam. "I hope I can be pleasant to my cousin without being suspected of such designs."
"Certainly. I am glad to hear that you have none. But Fitzwilliam, I would be gratified if you would give me your word in this matter."
"My word? Oh, dash it, yes."
"Very good. I know you do not wish to marry where it would displease me, and grieve your mother, by choosing a young woman whom you could not respect, who would not be a fit lady of this house, whose education is scanty and whose manners are imperfect. You have not been brought up to that. You are our eldest son, but remember well, that although you are to be master of Pemberley one day, there are bequests that may or may not go along with it, by my desire; and you are advised to keep this in mind. The word 'disinherit' surely never need be spoken between us. Do you understand?"
"By Gad, yes, I do, very well, I'll swear however much you like."
"That is not necessary. But I do want your promise that you will make no proposals for your cousin, without our consent."
"No, no such thing. Though I do think it is a pity, so handsome as she is, and as jolly as any girl I ever met."
CHAPTER IV
The family party that gathered at Pemberley each Christmas had naturally grown larger with the years; but the increased number did Tnot induce Elizabeth to anticipate the festivities the more.
"I always said I was an unsociable creature," she told Mr. Darcy, as she sat in her dressing-room on a bright but cold December morning. A light etching of snow was crusting the brown fields and the trees were hung with ice. "I would rather walk in the fields than sit in the warm house, being civil to my relations."
"You like your walks. So do I, especially when I am with you. But, consider, Elizabeth, how very cold it is! We have had to have fires in the stables the last three nights."
"So you turn aside talk about my family with talk about the animals," said Elizabeth playfully.
Mr. Darcy smiled. "Is it so very bad? But you want to tell me more about the prospect of the festivities of the season, and I will listen."
"Well, my love, to say the truth, the idea of so many guests oppresses me."
"That is not much like your rational self, to be sure, Elizabeth. It is more like my unsociable self. However, there will be one number less, at least - Henry leaves tomorrow, and does not return for a fortnight, the day before Christmas. That will thin your feared crowds."
Elizabeth turned from the mirror and laid down her silver hairbrush. "But Henry is the most sensible person in this house, besides ourselves, naturally. I am using modest words to say immodest things - but it is true, when he departs, he takes with him most of the sense at Pemberley."
"It does not strike me for the first time," observed Darcy, "that you have preference for your younger son over your elder."
"I should not like it to appear so. But truly, there is something so amiable about him, coupled wi
th quickness of mind - I do find Henry bewitching."
"And Fitzwilliam dull."
Elizabeth sighed. "It is not dullness I object to in Fitzwilliam - one can be good, and truthful, and virtuous, even if not clever; but I so often fear he is not what he should be. Think of his attachment to Miss Wickham. It is most decided, and it shows a want of delicacy, even of rectitude, that I find most painful."
"I did speak to him."
"I know; and I hope it had its effect. If he does not heed you, he will be absolutely ruined."
"That is a strong speech, Elizabeth."
"Perhaps - but at least it had the happy effect of turning my thoughts from my Christmas guests."
"Well, let us hear who is coming that is so very dreadful?
"Everyone who has any claim on us, by virtue of relationship by blood or by marriage."
"Oh, come! I daresay your father will not make the trip at this time of year?"
"No, he is too infirm, and does not wish to be traveling. I fear he is declining, Mary writes me word. There cannot be much to hope. She has been very dutiful, and will not leave him even for a holiday. I wish I could see them both."
"We must visit them, in the spring."
"Yes; that we must. But they will not be here at Christmas, you see, nor any body else that I really want - such as Bingley and my sister Jane."
"So far you are only telling me about who is not coming. At this rate the house will be empty. Well, and what keeps the Bingleys away?"
"Why, you must know, they are having company too, as all the world does at Christmas that is not company themselves: - the Gardiners go to them, and Bingley's sister, and some friends of Jeremy's."
"Jeremy! There, Elizabeth, is what will make you less discontented with your own children."
"Mr. Darcy, I am not at all discontented, you know very well. But it certainly is better to have three children who may be troublesome now and then, but are really most satisfying, than one insufferable, spoilt puppy. I am so sorry for my dear sister when I think of Jeremy. She and Bingley - so loving as they are, and with such excellent understanding - but affection blinds reason, I suppose. It is a pity."
"True. I never see young Jeremy without wishing to kick him. But it seems that I am not to see him, this season. I cannot say I am sorry. Well, Elizabeth: I am still waiting for you to name the fearful list of who is coming to Pemberley."
list of who "What think you of the Collinses?"
"Our acquaintance with them has been of long enough duration for you to be tolerably aware of my opinion. I have endured your Cousin Collins quite every Christmas for this last quarter of a century. Only tell me, are all the young Collinses coming too?"
"No; only Mr. Collins and Charlotte. There is no occasion for inviting all the children and grandchildren. But there's one mercy, they do not arrive until after Christmas day, for Mr. Collins must preach his sermon in Hunsford. You will delight in him, I know, as much as ever - I am sure you will tell me, as you always do, to beware the man of one book, or one idea. That is certainly Mr. Collins."
"But, Elizabeth, you will be pleased to see your old friend."
"I cannot tell," Elizabeth hesitated. "I am afraid that Charlotte is one who has not improved with her years."
"She never was handsome; and time cannot be expected to have altered that, but you do not refer to her looks. Yet you can hardly complain of her temper, for Mrs. Collins was always a sensible, amiable woman."
"To be sure, so she was, but I think she is less now. I have lived long enough to observe, that when people are thwarted for too great an extent of time, their natures often grow sour; and that may be the case with dear Charlotte."
"Thwarted? But surely she is satisfied with her marriage."
"Oh, yes. If Mr. Collins is a piece of absurdity, Charlotte knew it when she made her choice; and she dotes on her fine family of children."
"Where, then, is the source of the bitterness?" "I should not say such a thing, but to you," said Elizabeth, "only I cannot help it, for I feel it. The good Collinses have added half-a-dozen children to their household, yet that house is as small as it ever was. Mr. Collins is my father's next heir in the entail, but his enduring dream, of inheriting Longbourn, has not come to pass; and in short, the disappointment is keenly felt. My father still commits the dreadful crime of living, and Mr. Collins has had many years to consider that a gentleman without an estate is like a pudding without suet. He is unhappy, and makes Charlotte so."
"I am concerned to think it, my dear, and wonder if you are unjust. The Collinses have never struck me as designing people."
"It is just what can never be shown to the daughter of the very person they desire to see in his grave. They must inherit Longbourn; but there is nothing they can do to hasten it short of hanging poor Papa, and until it does fall to them, they must live, cooped up in their inadequate house, in the considerable shadow of their esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. No wonder they like to visit here at this season, to escape their prison and hate us at close hand."
"It is well that we can oblige them by having them here," replied Mr. Darcy, "though I should think it too painful a topic to afford you much amusement. I am surprised that Lady Catherine has not enlarged their house for them."
"Oh, the more crowded they are, the more satisfaction she has in her solitary grandeur, by comparison. And since her daughter's death, I believe she has felt herself rather neglected, except for attentions from the good Collinses. But I will not say a word against Lady Catherine. She must be getting old at last, poor soul, if it is possible to conceive such a thing."
"She must be seventy at least. I am sure she has not changed an atom; age itself could dare make no inroads on Lady Catherine. But we will be able to judge for ourselves, I suppose, as she accompanies Mr. and Mrs. Collins."
"Yes; and I am glad that at least one of your relations will be here, though it is Lady Catherine; for it consoles me for the intrusions of mine."
"I have often thought," observed Mr. Darcy, "that she is more intolerable than the whole dozen or so of them together."
"You see, I have made you as spiteful as myself. Just in good time for the holiday. Oh! What a Christmas it will be at Pemberley, with the girls coming out. Mr. Darcy, we must make another trip to town, to see about the decorations. Jane has had her gown from London this long time, but I should like to see that my nieces are properly dressed, as well. The dressmaker ought to be able to finish some white gowns in time, but we will have to drive as far as Derby to get proper slippers..."
"Why, Elizabeth, how unlike you to choose me as your confidante about matters of finery though perhaps with three girls to bring out, it is understandable. But you have not half finished telling me about the party, and I should much rather hear about that. It is a pity that the Gardiners have promised to go to Swanfield instead of to us."
"Yes, I am sorry for it. So kind and amiable as they are, they would make things go pleasantly, if anyone could. Your sister, dear Georgiana, or General Fitzwilliam, would have a similar soothing effect, at least on my spirits if not on the ball itself; but they are not to be had."
"Georgiana continues to recover well, I trust?"
"Oh, yes. Lord Neville wrote so kindly, and I have had a note from her as well, now she is able to write; but you know, a confinement at forty, even where there is a fine family of children already, is a very serious matter, and it will take some time for her to recover her strength. No, we must do without dear Lady Neville this season."
"She will not be well enough to go to London, either, I suppose."
"I should imagine not."
"And General Fitzwilliam is still in India. I wish he would retire and come home; I miss my dear old cousin. He will have grown as hoary as myself hoarier, with the Indian sun, and he is the older of us two. Dear fellow!"
"And he has never married," said Elizabeth thoughtfully, "I suppose he never will, now."
"No; he will burn himself to death in that cl
imate. He seems to like it though."
"Do you remember the bronze elephant gongs he brought the boys on his last visit home they played with them until I thought I would lose my hearing. How happy they were! I do wish he would come again."
"Well, he will not be here this Christmas. But we may still have the blessing of quite many guests about us as can be desired. Well, Elizabeth, it seems that you will have your wish, for a lively family party at Pemberley."
A week before Christmas, the numbers at Pemberley were still small. The ladies sat working in Elizabeth's sitting room, rather dully, and were grateful, at the end of a long afternoon, to discern, as something to talk about, the appearance of a carriage coming through the Park and along the sweep.
"Who can it be, Mama?" asked Jane. "That is not Lady Catherine's coach."
"No; I do not expect her yet. Mr. Collins has still his Christmas duties to perform, and she condescendingly refuses to stir without him. It cannot be the party from Kent."
Restless from a day spent sewing, when she preferred walking or riding, Bettina cast aside her work and stretched her long figure, craning her neck to see down the drive.
"I believe that is a hired carriage, ma'am," she said, with interest.
"A lady is getting out, Mama, only I don't recognize her."
"Do sit down, my dear," said Elizabeth, meaning that both girls should sit.
Mrs. Clarke promptly rose to her feet, her sewing still in hand. "That cannot be sister Mary," said she, "she would never hire a chaise. Is it - can it be? I do declare, it is sister Lydia!"
"Never our Mama," exclaimed Bettina and Cloe, neither very successful at concealing the horror in their voices.
Mrs. Darcy said nothing, but it struck her inwardly, with a shock, what unpleasantness Mr. Darcy as well as herself, would inevitably have to suffer from Lydia's visit.
"Oh, sister Lydia!" exclaimed Mrs. Clarke. "How dare she to come here, without being bid? And where shall we put her? Not the Blue Room. She does not deserve it. You will want that room for some one in Lady Catherine's retinue, certainly."
Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 4