"I agree with you perfectly," said her husband, "about London; it is as your favourite, Cowper, says, 'God made the country, and man made the town.' But what about my little Jane? I do not like that she should miss her gaiety, her presentation at Court."
"I think," said Elizabeth, considering, "that to introduce a young lady into society in such circumstances, is hardly fair. People will be talking about her brother forever; and there could be nothing worse for a girl in her first season, than to be so constantly canvassed on such a subject. Perhaps she might have faced it out, with Cloe by her; having a friend, a cousin, would take away the awkwardness - but as it is, perhaps we had better not venture."
"You might take her to Bath for a time."
"I - not we? You, who are alive to all the multifarious pleasures of Bath in midwinter? That is chopped logic."
"Yes - you know I hate Bath of all places. A centre for trifling individuals, on the watch to meet others of their kind. But a trip there might be gay enough for Jane. And if we bring her to London next winter, she will not be nineteen; that is full young enough."
Elizabeth smiled in relief. "You are always right; it is a rule with me to think so at any rate. I only hope Jane will not be disappointed."
Whether she was disappointed or not at the loss of her London season, Jane submitted so quietly, that her parents suspected that she was talked into bearing the circumstance with philosophy by her brother. No more than a week later she was able to be tolerably cheerful, appearing before her mother and aunts with letters in her hand. Mrs. Darcy was in the sitting room she generally favoured in the mornings, for it faced east and caught the faint gleams of winter sun. The colours in this room were pale, light chintzes with berry patterns; and an elegant full-length painting of Lady Neville, beautiful in billowing grey satin, matched the clouds outside the long windows.
Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Wickham were working while Mrs. Darcy read to them from the latest number of "Pickwick," of which it is doubtful they heard much, though her spirited style did full justice to it.
"There you are, my dear. I have started 'Pickwick' but do not believe I am much beyond the place where we left off last time. Shall I go back a little? Your aunts will not mind."
"Oh dear, no. I could listen to dear Walter Scott forever," said Lydia with a great gape, laying down her stitchery.
"It is Dickens, Boz you know," said Mrs. Clarke tartly.
"Oh yes, to be sure; he is so coarse. I declare I can hardly work."
"You can hardly work at any time," retorted Mrs. Clarke. "That hem is wrong side out on that child's pinny, and why you think the poor mites need such frippery in winter I do not know."
"Excuse me, Mama, but if you and Mr. Dickens will wait a little, I have letters," said Jane. "One from Cloe, and one from Aunt Georgiana."
"From Lady Neville! What can she want?" exclaimed Lydia.
"I should think you would be more interested in your own daughter," said Mrs. Clarke sharply. "If I had any children, I am sure I would always ask after them first. Well, and what does Lady Neville say, my dear?"
Looking at her daughter's pretty, flushed face, Elizabeth said gently, "Is Cloe well? Do the Collinses suit her?"
"It is hard to tell, Mama," Jane confessed, handing over the letter. "You see she writes cheerfully, says that the Collinses have made her as comfortable as possible, considering the smallness of their house. Mrs. Collins is very kind, the little girls are well behaved, and they do not see Lady Catherine above twice a week. But it must be a very confined life."
Elizabeth read the letter thoughtfully and passed it to Lydia. "Yes - I see she does not complain, but it must be hard to be in a small house with Mr. Collins through a whole winter. A man who believes that a pin saved a day is a groat in a year, to direct all one's activities and teachings! No pleasure parties, no trips, no visitors, very few books...Yet we must remember that she is not in want, and we can depend upon Charlotte to see that she is not positively ill treated. We might wish her situation otherwise - she deserves better - but it is not a very hard case."
Lydia finished reading. "What do you mean, she deserves better? She seems vastly contented, upon my word. Only hear what she says. 'This house is so small, that I must share a room with the two little girls; but they are sweet and docile, and we are quite comfortable together. Happily, there is some freedom, in a country rectory of this sort, for it is really a farmhouse; there are delightful walks round about, and Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my using the paths at Rosings on my half-day off, though in this cold weather it is not enticing.'"
Lydia looked up. "I have never seen Rosings, but you have, Lizzy; is not it a beautiful place? Are the garden walks she speaks of not very fine?"
Jane was surprised to see a colour rise to her mother's quietly pale face, under her lace cap, making her look quite young. "It is very grand indeed, of a style more elaborate in its ornamentation than Pemberley," she said. "It was at Rosings - I used to meet your father in the walk there," she murmured, turning to Jane.
"Ah! The place holds memories for you. How lucky Cloe is to be there," said Lydia.
"Who is to inherit Rosings?" asked Mrs. Clarke. "Since the death of Lady Catherine's daughter, I always thought that Mr. Darcy must be the next heir, himself. Is it not so?"
"What a fine thing if it was," said Lydia. "Why then - when Fitzwilliam inherits Pemberley his younger brother would have Rosings. And with Mr. Henry established there - what amazing luck for his wife! Oh, I always said it was lucky that Cloe is established so near. I am quite in raptures."
"There is no necessity for that, ma'am," said Mrs. Darcy, "for Mr. Darcy does not inherit Rosings. It is not entailed, and Lady Catherine has the right to dispose of it as she pleases."
"She is getting on, indeed," said Mrs. Clarke thoughtfully, "though to be sure she is very stout. I have always observed that such people do frequently live forever, but even she must go, sooner or later."
"But it is no concern to us if she does, sister," put in Mrs. Darcy hastily, "for I know quite well that she means to leave Rosings to her other nephew, Lord Osmington."
"Has he not enough fine places of his own, I vow," said Lydia crossly. "Why should he inherit Rosings?"
"Why indeed. You must know, that the Earl of Osmington was elder brother to Lady Catherine and to Lady Anne Darcy - Mr. Darcy's mother," explained Elizabeth patiently, "he died many years ago, but he had two sons, the present Earl, and General Fitzwilliam, who is in India. No doubt Rosings is intended for the General, and he will retire to his seat in due course."
"An old bachelor like that," fumed Lydia. "Well! Mr. Henry may get it in the end, after all, when he dies."
"You are welcome to speculate," said Elizabeth coldly, turning to Jane. "Well, Jane: do you like to tell us what Georgiana says?"
"Yes, do let us hear Lady Neville's letter, my dear," said Mrs. Clarke.
Jane, who had shrunk into her seat, dismayed at the talk of Rosings and Henry, brightened and gave the letter an important little flourish.
"It is an invitation, Mama. A bid to visit dearest Aunt Georgiana, that is all! She calls herself quite well now, and says she could do with a bit of company, and would like me to amuse her and play with the children - and only think, they are all going to Buxton! She thinks the waters will be good for her and baby, and the opera is there; we should have such a good time! May I go, Mama? At Buxton, you know, I should not be very far away, if you should want me."
"Why, yes; the very thing, if your father thinks so."
Lydia was struck by her niece's good fortune. "Well, you are in high luck indeed, to go to a gay place like that! People never took me to such places when I was young, I can assure you; but that is what comes of being Miss Darcy of Pemberley. Well, and what becomes of your London season then, Miss? You ought to be seen by the world. Lizzy, surely you don't mean to let that fine house languish for want of use, all winter long?"
"We do not go to town this year," said Mrs. Dar
cy firmly, "and we may expect Pemberley to be a dull place indeed, with your children and mine scattered and dispersed. I daresay you will like to go somewhere gayer yourself - perhaps Newcastle."
"Sure Jane will need a chaperone to Buxton? And who fitter than her aunt?"
"You are very kind to make the offer, but we will send her maid with her of course; and then Georgiana will take care of her."
"For shame, Lydia, cannot you tell that it is time for you to be off," burst out Mrs. Clarke heatedly. "I am sure you are not wanted here, and you ought to go and look after your other children so they don't turn out like your precious Betty."
"As it happens," said Lydia loftily, "I had already decided to go back to my dear Wickham and little ones; only I don't know what may have befallen him, for he has sent me nothing in all these weeks, to enable me to travel even so far as Manchester, never mind Newcastle; so I do not even know how I can return home."
She smiled fetchingly; and although Mrs. Darcy could not return the smile, she replied calmly, "Of course we will pay your fare, Lydia, as you know perfectly well. Here is ten pounds," she withdrew a bill from her reticule, "I hope that will do. Our coach will take you as far as Derby. Will nine o'clock tomorrow morning suit you? I will tell Thomas."
CHAPTER XI
Joyful relief was felt by nearly all in the household when the coach carrying Mrs. Wickham rattled away down the sweep; and Jquiet descended upon Pemberley. There was some bustle, indeed, in the ensuing days, with the preparations and then the departure of Jane for Buxton. Mr. Darcy thereafter spent half his time in overseeing repairs to the house and the rest reading or walking and talking with his wife, occupations for which he never felt he had enough leisure. Elizabeth, though she might have wished for a more congenial female companion than Mrs. Clarke, still rejoiced in the absence of Mrs. Wickham. She knew herself fortunate in being always satisfied in her husband's company and confidence; and frequently her days were enlivened by Henry's riding over from his parsonage to tell her of his difficulties and experiences, and, perhaps, his wishes and hopes.
One very muddy afternoon early in March, a horseman was seen galloping along the ridge from the direction of Lambton, and crossing the stone bridge toward Pemberley, and Elizabeth went so far as to step into the garden. Mr. Darcy, who had been in his library, joined her, book still in hand. "That is not Henry; it is from the wrong direction, and he is riding too fast," she said.
"It looks like Fitzwilliam," said Darcy, with a keen look. "Yes, it is - I am certain of it."
"Fitzwilliam! And alone!" The parents stared at each other and said no more as the sound of rapid hooves came closer and Fitzwilliam, with the same jaunty wave as he used after a day out hunting, thundered past and turned into the stable.
"Yes, my dear father and mother," he said after making his perfunctory bow in the drawing room, "I have come to stay, with your permission, if you will forgive me for giving you no notice. I was happy enough to get out of London, and would not go back there for love or money, I can tell you! A horrid hole; no sport but talk, talk, talking, which I never cared for. Standing up on one's hind legs in a drawing room - that is all. And nothing is as it was, for Bettina has left me, though to say the truth it is for the best."
"Left you - has she!" Elizabeth cried in horror.
"Yes, yes. Did I not write? Did not she? Oh, confound it, I cannot think how that did not happen. No: we did not agree, that's the long and the short of it, and I am happy to be no longer encumbered. But enough of that. I have invited some friends here. They will arrive tomorrow. You will not mind, Papa, if we shoot a few birds? If the coveys are down, we can ride and jump fences in pursuit of a few foxes - either way, I am agreeable; it's all one. And we can have comfortable dinners and so I told them - Pemberley is enough of an inducement to travel a hundred miles, and everyone knows it. You won't mind these fellows: it is Lord Farley, to be sure, and my friend Vickers, and then Moles. He's a wonder, knows everything there is to know about the horse trade."
"Your mother has particularly been enjoying the quiet of the season at Pemberley," said Mr. Darcy austerely, "and we had not figured to ourselves filling the house with a set of fast sporting men."
"Oh hang! There's nothing in that. They won't trouble you, be out in the field all day, and Farley's a lord, I tell you, and even Vickers is an Honourable and in the stud-book and all that. Can't vouch for Moles but he's a quiet fellow enough. But it's as you like, yes, perhaps it will be better if they put up at the Fox and Dog at Lambton. Don't want them bothering you, Mama. I will tell them when they get here."
"But Bettina," pursued Elizabeth, "you really must sit down, Fitzwilliam, and stop pacing in your boots and telling us about your friends: I must know about Bettina."
Fitzwilliam looked restless and disinclined to speak.
"You must tell us what has happened to the young lady, Fitzwilliam," said Darcy, "your cousin."
""Bless me, so she is! I had forgot."
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes expressively, and waited.
"She is well," he said uneasily, "at least she was when I left her."
"So you left her," said his father sternly, "I hope not in want. Is she provided for? Do you return to her?"
"No, hang it, I'm damned if I go back to the creature. She's led me a pretty dance and I'm not the man to stand for it."
"Your language has coarsened, Fitzwilliam, in your new mode of life," said Darcy austerely, "I beg you will remember your mother is present."
"And Fitzwilliam, even if you have quarrelled, you must not forget your responsibility," said Elizabeth earnestly. "You have taken Miss Wickham from a respectable home - you cannot leave her to shift for herself. And excuse me, but is there any, any prospect of a child?"
Fitzwilliam turned red. "I know you think me devoid of all feeling, and principle, and all that," he said sullenly, "and my behavior I know has not shown me off. But I hope I am not as bad as that. I never said I would marry Bettina; she knew that. You did not like it. That was enough; and I was not inclined to the married state. In short I never thought seriously of such things, but I assure you it never was my intention to ruin her."
"Ruin her!" said his father, angrily, "well, you have done that pretty thoroughly, upon my word, whatever your intentions. Can you deny it, sir?"
Fitzwilliam looked uneasily from his father to his mother. "I, I do not - that is, I was not - oh, it is hard to say."
Elizabeth astutely regarded her son. "Would it be better," she inquired compassionately, "if I withdrew? It may be easier for you to speak of such things to your father, alone."
He looked at her gratefully, and she nodded kindly and withdrew. "I will be in my sitting room. I only condition, Mr. Darcy, that you come and tell me what I am to know of Bettina as soon as may be."
The gentlemen were not closeted long; the story was soon told, and soon heard, and by noises going on downstairs, Elizabeth collected that Fitzwilliam had left the house and gone to the stables. Her husband was presently in the room with her.
"I do believe I have got it all out of him, my dear, and a pretty story it is," he said in a tone of emphatic disgust. His face was flushed darker than usual, and Elizabeth looked up at him, alarmed.
"Oh! Do not keep me in suspense. Is Fitzwilliam very much to blame? What has become of that poor girl?"
"Poor girl!" exclaimed Darcy, "she is not to be pitied."
"What do you mean? The gentleman, in such cases, does not suffer as the lady does. His reputation is not spoilt - his prospects not ruined forever. You know very well, Mr. Darcy, that be a woman ever so charitable, and kind, and selfless, as true and as clever as possible, a fall from virtue means, in the eyes of the world, that she is ranked no better than the lowest - how shall I say it? Winchester goose."
He held up a hand in protest. "Yes - I know all that. And Fitzwilliam does not pretend not to bear culpability. It is too much to hope that he will do a foolish thing only once in his life - but I do not believe he is as
much at fault as might be. Elizabeth, how shall I say it? He was not her first seducer."
Elizabeth rose from her seat in indignation. "Oh! He does not scruple to lay the blame on her frailty alone! When she is helpless, her life spoilt beyond redemption. I could not have believed it. How could he behave so abominably? Not her first seducer, indeed! Why, there never was a whisper of ill repute attaching to poor Bettina's name before this disgraceful episode."
"Can we be quite sure?" asked Darcy. "What do we really know of her life in Newcastle? And her character - were you always perfectly satisfied with that?"
"I admit I did not like the girl," said Elizabeth slowly, "I thought her manners vulgar and impertinent, which was not surprising, considering the disadvantages of her home, - the wonder was that Cloe should be so superior. But in all this, no one ever breathed that Bettina was not virtuous. How can he say so!"
"Hear me out. He fully accepts blame in being the means by which her unchastity was exposed to the world; which is bad enough. But while her character is now publicly known, its nature was not called into existence through Fitzwilliam's actions. She was only clever in concealing her former intrigues, for she certainly had them."
Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 10