Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  Mrs Gardiner shook hands with Mr Darcy at parting, and expressed the hope that they might be soon meeting again. She knew it was not likely he should come to town under many months, but might they have better fortune in Hertfordshire? “Mr Bingley told me, the day we called at Pemberley, that he was hoping to return to Netherfield in September, and Mr Gardiner and I often visit our Meryton connections at that season.”

  Mr Darcy could not help betraying his surprise Bingley had said nothing of this scheme to him. (Indeed, Mr Bingley had maintained his own counsel in a manner quite astonishing for a man so notoriously bad at keeping secrets.) However, he only replied that — “He could not be certain what his movements might be at that time. He should be delighted at the prospect of any meeting. — &c. &c.” Had Mrs Gardiner been able to read Mr Darcy’s thoughts, she might have considered that secretiveness was become the fashion with more than just Mr Bingley.

  As Darcy left the house in Gracechurch-street, recollection was not so ungracious as to remind him, that he had once believed the possession of connections in Cheapside must lessen the likelihood of a woman’s marrying a man of any consideration in the world.

  The following day, Darcy returned to Rosings, and at the end of the week, he and Colonel Fitzwilliam accompanied Georgiana to Queen-square. Before Mr Darcy set off for Derbyshire, the Colonel asked whether he would be so far deferring to their aunt’s wishes as to visit at Harrogate this winter? Darcy frowned. “I have not given the matter any consideration. What of you? You were included in her invitation, equally with myself.”

  “Oh! I may very well take Harrogate in my way this winter. But I believe Lady Catherine only desires my attendance as a matter of course; she has more interest in your making a stay. I believe she expects it.”

  “Her expectation is ill-founded, then. I make no secret that the style of society which prevails in resorts like Harrogate, is little to my taste. However, I hope that my cousin Anne may find the waters do her good: the medicinal powers of Harrogate may be of more use to her than to most of those who travel thither.”

  “I am not convinced,” the Colonel said, after a slight hesitation, “that Anne is in need of the sort of improvement Harrogate is supposed to supply.” The frail nature of their cousin’s health had long been an article of faith at Rosings, but Colonel Fitzwilliam was a sceptic in this regard. It appeared to him that Miss de Bourgh’s pale complexion and want of spirit had more to do with her never being allowed to take exercise, than to any real debility of person — to her being too much protected from anticipated evils, rather than suffering from actual ones. The oft-repeated words, “Anne is too delicate to do this or that,” seemed most often to refer to activities that would be giving Miss de Bourgh more of independence, and removing her from a domineering mother. Miss Jenkinson’s chief duty as Miss de Bourgh’s companion, according to his view, was to maintain the fiction of sickliness, by a constant series of attention, which his cousin had not the power to resist, but which she ignored as well as she could by retreating into her books.

  When Fitzwilliam had expressed some part of these beliefs, —

  “I see,” said Mr Darcy. “You are disposed to consider my aunt’s precaution as an unnecessary restriction upon my cousin’s freedom. I had not thought of it in this light, but the possibility makes me all the more disinclined towards the visit, from not wishing to abet the interference.”

  The Colonel believed that Darcy’s not visiting at Harrogate would be interfering with more things than the continuance of Lady Catherine’s tyranny over her daughter; and he wondered whether Darcy could be unaware of the reason why she was so assiduous in pressing for his visit. He therefore inquired, with a jocose air, “Whether Lady Catherine had named the day when the grand alliance was to be cemented? — when she would be gaining a son, rather than losing a nephew.”

  Finding, however, that these hints made no impression on Darcy’s mind, the Colonel was content to let the subject drop. And so the cousins parted amiably, each with his secret thoughts intact.

  Chapter Six

  Lydia’s return to Longbourn was marked by all the assured ease and triumphant display which she and her new husband were capable of, — and gave rise to an equal degree of mortification in those of her family who had the sensibility to feel it. Happily for herself, Mrs Bennet could find no cause of dissatisfaction in the return of a newly-married daughter, whatever the circumstances that had brought that marriage about; her lot was all joy. Her husband did by no means receive his daughter with equal complacency. Mr Bennet could not avoid uncomfortable reflections on his own responsibility for having raised so errant a child; but he took refuge in sarcastic observations and the angry pleasure of contempt, which the behaviour of his daughter and son-in-law gave frequent rise to. Her sisters received Lydia in their several ways. Mary (who felt not so much mortified by Lydia’s conduct, as pleasurably warranted to condemn it,) shewed all the disapprobation of offended morality — to no effect, for Lydia never took notice of her. Kitty, who alone had looked forward to Lydia’s return, was dividing between her old subjection to Lydia’s powers, and a new reserve, which sprang from observing reserve in others, particularly in Elizabeth, to whom recent events had drawn her closer. Elizabeth’s feelings were of the most painful: she knew not whether she was more angry, mortified, or merely amazed at the effrontery which could exhibit so little shame. Towards one aspect of Lydia’s behaviour, though, she felt unmixt anger — the tenacious manner in which she took precedence of Jane by right of being a married woman. Jane accepted it with mild patience; but that Lydia should be claiming superiority, on the basis of behaviour so very inferior indeed, was giving Elizabeth immense disgust!

  Lydia herself appeared to see in recent events only the most delightful turn of fortune. “La, Lizzy, I warrant you never expected I should come home from Brighton a married woman,” she said on the evening of her return, as she sat at on the sopha with her two elder sisters. “Were not you surprised?”

  “Never so much in my life,” replied Elizabeth. “For I expected you to return as virtuous as you left.”

  “I am sure you both must envy me so handsome a husband (neither hearing nor regarding). Is not he like a hero of a novel?”

  “He does indeed put me in mind of Lovelace — though, as I recollect, Clarissa did not acquiesce in that gallant’s abduction of her.”

  Elizabeth felt her hand pressed by Jane, — heard the murmured “Lizzy!” — and subsided in the interest of preserving peace.

  For Elizabeth, Wickham’s presence was almost intolerable. Her gratitude that the catastrophe threatening their family had been averted, must be sensibly diminished by the nearly equal catastrophe of having Wickham fixed in it forever. She could hardly bear to see him sitting in their family circle, sighing and smiling, and giving utterance to such expressions of gentility as must offend every feeling person. She was equally confounded by Lydia’s impudence and his assurance, for he appeared undisturbed by any consciousness. Lydia was the object of her censure, but Wickham made her ashamed of herself. Her former credulity was a source of continuing humiliation. How could she have allowed herself to be deceived by his pretence of amiability, his nothing-meaning, habitual gallantry? Every one deprecated coarseness of expression; but few perceived — and still fewer condemned — coarseness of sentiment when dressed up in fine manners, the affectation of sensibility disguising a blank absence of all serious principle.

  But this would not do. She could not dismiss her own behaviour so easily. Transparent as Wickham appeared to her now, — and she could not forget that she owed the revelation of his true character to Mr Darcy, not her own discernment, — Elizabeth was obliged to remind herself, how captivating he had seemed at first. With greater reluctance still, she had to admit that for a time, he had entered sufficiently into her thoughts, — and that those thoughts had been sufficiently unguarded, — for her aunt Gardiner to warn her against falling in love with him. To think that she might have accepted Wi
ckham, if he had proposed! — had only been saved from the miseries of a most wretched marriage by her poverty, which had made a proposal inexpedient to him! What did that reveal about her powers of discernment! How humiliating a discovery! — Yet how just the humiliation! What she found so peculiarly mortifying in her former partiality for Wickham, was not her being taken in by a shrewd and skilful conjuror, but her complicity in his deceptions. She had allowed vanity to prejudice her judgement — had taken positive pleasure in thinking well of Wickham and ill of Mr Darcy! “I courted ignorance, and drove reason away.” She thought again with gratitude of Mr Darcy’s magnanimity in revealing so much about himself, which had allowed her to see through Wickham’s lies. He had told her truths — about more than just Wickham — which she had hated at first, and only reluctantly allowed to be true.

  Elizabeth now believed that the method of falling in love called romantic, was not nearly so admirable as poets would have the world believe; that it made people vulnerable to their greatest weaknesses — vanity, susceptibility to flattery, and the tendency to see other people through the distorting glass of self-interest — and the very worst sort of self-interest: the interest of thinking well of oneself without desert. Would it not be better to adopt a less exciting mode of attachment? — to evaluate quietly, and think of the possible objects of our regard with greater reserve of judgement; to still the motives of the heart in the interest of the head. — “And yet, was not there some great fallacy here?” she thought. It was often the head that erred, not the heart: the heart that would judge truly, if the vanity of the head only allowed it to.

  As ill-luck would have it, here Elizabeth was obliged to remember, how she had once (while they were dancing at Netherfield) lectured Mr Darcy on the necessity, for those who set a high value on their opinions, of being sure of judging properly. She wished other people of her acquaintance had taken equal care to do so. They might then have spared themselves some portion of shame.

  Mrs Bennet had been eager to celebrate the return of her married daughter with some high festivity, at which the neighbourhood might be introduced to Wickham in his character as Lydia’s husband. To this Mr Bennet would by no means agree; he thought the new bride and groom could not be too little noticed, and did not wish to give even that much countenance to his son-in-law, — “in spite of the high valuation he set on his talents.” Mrs Bennet could not understand such neglect of what was due a bride, and she would have discoursed at length on so material a subject of grievance, if her protests had not been curtailed by the timely arrival of a missive from Sir William Lucas, inviting them to a party at Lucas Lodge in honour of Mr and Mrs Wickham. Any party at Lucas Lodge must of course be wanting as much in sense as in elegance, and at first, Elizabeth had viewed the prospect only as a necessary sacrifice to politeness. Sir William Lucas was a courteous man, friendly, obliging, inoffensive, — and dull, — the last epithet undoing the good of all the rest. However, after consideration, Elizabeth saw the value of any event which promised to dilute the concentration of their family party. In fact, her spirits wanted the solitude which only numbers could afford.

  The drawing rooms of Lucas Lodge were already abuzz when the party from Longbourn arrived. All the half-gentlemen and in-betweens of the neighbourhood had been invited to be the recipients of Sir William’s hospitality; for, prodigiously civil as he was, Sir William did not mind some confusion of rank: ^to be in a crowd was, with him, to be in society. “My dear Miss Jane, my dear Miss Elizabeth,” he said, when their turn came to receive his ceremonious greeting. “You do us great honour.”

  “You are very good, Sir William,” said Jane, speaking for both; for though Elizabeth could maintain the appearance of an agreeable silence, the task of speaking such things as politeness required, of squaring civility with truth, always fell on Jane. “How elegant the rooms look. Quite brilliant!”

  Sir William thanked her at length: he considered nothing excessive, which he had it in his power to do for his guests; for “We keep only the best company here — good, respectable people all. — Ah, Mr Goulding! Mrs Goulding! Mr William Goulding, Miss Maria Goulding! Delighted! Capital!”

  As they made way for new arrivals, Elizabeth thanked her sister. “I am really very obliged to you. I could not have spoken so gracefully. In general, it is much pleasanter to reproach than to be grateful, but I do not mind making an exception in your case.” Jane declined her thanks: she had said nothing but what she meant. That, said her sister, was the wonder of it. “But then, the profusion of your amiability allows me to be saving, and a nice balance is thus preserved!”

  Jane went off to speak to Mrs Long, and Elizabeth allowed the eddy of social movement to waft her to the far end of the room. There she could be placed as far as possible from where stood the bridal pair: Lydia clamorously demanding compliments from all sides, while Wickham contented himself with murmuring empty pleasantries, and looking handsome. — At least, Elizabeth supposed that he would look handsome to the generality of his viewers. She was honest enough to admit, that she too had once thought him so, and she marvelled at it. Now she saw in the smooth surface of his countenance only the careful reserve of artifice and deceit. How could she ever have thought him handsomer than Mr Darcy?

  When the due courtesies had been paid, and the company had retired to the pleasures of tea and scandal, Elizabeth was happily placed to overhear an exchange between Sir William and Lady Lucas and Mr and Mrs Bennet. “We have just received the most delightful news from Charlotte,” Lady Lucas was saying, “ — such news as gives us the expectation of soon having an addition to our family.”

  “An olive branch, in the words of the psalm,” elucidated Sir William. “We shall be happy of course with whatever heaven chooses to send us, but a boy would give great satisfaction, as providing an heir for—”

  As the estate for which a boy would be providing an heir, must be Longbourn, Sir William broke off in some confusion. Lady Lucas, smoothly changing the subject to sons-in-law, wished that Mr and Mrs Bennet might be as satisfied with Mr Wickham as she and Sir William were with Mr Collins. “Mr Collins was such a worthy, good sort of young man, as to heart, and of solid principles, as to head.”

  Mr Bennet agreed that Mr Collins was very solid as to head. “We can none of us help perceiving that Mr Collins is no Daniel come to judgement; but understanding is not everything. I believe Mr Collins is wise enough to know, on which side of his daily sustenance to spread the oleaginous condiment, — to judge by the amount he spreads on Lady Catherine!”

  Sir William looked puzzled. “I fear I do not follow.”

  “Fear nothing, good Sir.” — Adding in a low voice to Elizabeth, “We do not speak for such dull elves, As cannot image for themselves. Eh, Lizzy?”

  The claims of hospitality then recalled the Lucases to their duties, — Sir William to shine the light of his civility on his guests, and Lady Lucas to be ordering tea. Mrs Bennet, for whom the news from Hunsford had spelled the end of all rational happiness, gave vent to her resentment as soon as her hostess was out of earshot. “Lady Lucas might talk till she was as black in the face as her own tea, but she should always say that Mr Collins had used her family extremely ill.”

  When the good things had been cleared to the satisfaction of the company, Sir William had the happy idea of converting the occasion into an impromptu dance, and begged Mary to favour the company with some of her country dances. He then solicited the new Mrs Wickham for the inestimable favour of her hand, and led her out to take her place the top of the room. There could not be two people more different in their styles of dancing than Lydia and Sir William, and Elizabeth was keenly looking forward to the diverting spectacle of his sedate formality coupled with her unrestrained animation, when she found her own hand solicited — by Mr Wickham. “I trust you will not consider the offer improper, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, with a bow, — “though we be brother and sister.”

  Being unable to think of an excuse, (and wishing she had had the fo
rethought to turn her ankle,) Elizabeth accepted with a good grace, only determining that she should not put herself to the inconvenience of starting any subject, or speaking to her partner. Wickham spared her the necessity however, by conversing with great freedom. He spoke in rational terms and with the appearance of such frank openness, that had Elizabeth not known better, she would have thought him a man of sense and principle. “He was sensible of the warmth of her family’s reception, gratified by the friendly welcome of all the neighbourhood, flattered by the notice of the amiable Sir William.”

  After touching on a number of subjects, he turned the conversation to his recent stay in London. “I like your aunt and uncle Gardiner exceedingly. Mrs Gardiner and I got on prodigious well. She has a warm spot for her countrymen of course, — any one who can boast of coming from Derbyshire, must be a favourite with her.” Elizabeth only looked arch: she doubted whether Wickham was quite such a favourite with her aunt as he believed. “I wonder she and Mr Gardiner do not apply themselves more assiduously. With a very little effort, they might move in a much higher circle.”

  “But is moving in a higher circle so desirable?” said Elizabeth, unable to resist a retort. “That spinning motion has led many people to grow light-headed and stumble.” If Elizabeth had expected this shaft to strike home, she was doomed to disappointment: Wickham only agreed that “some people might find it hard to keep their footing in society.” She was forced to concede, with a laugh at the vanity of her expectations, that it would require a much less subtle indictment to work on his consciousness.

  “Ah, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, in an accent meant to be insinuating, “Do you remember the last occasion we danced together? It was in December, on the evening when I first met Mr and Mrs Gardiner. I confess, (lowering his voice and speaking in tones of captivating softness,) I thought it possible that night, that you and I might come to enjoy a closer connection than that of brother and sister. But alas — ! (with a sigh.) Fate willed otherwise.”