Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  These novels never dwelt on their heroine’s future, or considered what might happen when she became the hero’s wife. Would these fictional marriages — the sequel to the most romantic adventures in the overcoming of parental tyranny and villainous constraint — prove any happier than the marriages of every day? How many marriages were even tolerably happy? Were any? — Yes, she believed her aunt and uncle Gardiner happy. Had they then chosen with unusual perspicacity? or had they merely been fortunate? Was happiness in marriage really as much a matter of chance as Charlotte had once asserted?

  What great respect a man and woman must have for one another, how firm a faith in each other’s probity, if entering into marriage were to be safe! That must be the best sort of marriage, where there was sympathy of souls, where minds could look upon one another with mutual esteem, as equals. But would any man regard it in this way? Men were used to thinking of marriage as what would make their households run smoothly, and of their wives as complaisant servitors whose duty it was to produce that ease. Good dinners, served in good time, might be more important to most husbands, than equal minds. However, a decision on this worrisome point might never be demanded of her. She had had two proposals that year — and was unlikely ever to have another. That from Mr Collins could not be reckoned as bestowing any great degree of distinction; she would not marry on the basis of cold calculations of prudence, as Charlotte Lucas had done. But there was no telling: a time might come when poverty should have diminished her pride, and the prospect of even another Mr Collins might be welcome. — She prayed she should not live to see that day.

  Conversation round the dinner table at Longbourn was subdued that evening. Those who rejoiced at the reduction of their number were no more inclined to speech than those who repined. Even Mr Bennet, from whose face the grooves of sardonic disdain were gradually smoothing away, made no display of his satisfaction, while the sniffs and sighs emanating from Mrs Bennet barely broke the silence. Elizabeth, who had expected an eruption of disdainful celebration from the one, and of loud lamentation from the other, felt grateful that her parents should be making, for once, so moderate a shew of their feelings. This was a thought lacking in charity, and Elizabeth was well aware of it; but the abrading presence of Lydia and Wickham had worn upon that spirit of mutual forbearance, which was the requirement, as it was the preservative, of family life. She was happy therefore, after dinner, (as a contribution towards the restoration of family harmony,) to sit and read with Kitty, in whom the presence of Lydia had produced a partial return to the old fretfulness, which had for some weeks been abating. And soon, in the pleasure of seeing her sister begin to recover herself, now that the disturbers of her brain had been removed, Elizabeth found her own spirits growing more comfortable.

  That night, when they were gone up stairs, Jane came into her sister’s room, and stood a moment, regarding herself in the mirror. But that it was not her own beautiful reflection she was considering, appeared when she said, with a sigh, “I hope they will be happy — Lydia and Wickham. I hope they will be as happy as they deserve.”

  Elizabeth admired her sister’s candour, but would never be able to equal it. “I am sure they will be precisely as happy as they deserve,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  September opened at Pemberley in a blaze of sun, and weather too fine even for farmers to complain of. The fine weather made little impression on Mr Darcy. He had returned from London in a black depression of spirits. The sordid atmosphere of Wickham’s affairs seemed to cling to him, and though he might congratulate himself on achieving what he had set out to accomplish, success had come at his own expense, in Wickham’s being now fixed in the Bennet family. That the house should be empty at the start of the shooting season was a circumstance so unusual, that Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, knew not how to occupy herself, — so accustomed was she to being run off her feet with the constant coming and going of visitors. The absence of company must be remarked upon, and “she did not know why the master should not be having his friends to stay with him, as usual.” But the blank that had been left in Darcy’s heart, made the prospect of society intolerable to him at that moment; and the dullness of the house exactly suited his mood.

  Mr Darcy was fortunate in having the approaching harvest to provide him with a great deal of business, and manifold duties to fill his time. From his father, he had learned that to put a bit of the country into improvement, so that those who were living and those who were to come should have the benefit of it, was as honourable work as any man might perform; and though he had not at this time the pleasure he usually took in these tasks, he could still put aside his despondence, and occupy his days usefully, conferring with his steward and riding round the estate.

  Days spent in the bustle of activity and necessity of frequent speech, were followed by silent evenings, and a solitude rare in a life accustomarily filled with a prescribed round of obligations. But silence and solitude were peculiarly comfortable to Darcy’s spirits at that moment. One night, when the walk which he was used to take through the house after dinner, had brought him to the picture gallery, Darcy stopped before the portrait of his grandfather. It was many years since he had regarded this painting, or paid it the compliment of attention. He could never look at the bewigged countenance, with its air of well-bred disdain; could never behold the sneering smile, the amused, supercilious eyebrows, without sensations of shame. What a reprobate the old man had been, for all his airs of the grand seigneur! —and how his wrongdoing had weighed upon following generations! As he gazed at the portrait of his grandfather, the rouged cheeks and puffy eyes put him in mind of Wickham, as he had appeared on his wedding morning, rolling in his chair in a state of insensibility; of Wickham in all his successive states that day, from imbecilic stupor, and red-faced incoherence, to the grinning mannequin, weakly mumbling the responses at his nuptials. By placing Wickham in a situation where society might be safe from his depredations, Darcy hoped that suitable amends had been made for the misdeed that had so long tarnished their family, and that the shadow of that ancient evil had been laid to rest at last. Perhaps, now that Wickham had accepted his perpetual banishment from Pemberley, his shadow might be exorcized, as well.

  Darcy’s first duty, after breakfast every morning, was to attend to the crowd of people waiting to speak to him. He was accustomed to these daily delegations of labouring men with hardships to be alleviated. That it was right and natural for them to come to him for assistance and favours, to receive the benefit of his interest and his wealth, had been a lesson instilled in childhood. “We owe it to our tenants to make our affluence their prosperity,” his father had told him, “as we owe it to providence to make our good fortune our desert.” This morning, Darcy heard how a horse had gone lame, and how some fences had suffered damage through the falling of trees in a storm. On his steward’s advice, he authorized one of his own horses being put into service in the first case, and rails from the woodshed made available in the second. But a third man, who was in want of winter seed through the rain getting in and spoiling his stock, was told he must work for his neighbours to get his corn: Mr Morris (the steward) had twice warned him about the decay of his barn, and he had done nothing to put it in repair. When these judgements had been rendered, the steward imparted the pleasing intelligence that the son of one of Mr Darcy’s tenants-in-chief was to marry the daughter of another. This engagement was being celebrated that night, and both families would consider it a signal honour if Mr Darcy were to attend. Darcy said that he should; and gave direction for a barrel of the old cider to be conveying, as his contribution to the revelry.

  That evening, Mr Darcy set out to walk to the farm where the celebration was to take place. The milky moon, just lifting over the horizon, would be shedding a brilliant lustre when it was full night; and even now, taking a book from his pocket, he could read its pages by the effulgent glow. Though Darcy felt closer to being at ease at Pemberley than any other place, duties such as tonight’s did
not rest easily on his shoulders. As a boy, he had accompanied his father and mother on many such visits, and he remembered with admiration and pride the affability they had always shewn, participating wholeheartedly in the joys and pleasures of humble people. He wished that he possessed his father’s genius for speaking easily to any one. On the present occasion, custom required him to stay long enough to shew genial, and leave soon enough to put no damper on the festivities. His coming would be appreciated; and his going equally so, as allowing a freer rein to merriment. So, after the cheer that greeted his arrival had fallen into an embarrassed silence, he spoke a few words of felicitation to the families of the future bride and groom, the Russells and the Carters. — He gratefully remembered the cakes Mrs Russell had given him when he was a boy running about the estate, perpetually hungry, in the way of boys; and he hoped, for the sake of the groom, that Miss Russell — he should rather say, the future Mrs Carter — would prove as good a cook. “If she does, then young Carter will soon be a man of weight like his father.”

  This evoked a laugh — Mr Carter weighed fifteen stone; and Mr Darcy was preparing to withdraw under its protection, when one of the groom’s brothers, with the reputation of a wag to maintain, stopped him by calling out, — “And when will it be your turn to bring us home a bride, Mr Darcy?” There was a murmur of disapproval from the older people; but it was only cloth-headed Dick Carter, who never had any sense, and would chance it.

  “I cannot say, Dick,” Darcy replied. — “You young farmers cut out all the prettiest girls.” Under these circumstances, such a remark will always pass for the height of wit, and it won Darcy a gracious retreat. As he walked along the path, which led back towards the park, the voice of an old farmer, who had made happy inroads upon Mr Darcy’s cider and was deafer than he knew, floated up to him, —

  “He’s a good master, for all he’s none so easy as his father.”

  Mr Darcy’s lengthened strides and accelerated pace spoke his indignation that a simple farmer should make so free in passing judgement on him. And yet, was it not his own view being voiced? — He was not his father’s equal in manner. How different the evening might have been, he could not help thinking, had Elizabeth Bennet been there to accompany him. He could imagine the interest she would take in the simple pleasures of the people round her; how she would put them at their ease. He could also imagine how she would have dealt with any Dick Carter who might dare to be impertinent. (Dick’s impertinence had touched a sorer spot than he could guess.) The wit that had skewered him would not fail to turn the laugh against a country wise-acre. What pride and pleasure he should have felt with her at his side! And perhaps he might learn ease from her easiness.

  His walk had taken him to the spot where the lawn, curving down from the house, met the avenue leading in from one of the gates to the park. Here, at a bend in the river, was a bridge, and it was on the other side of this bridge that he had come upon Elizabeth Bennet so unexpectedly, five weeks before. He recalled the shock of that sudden meeting — his awkwardness and confusion — and the effort he had been obliged to make to conceal them. She had been present in his thoughts at that very moment, but no image of mind could prepare him for the sight of the person he had thought a hundred miles away, coming towards him — and seeming to materialize before his eyes.

  It was no unusual thing for Elizabeth Bennet to be in his thoughts. She had been in them continually since that fateful interview at Hunsford. The shock of her rejection then had been salutary, — a profitable humiliation. Not a day had gone by when he did not remember her words, or try to amend his conduct so that he might be absolved of the charges she had laid against him; hoping that he might have an opportunity to persuade her that he was not the unfeeling, ungentleman-like man she had believed him. But though he had thought of her every day, he had entertained no idea of their yet meeting. His spirits had been daunted by her judgement: he would not feel prepared to meet her till he could shew her proof of his having acted upon it. Her sudden appearance that day had been as startling as if the subject of a portrait had come to life and stepped out of its frame. Her light, graceful form, in its simple white muslin, had been outlined in sharp relief against the lawns and shrubbery, while the brilliance of her countenance had made credible all the old poetical belief of light being struck out from the eyes. Coming upon her so unexpectedly, he had felt almost overwhelmed; — and in the embarrassment of the moment, had sought distraction in concern about his appearance: — his ride had left him disgracefully dishevelled, he could not speak to her at such a disadvantage — he was not fit to be seen! It had been necessary to break off their conversation, and hurry into the house to repair his costume. (How was it, he wondered, that he should have been so anxious at that moment about what seldom gave him any concern?) Having recovered himself, he had then been in an equally great hurry to leave the house, afraid lest Miss Bennet should have departed before he could speak with her again. He was certain that she must still be harbouring her ill opinion; and the first words she said to him, had confirmed this — “She would not have come to Pemberley if she had not been told that he was away from home, and not expected in the country.”

  Nonetheless, at that moment, his spirits had begun to rise: this chance meeting would be giving him the opportunity to shew her, through courtesy and a reformed manner, that he had taken her judgement to heart. And finding that Mr and Mrs Gardiner were her connections, he rejoiced at the farther occasion of shewing, by civility to them, his regret for the censures he had passed on her family. She had observed his behaviour with surprise and consciousness; reserve and consideration. But she had relented when he asked if he might introduce Georgiana; had looked pleased, and smiled. — “She would be honoured — she had heard so much praise of Miss Georgiana Darcy.”

  The bells of a distant church were striking the hour as Mr Darcy entered his house through the door which led into the salon. He stood for a moment, remembering the visit which had followed that meeting — Elizabeth Bennet in this room, sitting at the pianoforte with Georgiana standing beside her, to turn the pages. Gazing at the instrument, he seemed to see their faces, turned together towards him. He had introduced the subject of Miss Bennet to his sister some months before, for the pleasure and relief it gave him to mention her name; had described her, — but, as he had thought, in a cool and moderated way. “I wish you may meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet at some time. You will find her a model of how a young woman may be lively without loss of decorum; combining high spirit with principle and mind.” Georgiana had looked surprised: had evidently suspected his partiality, though he had striven to hide it. He rarely spoke so much in commendation of any woman.

  Taking a candle from one of the sconces, Darcy opened the piano. His fingers idly falling on a key, the instrument gave voice to a sweet tone, which hung for a long time in the empty air.

  In this way the first week of September gave place to the second. One morning, Mr Darcy found, among the letters waiting for him, one sealed with the Osborne crest. Mr Joseph Osborne had the pleasure of informing him that his daughter, Miss Sophia Osborne, was to be married in the coming month to Lord Ashton, of Ashton Court. A ball in honour of the affianced couple would take place at Osborne Hall on the following Friday, and they hoped that they might have the honour of Mr Darcy’s presence. Enclosed with Mr Osborne’s letter, was another from Miss Sophia herself, conveying the self-same intelligence, but written in a vein of tender delicacy which shewed that its writer anticipated some portion of wounded sensibility on his part. Darcy felt no such sensibility, had received no wound; but though disinclined towards festivity at that moment, he accepted the invitation. He did not wish to offend his old neighbours, the Osbornes; and he perceived that were he not to attend, his absence might be interpreted in a more interesting light than it deserved.

  The approach to Osborne Hall was crowded with gigs and coaches when Darcy turned his horse into it on the evening appointed for the ball. Through the open windows, aglow with ligh
t, the sound of violins could be heard, warming up. At the vestibule, he was greeted by Mr Osborne, polite, ceremonious, and slow of speech, and by Mrs Osborne, who bestowed on him a look of commiseration, which Darcy felt in little need of. Miss Osborne next shook him very heartily by the hand. “She was glad he was come. They should always remain friends, should not they?” In the circumstances, Darcy must request the honour of dancing with the bride-to-be, and Miss Osborne graciously entered his name upon her list. Miss Osborne was in especially good looks tonight, as was only to be expected when a young lady has achieved her ambitions. Her strong, handsome features, tall frame, and admirable figure, were what most men would always admire; and Lord Ashton stood by her side with a look of proud possession on his face.

  In the ballroom, all was bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy. The ball soon opened, and Miss Osborne was led to the top of the line by her fiancé. Darcy would have preferred not to dance, but he knew how singular this would look. He therefore solicited the hand of Miss Frances Osborne, Miss Osborne’s sister next in age. Miss Fanny was kind enough to save him the exertion of finding a topic, for the marriage of her sister was of almost equal joy to herself, as improving her own chances of an alliance, now that Sophia would be got out of the way; and she looked forward to acceding to the honour and title of Miss Osborne, once her sister was become Lady Ashton. The first dance soon gave way to a second, and a third; and in due course to that for which he was engaged with Miss Sophia. Again, Darcy was not put to the inconvenience of seeking a subject, for his partner had more than enough to fill their allotted period, in the travelling plans of the bride-people, and their intention to be dividing between Ashton Park and a place in town. Miss Osborne brought all her usual decision and energy to the activity of dancing, and her style had every thing that youthful vigour could give it except grace. Darcy could not help comparing it with his memory of Elizabeth Bennet’s easy elegance in the dance — the supple litheness of her figure and light movements; and he felt warmed by the recollection of those dark, intelligent eyes, so different from the bold, commanding glance of Sophia Osborne.