by michael sand
Elizabeth, (more flustered than she cared to admit, and striving to regain her composure,) picked up the folio, in order to have an object towards which to direct her eyes. Her mind was awhirl. — Was he come merely to shew his independence, and demonstrate that he could address her without fear or display of particularity? —
The next in the book was, ‘Who is Sylvia?’ She would sing that song, she said, exerting herself to address Mr Darcy in something like her usual tone, even though she doubted whether there had ever lived, in the whole course of history, a woman ‘so holy, fair, and wise’, that the swains of her neighbourhood should be unanimous in commending her. Gentlemen were more fastidious than that, and could generally find a reason to censure any woman! — “But perhaps we ought not to expect rational depictions from a song. More veracity might improve the sense, but would probably put a damper on sensibility. In any event, the words are never so germane to the effect of a song, as the tune. That is why their often being in languages people do not understand, scarcely seems to diminish the enjoyment.”
“You do not then expect music to be founded on principle?” Mr Darcy asked after a short hesitation, during which he seemed to reflect on her words.
“On some principle of harmony, I do. But whether there is any relevance to moral principle, I know not. Shakespeare advises us that the man that ‘hath no music in himself,’ is not be trusted, and yet I am not sure that we ought on that account to withhold our confidence from those who are deaf.”
Mr Darcy agreed, with a slight smile, that deafness was an affliction which could in no way be blamed on the sufferer’s moral failings. Kitty then taking the folio from her hand, and setting it on the desk with a little shrug of impatience, Elizabeth turned, and laid her fingers on the keys, saying, “This was a favourite of her sister’s.”
When she had sung, she would have ended her performance, only that Kitty begged for one more. Mr Darcy adding his own petition, she agreed, thinking that there would be less peculiarity in agreement. The ‘Willow song,’ which followed in the book, she passed over, feeling a distaste for the poor soul who sat sighing by a sycamore tree. She chose instead ‘O mistress mine.’ That journeys might ‘end in lovers’ meeting’ was a hopeful thought.
Tea was carrying in as she concluded her song, and Mrs Bennet called upon her daughters to help in pouring. Elizabeth rose without haste, moving to close the lid of the instrument. Mr Darcy coming to her assistance, the opportunity finally arose (which she had been hoping for all evening) of their entering into some conversation more than mere ceremonious politeness. She must speak — she longed to speak — but could think of nothing to say! She was finally rescued from her difficulty by recollection of Georgiana. “How does Miss Darcy do?” she said, hearing the reserve in her voice, and knowing not how to counteract it. — “Was she still at Pemberley? She believed it had been intended, that his sister should remain in Derbyshire until Christmas.”
That had been the original intention, came the reply, with some like reserve of manner; but Georgiana had been wishing to attend an academy in town, to be nearer him, and he had acceded to her wishes. She had been in town some weeks now.
“And will you soon visit her?” was then said, with some eagerness. (Perhaps Mrs Bennet was not alone in wanting a hint about the length of their visitors’ stay.) “I am sure you must be longing to see her.”
Darcy glanced at her with quick consideration, as though in doubt of a meaning; then replied, hesitatingly, “He should be visiting his sister, of course, but knew not when he might do so; he wanted to give Georgiana time to settle; and perhaps it might be better to come upon her unannounced.”
For an instant, Elizabeth thought to say something of the unwisdom of brothers coming unannounced upon sisters — especially brothers who were almost looked up to as a father; — to give the sort of reply, in short, which such an opening might once have evoked from her; but her liveliness failed her. — Could not he start some subject, if he wished to speak to her? Mr Darcy, however, said nothing, and for a few minutes, they stood in silence; till Kitty’s calling to her from the tea table, caused him to bow and remove. She remained for a farther moment, absently turning the pages of the folio. The last in the book was a setting of some other lines from Twelfth Night — ‘She never told her love.’ She would not have sung that song upon any compulsion!
When the day was over, Mrs Bennet was in triumph, and even Jane thought it had been a very agreeable party. Elizabeth was alone in her dissatisfaction. She was beginning to wish that Darcy had never returned. Their being in company could only be exposing them to farther awkwardness. If he had only returned to be silent, he might just as well go away again!
Chapter Three
Mr Darcy, rising early the day after his dinner at Longbourn, took a horse from the stables, and set out to ride himself into a better frame of mind. His spirits might not improve, but he hoped his thoughts would gain in clarity. Elizabeth Bennet was an enigma he could not make out. He had thought, when they met at Pemberley, that her ill opinion of him had been diminishing, but she had seemed distant ever since his arrival; had scarcely looked at him, in any of their encounters. The mention of her sister’s marriage, had indeed made her glance at him directly; — but only for an instant before turning away, shame colouring her face. Her mother might believe that the disgrace of Lydia’s misconduct would not matter, so long as it could be concealed; but she would not think so. That other people should know the truth, however, could only increase her mortification, and his being one of them, must give her a disgust for his company. — How quickly she had looked away when he had entered the room yesterday! Her recollection of the unguardedness with which she spoken to him at their last meeting in Derbyshire, might naturally make her wish to be restoring the balance now, by an extra reserve of manner. She did not know how grateful he had felt for her admitting him to her confidence, — and for the opportunity, which her communicating all that was so painfully oppressing her at that moment had afforded him, of making restitution for the wrongs he had committed. She could not know the good that had come of her unreserve; of the resolution he had taken at that moment, or how he had acted upon it.
He wished now that he had seized the opportunity of their meeting in Meryton to walk with her instead of Miss Bennet. The informality of that encounter might made led to their establishing themselves on an easier footing. But he had had business to transact on Bingley’s account, which he had thought must be attended to first. She had said but little to him on that occasion, and that little in a subdued tone. Did her reserve show that she had not forgiven him? He might have learned the answer if he had been able to engage her at her Aunt Philips’s house; but her uncle had seized his attention just as he had been about to make his way to her, and he had lost his chance. The party at Longbourn, where he had hoped for better fortune, had been a sad disappointment. At dinner, he had been seated next to Mrs Bennet, while Elizabeth was placed at the far end of the table, — (by her own design?) — as distant from him as it was possible to be. After dinner, the obligations of the card-table had claimed him. To refuse would have given fresh offence to his hostess, and reënforced her opinion of him — of which he could scarcely be unaware — as ‘the most disobliging, disagreeable,’ &c. &c. The opinion of a woman of illiberal mind like Mrs Bennet could not weigh with him; but he was concerned how his conduct might be viewing in the eyes of the person whose opinion he did value. She might see it as evidence that he was still the man she had once thought him — arrogant, and disdainful of others! The scene at Hunsford Parsonage, with its evergreen power to make him writhe, rose once more before his mind: never again would he willingly give her cause to call his behaviour — ungentleman-like!
At length, he had detached himself from the whist players, and, ineluctably drawn, had taken up a position by the piano. But it had become evident that his presence there disturbed Miss Bennet; and his attempts to put them both at ease had failed of their effect. The restlessness
of her eyes had betrayed a mind insecure; she could not look at him. The presence of her sister had no doubt contributed to her restraint; — but perhaps Miss Bennet, wanting to avoid being alone with him, had deliberately kept Kitty by her side? In urging her sister to perform, Kitty had done that for which he was grateful. He loved to hear Elizabeth Bennet sing; there was a simplicity and truth in her expression, which made even so familiar a song as ‘Who is Sylvia?’ seem fresh.
—Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
— The ballad might have been describing the fair performer herself, for Elizabeth Bennet’s beauty was as much the produce of her mind as of her face — her loveliness of person augmented by her good heart, warm temper, and open, lively spirits. His imagination had not exaggerated her attractions, nor had separation cost them any of their power over him! In her lively commentary on that song, Miss Bennet had shewn something of her old manner; — though he had wondered, uneasily, whether her description of those fastidious gentlemen, who could censure any woman, might be a reference to the low evaluation he had made of her at their first meeting. He hoped she might not still be harbouring resentment for his incivility on that occasion, richly though he deserved it! Her spirited discourse on music had made the foolishness of all his old notions of accomplished women, appear with greater force than ever! What blind, what callow misjudgement! Could there be a greater accomplishment in a person of either sex, than the ability to engage in the lively discussion of ideas?
The entrance of the tea-things had afforded him at last the opportunity he had been seeking all evening. He had found himself alone with Miss Bennet in that part of the room, far from the buz round the table where the tea was pouring. Under the shelter of its favouring noise, he might learn whether the warmer terms, which had marked their encounters in Derbyshire, could be recovered. — But then what an overthrow had followed! She had seemed so grave, so silent, so little encouraging, that his spirits had sunk; with ill-timed dullness, he had been unable to start any subject. Tongue-tied and mortified by the foolish figure he was cutting, he had chosen silence. Her then choosing to speak of Georgiana, and asking, with a return, as it seemed to him, of her distant manner, — “whether he would soon be visiting his sister?”, — had made him doubt, whether she did not wish him away, — was not eager for him to leave. Those had been almost the last words they had exchanged. The tide of movement soon carried them into greater company, and his opportunity was lost. Perhaps another would have offered, for Mrs Bennet had been most eager for them stay to supper; but their carriage being unluckily ordered for an early hour, he and Bingley could not accept of the invitation. The two gentlemen had then travelled back to Netherfield, animated by a very different set of sensations. His friend could not speak fast enough to express his happy spirits, while he had sat back in his shadowy corner of the carriage, glad of the concealment, and had given himself up to memories of a day of such wretched uncertainty as he had never experienced before. Could so many obstacles putting in his way, be the operation of mere chance? Or was he to see in this the design of a hostile Providence?
It began to mizzle as Mr Darcy turned his horse towards home, and the rain continued very hard that night. The following morning, he found a letter waiting for him, whose cover shewed that it had been twice re-directed — from Pemberley to Scarborough, and thence to Netherfield. He opened it, and saw that it was from Mrs Gardiner, dated from Gracechurch-street, nearly two weeks before. Mrs Gardiner was writing to express her regret that events had made it impossible to preserve his wished-for confidentiality regarding his role in bringing about the marriage of Lydia and Wickham: Lydia having carelessly betrayed his presence at the wedding, Miss Elizabeth Bennet had applied to her uncle and aunt for an explanation, and they had felt that they had no alternative but to supply one.
“In giving my niece intelligence, which we knew you wished to remain secret, Mr Gardiner and I are highly conscious of having failed in our undertaking to you. We can only hope that you may understand the necessity (as we conceived it) of our doing so, and forgive us. We impressed your wish of anonymity upon Elizabeth, and I am certain that she will honour it, and preserve the knowledge from the rest of her family. Yours, very sincerely,
“M. Gardiner.”
Mr Darcy was very angry as he put up this letter. — He had not believed that the Gardiners were so little to be trusted! And for some minutes, he gave free rein to his indignation. But it would not do; he could not long distract his mind in this way; — his reproaches were unjust. The Gardiners would have no choice but to reveal the truth, when applied to in such a way. — What right had he to expect otherwise? They could not know, that of all that family, Elizabeth Bennet was the one from whom he had most wished to keep his actions a secret. Let him reserve his indignation for himself! He should have known better than to rely on a confidentiality, which must depend on the discretion of a Lydia Bennet to preserve it. Would a girl who had been so careless in matters of import to herself, be less careless in matters important to him? Moreover, there was an element of subterfuge in demanding people’s secrecy, which seemed to imply the impropriety of his own conduct. Where was his vaunted disdain of trick and littleness now?
Darcy’s spirits had been sinking ever since he had read Mrs Gardiner’s letter. Instinct told him that his actions being exposed, must have a fatal effect. Miss Bennet would know that he had wished his part in events to remain anonymous, but she might doubt of his sincerity. — Do not such secrets always come to light? Revelations were inevitable, when it was the universal habit of people to talk. She might think that he had been acting in the hope of just such a result, in the security of his action becoming known. Might she not then believe that his motive in coming to her sister’s rescue had been nothing more than to place her under an obligation! He felt horror-struck at the idea. — It required no stretch of imagination to see that his intentions might be misconstrued in this way, or that Miss Bennet might think sufficiently ill of him to believe he had acted with premeditation. Her constraint towards him was now explained. She must of course be thankful for her sister’s escape; and possessing proper feeling, she would be grateful to the man who had preserved her family — however little credit he might deserve for undoing the mischief he himself had brought about. But any thinking person must be disgusted by the baseness of supposed generosity, which acted in the expectation of a return. Charity was not charity, which partook of the nature of a bargain.
“But might there be some truth in the indictment?” was then his question. Could he be quite certain of his motives? His recollection of his state of mind, that day at the inn at Lambton, was clouded; shock at the evil that had resulted from his failure to expose Wickham, had been uppermost, coupled with remorse over the suffering which his failure had brought upon the woman he loved; and he had instantly resolved that he must remedy the consequences of his misjudgement. But had there been no anticipation of advantage in that resolution — no admixture of inducements? It had been his view then, that Wickham’s connection with the Bennet family, (which the success of his exertions must bring about,) would debar any possibility of an union with Miss Bennet; but that view now appeared so chimerical, that he could hardly understand how he had ever sustained it. Had it been a mere will-o’-the-wisp to delude himself into a belief in his own disinterestedness? That he had taken pleasure in the self-sacrifice his resolution had entailed, — had relished the distasteful services he was performing on her behalf, — made him suspect himself the more.
But no! He had faults in plenty, but he did not believe himself capable of such vile calculation. It would be enough, however, if Elizabeth Bennet were to think so. If she could believe he had acted in the expectation of her gratitude, his case was hopeless. And even if she absolved him of having acted so calculating a part, his case was hardly better. The mere fact of her knowing that she had cause for gratitude, debarred him from making his addresses for fear lest gratitude, unaccompan
ied by any warmer attachment, should induce her to accept of them. Was there then any purpose in his remaining longer in Hertfordshire?
Some gentlemen from the neighbourhood had been invited to come that morning, to spend the day in sport, and stay for dinner; and in spite of rain and mist, they came. Darcy had anticipated no great enjoyment from their society, and received none. The good-natured jollity of the dinner was a farther trial — for nothing appears so irrational as the cheerfulness of other people’s spirits when one’s own are desponding. An additional burden was weighing on Darcy’s mind. He had resolved that the time was come when he must open upon a subject he had long been dreading; and when the last of these guests at length departed, and he and Bingley were left on their own, he accordingly began, in a tone of constraint, which shewed him tolerably ill-at-ease,
“I shall be leaving for town to morrow. You know I have been intending to visit my sister. Before I go, however, I must communicate something which I fear will lose your good opinion and sink me forever in your regard.”
Bingley, sprawled in his chair in the sort of pleasant languor which is the consequence of enjoyable exertion, looked up with a smile. “This is being serious, indeed — and I cannot believe you are in quite such earnest. I am not one of those people, you know, whose good opinion being lost, is lost forever (in a passable imitation of his friend’s voice). — But I do not mean to make light of your awful solemnity, and you have certainly been the picture of gloom all day. I do not think you uttered once the whole time our guests were here.”
“I am sorry to have offended you,” was said in a tone of some stiffness. In truth, the prospect of the revelation Darcy had to make, was affording such an amount of discomfort, that even Bingley’s gentle pleasantry might cause distress.
“I was not offended; I am used to your silences; but our guests might not know what to think. They are a good, sensible, gentleman-like set of men, and I hope they took no offence.”