Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  Elizabeth went up to her bedroom that night, dividing between happiness for her sister and discomfiture for herself. A wretched vision of what life at Longbourn would be like without Jane’s benevolent presence, rose before her mind; — Jane, who thought nothing of her beauty, and believed no merit accrued to her on that score. Elizabeth thought her too modest in this — for Jane’s beauty derived as much from delicacy of mind as delicacy of complexion. She would never be as beautiful as Jane, nor as happy; nor would Bingley have suited her, much as she liked him. If she ever were to marry, — (for there was no saying what shifts any person might be driven to,) — it might have to suffice her that her husband were a man she could respect; but in truth, she wished for more. She thought more would have been possible. The only marriage was the marriage of true minds: theirs should have been such a marriage. Her last thought, before sleep released her from misery, was of Darcy. By preserving their family, he had made Jane’s happiness possible. — That would have been reason enough to love him, had no other existed.

  Chapter Five

  “A beautiful morning, is not it?”, — accompanied by a smile of the greatest complacency, — was Mrs Bennet’s greeting when Bingley arrived at Longbourn some days later; — which day would have appeared beautiful to her had it produced the deepest of blizzards, such was her elation at the success of her plans.

  Mr Bingley’s ride from Netherfield had taken him past fields, on which autumn’s hand still lay gently; but his thoughts had dwelt less on the beauty of the scene than on the beauty of Jane. He agreed, however, that the weather was singularly pleasant; that autumn might be the favourite season of many, perhaps most people; and that the turning leaves furnished a display of colour which — Here Mr Bingley paused, not quite knowing how to finish his sentence; however, as his auditors were all fully seized with the pleasures of autumn, there was no need for him to do so.

  “I am sure you will not wish to spend the day indoors,” said Mrs Bennet. “Jane can shew you some very beautiful walks hereabouts, and I daresay Kitty will be so good as to accompany you. She would be the better for the air. Get your bonnet, Kitty."

  These excursions, on which propriety required her presence, held no charm for Kitty, much as they might delight the other two. Fortunately for her, they encountered Maria Lucas at the first turning. The two girls began to discuss the merits of a new curate, who had just taken up residence in Meryton, and as the speed of their clacking tongues was matched by the quickness of their gait, they soon outpaced the others. Bingley and Jane were in no hurry to catch them up, and the distance between the parties increasing, obtained for them a comparative privacy. When he saw himself safe from espial, and that Jane was looking anywhere but at him, Bingley jogged her slyly with his elbow. The nature of the tender and sentimental things he then took the opportunity of saying, may be safely left to the reader’s imagination. Jane glowed with pleasure, though her only response was to lift her chin at him, and tell him not to be so silly.

  “Do you call me silly?” Bingley replied. “Why, every one agrees I’m a fascinating fellow.”

  “I suppose some people might think so. My father seems to like you, at any event. He has even said as much.”

  “I am rejoiced to hear it. Though I imagine his actual words were, ‘Not quite such a fool as he looks.’ Your respected father terrifies me; I was shaking in my boots when I went in to ask for your hand, certain I should receive one of his set-downs. ‘Marry Jane? Impossible! You must mean Mary.’ And I should probably have agreed out of sheer fright!”

  “Nonsense! You knew he would give his consent.”

  “Oh! it was by no means assured! My sisters do not wish for its being generally known, but my grandfather made his fortune in trade. With such low antecedents, your father might not think I was quite the thing.”

  “Well, we are not so very grand either, if it comes to that,” returned Jane. “Mother’s family were only country attorneys. You might have done much better for yourself.” (with a fearless smile.)

  “No, no! — I’ll compound for things as they are. We can be low together!”

  After walking a few minutes in companionable silence, Bingley began again with,

  “I should not wish you to be disappointed in the event, Miss Bennet; so I therefore tell you directly, you are marrying one of the greatest fools in the kingdom.”

  And when Jane stoutly denied it,—

  “Oh! yes you are,” he said. “For I knew I loved you the evening of the Netherfield ball, and I went to bed that night thinking that I must ride to Longbourn the next morning and tell you so.”

  “Oh, yes? Then why did not you?”

  “Because I could not believe it possible you should love me in return.”

  Jane gave him a sideways glance. “Perhaps you are one of the greatest fools in the kingdom.”

  Bingley looked as silly and happy as a man could well look.

  “And then, you know, I had to go to town on business. I thought I should be back in a few days. But — (with a sigh) — business always takes so much longer than one expects, and the weeks passed into months without my having the chance to see you.”

  A pause followed. Then,

  “You might have seen me in London,” Jane said, looking away across the fields. “I was the whole winter with my uncle and aunt Gardiner in Gracechurch-street.”

  Bingley coloured. “I know that now — but I did not then. You will scarcely credit it, but it was only last week that I learned of your having been in town. The officious interference of certain people kept the intelligence from me!” (looking as angry as he had it in his power to look.)

  He broke off, seeing the tears running down his fair companion’s cheeks. “Oh! Jane, forgive me! — What pain I must have caused you! — How uncaring I must have seemed! But do not cry — I will never give you cause again!”

  Jane was then obliged to exert herself. “You are mistaken, Mr Bingley. I only cry because you have made me so happy. Who would have believed that you did not know of my being in London! And I cannot blame your sisters for not telling you. — I am sure they thought you might choose so much more advantageously.”

  Bingley was content to allow all blame to fall on his sisters. He wanted Jane to think well of his friend; and whilst his anger at Darcy had all been done away, towards his sisters he fostered as implacable a resentment as it was in his mild nature to feel. “When I consider what time we have lost,” he began, “and how we might have been happy so much sooner, I wish — ”

  “Don’t!” Jane burst out. “ — Do not wish that things had been different. I am glad every thing fell out just as it did — yes, even to the pain of our separation!” And when Bingley looked at her wonderingly, — “Because I was so wretched then, so miserably unhappy. — I was sure that you had never really cared for me; and I lost all hope; — I knew I should never love any one as I loved you.”

  “Then why? — If only — ”

  “Because if we ever meet with misfortune — and we cannot hope to have none but sunny days — I shall remember how utterly hopeless I felt then and how very happy I am now! —and I shall never lose hope! — Never!” (with a tone of resolution almost fierce.)

  Taking her hand, Bingley said, in a voice of quiet conviction, “You are wholly admirable, and absolute perfection in every way — save one.”

  Jane’s cheeks were suffused with an even greater glow, but she rallied herself to speak archly. “Oh! And what one is that, Sir?”

  “That you do not call me Charles. ‘Mr Bingley’ indeed! You shall have to say it some day, you know, and I think you might as well begin to practice at once; — I mean, in the place where ‘thou, Jane Louisa, must take me, Charles Edward’ — ”

  “ — Charles,” Jane said, quickly. “Charles Bingley. (And with a face made more radiantly beautiful by happiness even than by nature,) — My Charles Bingley.”

  Bingley looked about him, at the stately line of elms bordering the lane, and the distant hi
lls touched with the palette of autumn; and thought that if this were not the best of all possible worlds, it was quite good enough for him. After a little while,—

  “I have only one thing left to wish for,” said Jane, with a sigh. “That Lizzy could be as happy as I am.”

  Bingley instantly agreed. He felt the same wish for Darcy. If only — But, no! — “I suppose there is no chance that Darcy and your sister — . I have sometimes thought he quite admires her. (Then, catching sight of Jane’s expression) — And why do you smile so, Miss Bennet?”

  Jane gazed round the empty landscape, then lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “No, I always blab. — But I will keep this one, if you tell it me.”

  “Very well, then, but you must promise to be good. Only this — Mr Darcy proposed to Lizzy when they were in Kent last April.”

  “No!” cried Bingley.

  “Yes! And she refused him!” —

  “Refused Darcy?” —

  “ — And no wonder, for he told her that our family was so far beneath him that it would be a degradation to be connected with us — which might be true, but was certainly a very foolish way to propose.”

  Remembering Darcy’s strictures to himself on those twin evils of the Bennet family, the want of propriety and the want of connection, Bingley was obliged to suppress a shudder.

  “You may imagine what followed,” Jane went on. “She told him that he was arrogant, and conceited, and selfish, and the last man on earth she would ever marry! So I fear — ”

  Bingley shook his head sadly. He believed Darcy to be neither selfish nor arrogant, though he might occasionally go wrong from being too sure of his powers. (That Darcy had been able to admit being wrong on a recent notable occasion, only enhanced the warmth of his own regard.) His next thought was, “Your sister certainly does not lack for courage! I can never refuse Darcy any thing! Poor Darcy!”

  ”Yes, poor Mr Darcy!”

  Then, after a pause,

  “How surprising, in that case,” said Bingley, “that Darcy should have paid your sister such marked attentions when they met in Derbyshire this summer.”

  Now it was Miss Bennet’s turn to look her amazement. Marked attentions? From Mr Darcy? Was he quite sure? Was not there some mistake?

  “Do you take me for a complete blockhead? Darcy, Miss Georgiana, and I, waited on Miss Bennet and your aunt and uncle Gardiner at their inn in Lambton, and they dined with us at Pemberley the next day.”

  “But how astonishing! Lizzy never said a word! (And struck by another idea,) I am sure she must have been exceedingly ill at ease in company with Mr Darcy. — To be always mortifying a man by reminding him of his disappointment — this could not have been agreeable. Lizzy is not a girl to feel gratified by the hopeless despair of an unrequited lover.”

  “And Darcy (coming eagerly to the defence of his friend,) is not a man to show resentment. But after such a rebuff, what should be expected except cold civility? — yet his attentions went far beyond such! I wonder if he may not still be in love with her? When I consider how Darcy behaved — waiting on Miss Bennet’s party at the inn, bringing Miss Darcy to meet her, and all the rest, — I am at a loss to explain it any other way, than by his continuing to love her!”

  Jane sighed. “Poor Mr Darcy,” she said again. “I am afraid Lizzy has such a settled dislike, there is no chance for him.”

  Mr Bingley wondered; — to be sure, Jane must know her sister best; but was it certain, — so very certain, — that Miss Elizabeth Bennet entertained such a settled dislike of his friend?

  “Did not you observe how grave and silent she was, whenever Mr Darcy came to visit our house?” said Jane.

  Bingley agreed that Miss Bennet’s appearance had been reserved. “But I saw no sign of dislike. When we visited her at Lambton, she appeared conscious; but this I attributed to our meeting at a public place. And at Pemberley, the surroundings might awe any one into a little silence. Do not you consider it possible, that she might come to think differently with time?”

  “I wish it might be so; I have always had a great value for Mr Darcy. — But Lizzy is so steady in her opinions. She does not often change her mind.”

  They walked on for some time in silence, sadly contemplating the hopeless impossibility of Mr Darcy’s wishes.

  “Poor, poor Mr Darcy!” said Miss Bennet, whose kindly heart only wanted all the world to be as happy as she.

  Chapter Six

  The engagement between Miss Bennet and Mr Bingley could not remain long a secret. The report soon reaching to Lucas Lodge, Lady Lucas received it with all the resentment of great envy. “She hoped Mrs Bennet might now be satisfied.” She had long been aiming to catch at poor Mr Bingley. — And when one considered how recently the Bennets had seemed destined to sink beyond all hope of redemption! Lady Lucas did not wish misfortune upon any one, but it might have taken that woman’s pride down a peg or two.

  “Very true, my dear,” was Sir William’s response.

  Whatever next? was the good lady’s question. “I suppose we shall soon be hearing that Miss Eliza is engaged to Mr Darcy, forsooth, and that Mary will wed the Dean of St Paul’s!”

  So impressed was Sir William with his wife’s powers of expression, that he felt he could do no better, when next he wrote to his daughter, Mrs Collins, than to repeat her words. His letter arrived at Hunsford Parsonage a day or two later, and Mrs Collins was sitting in her room reading it when her husband entered to inform her that he was about to call on Lady Catherine. (This information was scarcely necessary, as Mr Collins walked to Rosings at that time almost every day.) Then, seeing what his wife was about, —

  “Hah!” he cried. “An epistle from Lucas Lodge. What writes your esteemed father?” Sir William and Lady Lucas would wish their most respectful compliments sent to Lady Catherine of course; but was there any intelligence from Meryton, any item of news, which might interest her Ladyship? As his dear Charlotte knew, Lady Catherine took an interest in everything.

  “Yes, as it happens. Your cousin, Miss Bennet, is to be married.”

  “Miss Elizabeth? (frowning and looking displeased.) Surely not.” A young lady who had been rash enough to refuse him, ought to expect no better fate than perpetual spinsterhood.

  “No,” said his wife. “Miss Jane Bennet. She is to marry Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy’s friend.”

  Mr Collins was excessively shocked. That any respectable man — especially a friend of Mr Darcy’s — should be so blind to the dictates of propriety as to connect himself with such infamy! — The daughter of the family to have eloped and lived with her abductor for weeks, without benefit of clergy! — If Mr Bingley possessed insufficient delicacy on his own account, he ought to have more in his friend’s. Mr Collins should not wonder, if such behaviour were to lose that unhappy young man the benefit of Mr Darcy’s future notice. “The relation by marriage with Mr Wickham — a man whose name it is repugnant to me even to pronounce — would be enough to forfeit Mr Darcy’s regard forever. I wonder at Mr Bennet’s choosing to receive the young people into his house. I advised him against it as an encouragement to vice.”

  Charlotte objected, pointing out that “whatever Lydia may have done, she was Mrs Wickham now.”

  “Her being Mrs Wickham now does not erase the obloquy of her behaviour then — or lessen the disgrace of an alliance with her family.”

  “Perhaps not. But you ought to take care. Were your remarks to come to the hearing of Mr Wickham, offence might be taken; and when officers take offence, you know, they are inclined to shew their resentment in a violent manner.”

  Charlotte had only wished to alloy her husband’s pleasure in moral censure; but her words gave rise to alarm. “If you mean to imply that Mr Wickham might desire a ‘meeting,’ as I believe the expression is, you need have no fear on my account,” he replied with some haste. “As a clergyman, I may with perfect propriety decline to adhere to the barbarously unchristian code which obtains between mili
tary men. Indeed, my vocation forbids the shedding of blood on so trivial an occasion.”

  Charlotte considered it extremely fortunate that Mr Collins’s calling should protect him from the penalty, which his unguarded language might otherwise have compelled. But Mr Collins had not done expressing his indignation at Mr Bingley’s conduct. For a respectable young man willingly to connect himself with vice and indecorum would spell his ruin! “I can assure you, my dear, that I congratulate myself daily on the operation of providence, which prevented me from concluding an alliance with my cousin Elizabeth.”

  “The providence of Eliza’s having rejected your suit,” was Charlotte’s silent emendation. She knew perfectly well the circumstance to which she owed her achievement of the marital state; but her husband would not thank her for the correction.