Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  “You should think even better of Mr Darcy, if you knew all,” she said. And eager to improve her sister’s value for Darcy, — which, though high, was not nearly high enough for her satisfaction, — Elizabeth (first enjoining secrecy) related the history of how Wickham had been brought to marry Lydia. — Mr Darcy had done it all! — Jane was suitably astonished; and after thinking for some time on Mr Darcy’s exertions,

  “I see,” she said, in quiet, feeling tones, “that more people than Lydia benefited from his generosity. Bingley and I are in in debt, as well.”

  “That is easily cleared,” said Elizabeth. “You must help me tell the others. If you had so much trouble to believe that I was not casting myself away, imagine what difficulty I shall have to convince the rest of my dear family, such is their invincible prejudice towards Mr Darcy. If I hear him called ‘disagreeable’ one more time, I shall not answer for myself!”

  Jane agreed that there was no saying how their mother would react when she heard the news; but though her mother’s reaction was sure to be a trial, Elizabeth thought there might be worse to suffer. —

  “I am more afraid, (with a sigh,) of what my father will say when he hears the news.”

  When Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy were returned to Netherfield that same evening, Darcy found that the quiet contemplation of his happiness, (which he had thought to keep private yet a while,) required after all to be communicated. He therefore began by asking, with an air of gravity which gave Bingley the idea of being to hear something of importance, whether he should object to having him for a brother? Bingley looked as though he might object — thinking that Caroline must have succeeded in catching his friend at last; but soon realizing his mistake, and that a happier way existed of establishing them in the relation of brothers, he was instantly eager in expressing his joy. Ever since he learned from Jane that Darcy had proposed and been rejected, the summer’s events at Pemberley had taken on new meaning in Bingley’s eyes. He had thought Darcy remarkably affable towards Elizabeth’s relations at the time, especially in light of previous opinion; but he had made no assumptions as to the cause. In general, Bingley had no wish of being quicker-sighted than his neighbours, and was content to know of people, what they wanted him to know. He had wondered at Darcy’s readiness to return into Hertfordshire; but he had been too much occupied with his own anxious concerns, and afterwards with their happy outcome, to perceive that Darcy might have concerns of his own. Now it was clear that his friend had never ceased to love Elizabeth Bennet.

  Little more was said, beyond warm congratulations from Mr Bingley, who shook his friend’s hand heartily; but the satisfaction each felt was expressing in smiles. — Or rather, Bingley smiled, while Darcy’s face wore a look of grave but profound contentment. The rest of the evening passed in the luxury of a silence, in which each could contemplate his own, and his friend’s, good prospects with unalloyed pleasure.

  The next day brought new scenes at Longbourn. After dinner, (to which the gentlemen had been bidden,) Mr Bennet repaired to his library. He was sitting over a volume when Mr Darcy entered shortly afterwards, with an apology for surprising him. Mr Bennet, whose motto was nil admirari, believed that he was prepared for any surprise; but he gave a great start and the book fell from his hand, (which did not seem like being prepared,) when Mr Darcy explained that he was come to ask for the hand of his daughter in marriage. Mr Bennet soon recovered himself, however, and, with a laugh, —

  “He had thought the habit of asking parents for their consent to have gone out of fashion,” he said. And though he was rejoiced to find that it had not, he felt it necessary to move with the times, and ascertain the feelings of his children before disposing of their futures. “You must address Elizabeth yourself. I could not possibly speak for my daughter, or give you any answer until you do.”

  Mr Darcy perceived that they were talking at cross purposes: he had already addressed Miss Bennet. Mr Bennet then gave farther evidence of being as liable to surprise as the rest of mankind. “Do you mean to say she has accepted you?” he cried, half-rising from his chair.

  Mr Bennet’s evident disliking the idea was the source of some mortification to Mr Darcy; but he was prepared to be forbearing towards Elizabeth’s father. The latter, exerting himself to speak with his usual detachment, thanked Mr Darcy for giving him such prompt intelligence of these developements. “He could have no objection to make, if his daughter had none. And if Mr Darcy would be so kind as to ask his intended to step into the library, he would relate his decision to her.”

  When Elizabeth, calling up all her courage, entered a few minutes later, her father was sitting at his desk with a frown on his face. “I had understood that I had one daughter about to embark upon matrimony,” he said, fixing her with a look. “It appears that I have two. What say you, Lizzy? Have you heard any thing to like effect?”

  “Mr Darcy has certainly asked me to marry him,” she replied, “and I have accepted.”

  “It is understandable, (shaking his head with a look of infinite sadness,) that you should want to make as great a match as your sister; but you are choosing an unwise course. Wealth alone will not make you happy.”

  “Do you believe,” said Elizabeth, colouring, “that I am only marrying to gain an establishment?”

  “Such things have been known in our acquisitive world; and no one blames the woman who takes the best means available to obtain a comfortable provision. I do not think you would act from such mercenary motives, but it is not impossible that you might marry to be able to quit this house. — Oh! do not think I am blaming you. It is painful to imagine what Longbourn will be like without Jane. — Little wonder then that you might wish to escape, and think any potential slavery worth risking in order to gain present liberty; but you would be mistaken.”

  It is almost impossible for those who are married to explain the potential misery of the state to those who are not. Mr Bennet could articulate little of what he felt; but he did, and with an earnestness unusual for him, urge his daughter not to marry where she could not love and respect. A Charlotte Lucas might marry for prudential motives alone, and suffer no discernible harm; but this only shewed that her heart had already suffered a coarsening of sentiment. — Such must be the case when a woman chooses a lifetime in the company of Mr Collins in order that she might avoid an old age of small rooms, few candles, and a scanty nourishment. Large rooms, a quantity of candles, and sufficient nourishment were all proper objects; but it was a doubtful prudence to purchase them at the expense of mind, and degradation of soul. There was no inequality like the inequality of mind, and no emotion so corrosive as the contempt for the taste or opinions of a wedded partner. It might be safe for those with cold natures to marry without love; but a young woman of vivacious temper must inspire love at some time in her life, and nothing but danger and misery could follow if that love were inspired anywhere but in marriage. Elizabeth listened with a degree of impatience. She believed that the danger, which young people were so constantly warned against, was more often actively sought out by its victims, than entrapping them; though she supposed it possible that she had never encountered true danger before. She could envisage now, how the power of conviction which accompanies love, might be strong enough to overcome principle. But she had not needed her father’s strictures, (which seemed rather to express regret for his course in marrying than to reflect an accurate view of hers,) to know what sentiments must be hers before she should agree to marry.

  “On the subject of Mr Darcy’s respectability, I say nothing,” continued Mr Bennet. “He has the whole world’s adulation, and has no need of mine. But though I have heard nothing to the discredit of his character, — save from such persons as have entirely discredited their own, — he does not appear to be a congenial companion for a lively mind such as yours. We know that he is a proud, disagreeable man — ”

  At these all-too-familiar epithets, Elizabeth suddenly lost her self-possession; and to her own considerable surprise as much
as to Mr Bennet’s,—

  “You know nothing of the sort!” she heard herself exclaim. “He is only proud where he may justly be proud, and he is the most agreeable, amiable man in the world. — And if you will speak of respectability, then you ought to know that our respectability as a family would have perished utterly if not for his generosity. He made Wickham marry Lydia — purchased his commission, paid his debts; — he did every thing, — my uncle nothing, — accept to oblige Mr Darcy by taking the credit for his actions so that we should not feel obliged to thank him!”

  She stopped, biting her lip, her anger now all directed at herself for having revealed what she had been given no leave to reveal. After a moment, she went on, more collectedly,

  “Mr Darcy does not wish this history known. — Even I only learned of it by chance. — But before you call him disagreeable, think how much our family owes him — nothing less than our honour and our position in the world!”

  Mr Bennet felt almost daunted by his daughter’s indignation, evidence, as it was, of an increasing independence of mind, and a presentiment of the impending separation, which must be the inevitable product of her marrying. It is mortifying for a parent to receive his child’s reproof, and more so to be obliged to admit its justice; but Mr Bennet, to his credit, did not hesitate. He would lose his daughter — he must, in time; and where he should find the strength to accept the loss with grace, he hardly knew; — but he would keep her esteem, if he could. Taking Elizabeth’s hand in his own, he begged her pardon with a humbler mien than she had ever yet beheld in him.

  “I hope to know your Mr Darcy better before long, Lizzy. I do not think love would blind you; if you call him amiable, he must be so. — And I hope you can forgive me for being too dull-minded to discern his true value, and paining you with my foolish disparagement.”

  Elizabeth was instantly regretting her severity. — She should never have spoken to her father so, and she now begged his pardon. — But to hear her family abusing — ignorantly and impertinently abusing — the man to whom they owed every thing! — “It had been more than she could bear.” — At this, her strength abruptly deserted her, and she burst into the tears, which had been staving off for months. Mr Bennet took his daughter in his arms, and comforted her; but it was long before her sobs were completely stilled. After a time, he led her to his chair, and made her sit.

  This lowering of the usual reserve, which obtains between even the closest of parents and children, left them both ill-at-ease; and Mr Bennet had recourse to his accustomary wit — (whose call he could, in any event, never long resist) — to make them comfortable once more. He was rejoiced, he said, that she and Mr Darcy had established so good an understanding. The match could hardly be improved upon from the point of worldly advantage: — his worldly advantage, he meant; for Lydia’s marriage would now cost him nothing. He had been putting off the time of reckoning till Mr Gardiner should come to Longbourn, well aware of how extensive must be the retrenchment required to reimburse him, — and scarcely knowing how they could retrench enough to pay him as quickly as he deserved.

  “But now, I can go to Mr Darcy, and offer to pay back every penny, in the security that he will refuse my offer. ‘Mr Bennet,’ he will say, ‘let us have no more words on the subject. The high esteem in which I hold your family, will not allow me, &c. &c. I shall be excessively obliged, my dear Sir, if you will never refer to it again.’ And of course, I shall have no alternative but to comply with his request.”

  Elizabeth laughed; but she knew that any conversation between her father and Mr Darcy on this topic was likely to go in earnest, much as Mr Bennet had described it in jest. Mr Darcy would not want the matter spoken of; — might well be vexed with her for having revealed the truth; — and he would certainly reject any offer of repayment. Mr Bennet would be as safe in making the offer as he had imagined. Elizabeth felt a wave of love for her witty, flawed, unhappy father, which brought the tears to her eyes again. No retrenching would be required of him, — neither of expenditure nor of principle. It might be the worse for him that this should be so.

  Kissing his daughter’s brow, Mr Bennet bid her return to her suitor, who was, no doubt, champing with impatience to learn the result of this interview. “You may tell Mr Darcy that I am looking forward with pleasure to revising all my opinions, and making his genuine acquaintance. And, that he may be the readier to overlook past mistake, kindly remind him that you, too, once held opinions not entirely in his favour, which did not prevent you from changing your mind.”

  The following day, Elizabeth communicated the news of her engagement to the rest of her family. Mrs Bennet’s response was all that her daughter had expected, for as soon as she could be gotten to understand the import, (no small period), her sentiments underwent an instantaneous revolution: all her irrational dislike of Mr Darcy disappearing, to be replaced by a veneration scarcely more rational. Mary and Kitty received the same intelligence, each in their different ways. Mary only wondered whether this change in her sister’s condition might open the famous library at Pemberley to her inspection; but Kitty wailed with dismay: — “Must she be losing Lizzy just when she had learned to love her!” Kitty truly feared for her sister, Darcy appearing to her eyes like one of those villains — sinister but alluring — who figured so largely in the horrid novels she favoured. — “Lizzy must be exposing herself to the greatest peril by accepting such a man!” Elizabeth knew not whether to laugh or cry. She pooh-poohed Kitty’s fears, and made her dry her eyes. She had read too many romances! Mr Darcy was perfectly amiable. “You shall not lose me. I shall have you often to stay with me at Pemberley. Then you will see for yourself how amiable Mr Darcy is, and you will love him, too.” It was a work of some time before Kitty could be reconciled to this developement, or Mrs Bennet induced to take a calmer view of it; but with the help of Jane, both were restored to tranquillity; and Elizabeth thought that she might now risk exposing Mr Darcy to the attentions of her family, without fear that he should be made uncomfortable — or she embarrassed — more than two or three times in the course of any visit.

  Elizabeth took an early opportunity of begging Darcy’s pardon for her indiscretion in revealing the truth about Lydia to Jane and her father. She feared their expressions of gratitude, though heartfelt, might distress him. Darcy looked grave a moment; then shook his head. It would be disagreeable to be thanked, but —

  “It was wrong of me to expect you to keep secrets from your family. I had no business to ask it. How should you not speak your heart to your sister?” He wanted no more secrets; prayed that there never would be any secrets between them: between them, let there be only the equal exchange of perfect confidence. The look of warm, open regard, he bent on Elizabeth as he spoke filled her with the highest exaltation of spirits — an exaltation in which happiness blended with the most serious resolve, to deserve his confidence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  During the weeks that followed the engagement of Elizabeth and Darcy, the Post Office experienced a marked increase in traffic, and a corresponding increase in revenue. Among the missives was a letter from Mr Darcy to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, informing her of the consequence of her intervention — so much the opposite of what she had intended. Mr Darcy had been disinclined to communicate with his aunt at first: he knew what would be her views; but Elizabeth, who conceived it her duty to assure that Darcy suffered no loss of family regard on her account, had encouraged him to think differently. He had won his point; he possessed the substance; what harm could there be in a form of words which would allow Lady Catherine to preserve her countenance? No letter, however dutiful, was likely to soften Lady Catherine, but that was beside the point. She must be allowed to vent her spleen: — Elizabeth thought that much owing for the scant respect with which she had treated her Ladyship at their last encounter. And she thought it possible, that having expressed to the fullest her condemnation of the match, Lady Catherine might eventually lose some part of her virulence against it. Mean whil
e, they must put their trust in the power of time to give her Ladyship the wish of reuniting with her Derbyshire connections; and in the power of curiosity to make her wish to see whether Elizabeth was managing as poorly in her new position as she had foretold. When that time arrived, a small shew of repentance on Darcy’s part, and a much larger one of humility on her own, might succeed in accomplishing wonders: so much so, that Lady Catherine (convinced that she had bestowed an obligation where she had most incurred one) might come to believe that by making the best of a bad bargain and undertaking Elizabeth’s instruction, she had been responsible for the new chatelaine of Pemberley’s being worthy of her post. In any event, to shew humility would require no hardship on Elizabeth’s part: she must accept her good fortune, — she could not do otherwise; but she would not be so impertinent as to pretend to have deserved it.

  The letter to Rosings was duly written; but Lady Catherine’s reply, when it arrived, did not bode well. The hand was that of Mr Collins, who, writing at her Ladyship’s behest, “begged leave to inform Mr Darcy that Lady Catherine did not wish to continue the correspondence in future.” Darcy’s face grew black, and Elizabeth urged him to read no more. It would only cause vexation, and to what end? They had known it would be a work of time to overcome Lady Catherine’s wrath; to respond with fresh anger would only widen the breach. In the end, Mr Darcy conceded the wisdom of her advice, and allowed her to remove the letter from his unresisting fingers.

  This letter seemed thicker than so brief a message should require; and Elizabeth, unfolding it later, was amused to find that Lady Catherine — discovering what little satisfaction was to be had from so temperate a mode of denunciation — had soon seized the pen into her own hand. Her effusions would have given Darcy great offence; Elizabeth was glad he had not seen them; but she took a vast delight in the letter. Her Ladyship’s style of invective was just what she enjoyed; and having gotten the better of that lady in their duel of words, she was not to be wounded by the studied formality of written phrases. Her plan of mollifying Lady Catherine still held, but Elizabeth felt absolved of some portion of her remorse.