by Meg Kerr
Sir John had invested Lady Mallinger with the feelings of shame which she ought to have known had just consideration of others, knowledge of her own emotions, or right principles formed any part of her education. But speaking a language which he felt at his heart, he did not touch hers with his remonstrance. Although his eyes were fixed on her countenance, he believed he saw her unmoved by any shred of compunction, and provoked in his turn he resumed the attack.
“Madam,” said he, “the encouragement I receivedthe decided preference you showed meentitles me to demand an answer from you.”
She felt herself growing more and more angry. Lady Mallinger had never been wise when she was angry, and she made no attempt to exercise restraint.
“Preference! I show you a preference! Sir, you forget yourself. Your presumption is much beyond any thing I can express or you can justify.”
His face grew pale. “You have acted in a manner that is selfish, cold-hearted, venal and ambitious, devoid of womanly empathy. Mine was a real affection, and you threw it away for worldly consequence. And then you have had the impudence to think you can re-establish the connexion with me, as the wife of another. Do you deny any of this?”
As offended as she was, her heart yet was pierced by such a picture of what she appeared to him. This was the estimation in which he held her! Her condemnation was turned against herself for a moment; the moment, however, was short-lived; it was extinguished by a fear of exposing herself, or perhaps just ill-nature, and her pride and anger returned two-fold. She did not curb pugnacity when she replied. “What can you mean by this? I never cared in the slightest for you. If you had made me an offer of marriage, which you did not, there is nothing that would have induced me to accept it.”
The discordance of Sir John’s faculties was visible in every feature. Where was another such woman, whom the Almighty had so richly endowed, and in whose conduct and disposition there was so much to reprove? The folly in being drawn on by her! And yet how handsome she looked – nay, not handsome, magnificent – with her eyes flashing at his assertion that she had valued him. For all her abrasive words and repellent manner he was still powerfully drawn to her, and he was even right now in some danger of seizing her in his arms.
Under this spell he recklessly said, “I have no intention of abasing myself before you; but I will tell you all, and then I will have done with you for ever. Do you wish me to speak? If you do not, say but one word.”
Lady Mallinger was as little able to tell her former lover not to speak as a kitten not to pounce on a ball of wool, and therefore no word was uttered.
“You think yourself dirtied to have been loved by me, but I would not cleanse you of that grime even if I could. I never loved any woman before you; my time was too much taken up with other things. That my heart should have fallen into the keeping of a woman not deserving of it is my misfortune. I will never love another, for you have shown me that no woman is worth it.”
Lady Mallinger’s pulses throbbed as she heard this speech; without warning his hold over her increased. She did not venture an instantaneous rejoinder for she almost longed to yield to the truth and profess her own feelings. It was no reluctance, no feminine modesty that prevented her, but faults of temper and principle raised insuperable difficulty, and after a pause she spoke with the disdain that epitomized her, “I pity you for this discovery.”
His complexion darkened with fury as she said this. “You despise me; but you do not understand me.”
“I have no desire to understand you,” she retorted, but to tell the truth, she understood him very well. It was with respect to herself that her comprehension was somewhat impaired. “I am far from honoured to be the object of your attachment. I never regarded you as anything more than an ordinary acquaintance.”
“Did my riches never tempt you to contemplate a closer relationship?” he said, intent on wounding her in return. “Or are you rapacious for wealth only when it is joined to social consequence?”
This was an excruciating injury but when she spoke she made certain not to betray the pain it caused her. “I can only account for your presumption in addressing me in this manner in one way: one could not expect better from one of your descent.”
Without any attempt at politeness he replied ferociously, “Was Miss Caroline Bingley so remarkable for her descent?’
“This is intolerable! You are treating me in a most infamous, ungentlemanlike manner.”
“My defects are fatal indeed then! Do you know, I have grown weary in London of this word ‘gentleman.’ I am a man, and a man is to me a higher being than a gentlemanas a woman ought to transcend a lady.”
“Could you expect me to congratulate myself on gaining the regard of a man whose station was so decidedly beneath my own, a man seeking a woman? To rejoice in the inferiority of such an union? And for you to imagine that I was prompted by partiality for you –! I did not so totally despair of an equal alliance as to welcome your pursuit.”
There was a terrible hiatus; he fought himself for control, and would not open his lips till he believed he had attained it. “I am unaware of the very great inequality between us of which you are so sensible. Putting aside the arbitrary distinctions of society – pride, prejudice, propriety,5 or whatever you wish to call them – I identified nothing that would have rendered us unfit to be companions. But you have made your position very clear, madam, and I perceive I am nothing to you. The labour of this conference might as well have been spared.”
It was entirely of a piece with Lady Mallinger’s disposition, that when anger and arrogance had made her reckless, she should have given them free rein until she herself was harmed by them. And now that there seemed an impenetrable barrier between them, she regretted her words, and became once more covetous of his esteem. What a coup for him if he were to know that the proposal (and to herself she did not deny that there had been one) which she had spurned would have been willingly accepted could the occasion have been retrieved! No sooner was she the wife of Henry Mallinger than she persuaded herself that she could have been happy with John Thorn, as she had not been with her chosen husband. He would think her mad. But his regard, of which he had just assured her, even could it have survived the acrimony of this clash, he no longer extended to her. If it existed still, it was as no more than a stone in his breast.
She had changed countenance and was now looking as white as she had been red before. After an interval of silence during which she underwent a great though short struggle she said in a low voice, “You know nothing of my troubles.”
Sir John dared to come nearer to her; fleetingly she thought he might have struck her. “Your troubles!” he repeated contemptuously; “yes, they have been great indeed.” She was evidently discontented in her marriage, that he well recognized, although he placed her disappointment not in the errancy of her husband but in her being less affluent and less highly titled than many of her acquaintances. But then, seeing his opponent suddenly defeated – for tears might have graced the cheek of one less ladylike – of a woman – he experienced some modification of attitude. He waited awhile, with his animosity suspended, for her to say something more, to which he might reply.
Lady Mallinger, meanwhile, finding that she was to receive no other answer, did not speak. There was nothing she could say that would be accepted by him.
At last he informed her in a harsh voice, “I see no reason for us to go on talking together.” He then bowed and left. “I shall never speak to her again,” he said to himself.
On an impulse she lifted her hand towards him as he went; but he did not see it.
The agony of Lady Mallinger’s sensations was intense, but after a little while she was able to suppress her emotions to suit the requirements of society and return to the drawing room. Sir John had departed, and she soon found that she could not endure to remain either and ordering her carriage she took home her wounded heart and aching head.
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CHAPTER
24
London, June 1816
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Mrs. Gardiner had thought herself defended against Amaury’s attractive appearance and prepossessing demeanour by her husband’s account of his conference with the young man. Nevertheless when he entered her drawing room punctual to his time her caution could not prevent her being struck by the beauty of his visage, and by his well-bred manners, which were exactly what they ought to be in the circumstances, agreeable but particularly respectful, just properly tinged (as was his cheek) by appreciation of the wrong that he had done. Georgiana, she thought to herself, is not quite the susceptible little goose I imagined. In this first sight she thus received from his personal claims an impression in his favour which was of valuable service to him in eliminating some of her distrust, and she came forward to receive him with more than the politeness dictated by convention; with a little cordiality.
After the Gardiners had greeted him, Mrs. Gardiner said, “Mr. Amaury, allow me to set your mind at rest immediately, that this meeting is totally unconnected with the Darcy family, and does not presage any softening towards your association with Miss Darcy.” Amaury’s face fell a little, assuring her that this warning had been a necessary one. She continued, “We have asked you to come to us, that we might better understand how to disengage her affections from you and restore her to the ordinary course of her life. You have, I am afraid, rendered that much more difficult by your very ill-advised rendezvous with her at the Metcalfs’ ball.”
At this reminder, which was scarcely needed, Amaury coloured more strongly and answered, “You cannot conjecture the regret, the remorse that I feel for the injuries that I have inflicted on Miss Darcy. I have given my assurance, as much as my heart resists it, not to see or communicate with her again, and if you can guide me to any action that will make atonement for my conduct, I will undertake it willingly.” The truth of this avowal was in his looks, and the Gardiners saw his conviction of his own guilt with approval.
The three of them sat down to dinner, and the Gardiners, who had wondered a little as to what subjects they might pursue with their guest, found that conversation was not in the least difficult, for Amaury readily followed their direction and made no attempt to steer it towards Georgiana. A half hour was enough to attest that he was an astute and well-informed man, whose education, begun at a good school and continued at a University, had been broadened by his sojourn on the Continent. Every sentence marked his discernment and they listened closely to him. He apprehended as much of the European conflict that had been recently ended as anyone else with whom Mr. Gardiner had spoken, and was unexpectedly able to provide his host with reports about the Continental situation that were useful to his mercantile house. By the end of dinner the Gardiners had also concluded, through his choice of topics, his tone and his language, that he was a sensitive and cultivated man. Their attitude towards him and his situation began to change to a different composition. Before dinner was over they had started to feel a value, perhaps even a touch of admiration, for him.
When the hour of parting came, the Gardiners told themselves that Amaury, far from being the ogre of their fancy, was a gentleman and good company. They had observed him narrowly and had on the whole been placated. Every thing that passed during the visit tended to convince them not only of his good sense and present propriety of behaviour but also of an innate rectitude, and for his own sake they felt the wish to become better acquainted with him. How to explain that they did not quickly realize that his danger to Georgiana was fully on display to them in his appearance, his amiability, his intelligence that were irresistible to them also?
Mrs. Gardiner the following day in response to Amaury’s note of thanks sent a very civil message expressing their wish that he would join them once more on the next Sunday, if it were no inconvenience to him. She hoped that he would not find it dull, as it would be a family party not increased by other company. Amaury was very pleased with this proof of their notice, could have wished for no better outcome of his industry at the first dinner, and wrote his acceptance.
This second dinner proceeded much as the previous one had, with the difference only that it began on a more intimate footing. There was no reserve when they met and they seemed to feel that they already knew each other well. When the two gentlemen came to the drawing room the Gardiners’ four children, two boys of six and eight, and two girls a little older, ten and twelve, were there with their mother. The young Gardiners’ faces expressed their delight at seeing such a guest, and the hopes raised by his exterior aspect were not crushed for his easiness with them was charming. In the passage of a very short time all juvenile shyness evaporated and he was a general favourite, the children were hanging about him as if they had found an old friend. They were all full of excitement and laughter together and Amaury was soon tumbling about with the boys, seeming the more delighted the noisier they became. With the girls there was singing and talking rather than monkey tricks, but the same story was repeated: they were in raptures with him. It was a merry party and everyone was in high spirits.
“Where do you come from, Johnny?” asked the younger girl (for despite the parents’ prohibition, followed by repeated injunctions, his Christian name was in use within five minutes of his introduction to the little Gardiners). All the children felt a kind of awe that such a being as John Amaury could possibly exist in the workaday world. Surely he had descended into their house from some other realm and would return there as suddenly as he had appeared.
“I come from England, just as you do,” he replied. But seeing that she found some difficulty believing him, he added gravely, “I was born in Scotland, near a village called Ayton.” This appeased the young lady, for she had no previous acquaintance with the Scots to contradict the possibility that they were a race touched by magic.
When it came time for the children to leave they clung to him and declared they would not go. The nursery-maid had to remove them from him by force. They ran off full of boisterous mirth, with many calls for him to come back the next week, or even better the next day. In short, their heads had been turned by him.
Fond parents are credulous creatures. When they rose from the table, of Amaury’s praiseworthy qualities the Gardiners had not required a third interview to be convinced. He united frankness and vivacity to cleverness and decorum. But his management of their offspring recommended him even further to their approbation. Although they had been warned and ought to have been on their guard against him, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner saw nothing to be suspicious of in his evident affection for the children, or the children’s for him, and no grounds for surprise that it had been created so instantly. Their opinion of him was raised, when it might better have waited the effect of time and judgment, and they began to think that they had rarely met a pleasanter man, and to be disposed to make imprudent allowances for him. Although they would not have dreamed of encouraging any attachment between Georgiana and him, they now began to feel an attachment to him themselves.
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CHAPTER
25
London, June 1816
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On his return from a drifting walk through the streets to his place of residence, which remained for the time being Mrs. Younge’s house as she had not quite sufficient courage, or despair of ultimate success in their undertaking, to have his belongings flung into the street and the door bolted behind him, Amaury discovered his landlady awaitin
g him in her first floor parlour. In her hand she had a letter, which had once been sealed. She drew him into the room and closed the door.
“By the greatest good fortune you have not yet thrown all away. There is still a chance to carry the day with Georgiana.”
Amaury looked at the letter. “Is that message addressed to you, ma’am, or to me?”
“What matter? It says that we have not yet failed, and that is all that is important.”
“Is it from Miss Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“Then I thank you for the pains you took to break the seal and spare my fingers, and request that you deliver me my property at once.”
With a bad grace Mrs. Younge handed him the paper, which he immediately took away to his own chamber to read.
Georgiana had had Amaury’s letter administered to her by Darcy and Elizabeth, but its medicinal qualities had not had the hoped-for efficacy in treating her disorder. Although they presented it to her as the extinction of her engagement to Amaury, she herself chose to interpret it more sanguinely as the opening of a correspondence.
The letter had disclosed no address for the writer, but Georgiana had abilities as well as affections and would have had to be materially stupider than she was not to have supposed that he could be reached at the house, or through the offices, of Mrs. Younge. She needed no time for deliberation; her resolution had been formed as she read Amaury’s letter under the eyes of her brother and sister. Therefore, hardly had she been left alone than she took pen and paper and wrote:
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My dearest, dearest Amaury,
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They have given me your letter. I press it against my bosom now as I write these lines to you. Everyone is united to destroy my love for you but as long as you love me, I will never give you up. And you did not say that you have ceased to love me. They have told me dreadful things about you. I do not believe them, for I know you are not capable of such deeds. But even if you did those things, it is of no consequence. You did them because you had no money and no friends, and when we marry you shall have everything you want. If you say we must elope immediately I shall obey you, as I am bound to do as your affianced wife. I have fifty pounds in ready money. I must find a way of sending this letter to you, and you one of replying as I am sure they will look at all my mail now.