‘You must put an end to this nonsense at once, Darcy,’ she said, as soon as she had seated herself.
I did not know what she was talking about, but before I could say anything, she went on:
‘I heard from Mr Collins that you were about to propose to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Sit down, Anne.’
Anne promptly sat down.
‘Knowing such a report to be a grotesque falsehood, I visited Longboum in order to have Miss Elizabeth Bennet deny it. The audacity of the girl! The perverseness! Though what else can one expect with such a mother and an uncle in Cheapside? She refused to give the lie to the report, though I knew it must be false. I have never met such an impudent girl in my life. She trifled with me in the most vulgar way. When I told her that she must contradict the report, she replied only that I had declared it to be impossible, so it needed no contradiction. Of course, it is impossible. You are too proud a man to be drawn in, whatever arts she employed. To ally yourself with such a family! And through them, to ally yourself with George Wickham, the son of your father’s steward. He, to call you brother! It is not to be thought of. To put an end to her schemes, I told her you were engaged to Anne, and do you know what she said to me?’
‘No,’ I said, not knowing what to make of Elizabeth’s speech, but hoping – for the first time having reason to hope – that she was not firmly set against me.
‘That if it was so, you could not possibly make an offer to her! She is lost to every feeling of propriety. Honour, decorum and modesty all forbid such a match! And yet she would not tell me the rumour was false. She thought nothing of the disgrace she would bring to a proud name, or the pollution she would inflict on the shades of Pemberley. Pemberley! When I think of such an ignorant girl at Pemberley! But of course it is impossible. You and Anne are formed for each other. You are descended from the same noble line. Your fortunes are splendid. And yet this upstart, without family, connections or fortune, would not give me an assurance that she would never marry you.’
My hopes soared. She had not decided against me! If she had, she would have told my aunt. Then there was still a chance for me.
‘Well?’ Lady Catherine demanded.
‘Mama—’ began Anne timidly.
‘Be silent, Anne,’ commanded my aunt. ‘Well, Darcy?’ she demanded.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Will you assure me that you will never ask this woman to be your wife?’
‘No, Aunt, I will not.’
She glared at me.
‘Then you are betrothed?’
‘No, Aunt, we are not.’
‘Ah. I thought not. You could not be so lost to what is right and proper, and to all common sense.’
‘But if she will have me, I mean to make her my wife.’
Her silence was awful, and was followed by a torrent of words.
‘You need not think you will be welcome at Rosings, if you marry that upstart. You will not bring such shame and degradation on my own house, even if you are absurd enough to bring it on your own. Your sainted mother would be appalled to discover what woman is to succeed her at Pemberley.’
‘My mother would be glad I had chosen so well.’
‘You have a fever. It is the only explanation,’ she said. ‘If you marry that girl you will be cut off from family and friends. They will not visit you, nor invite you to visit them in turn. You will be ostracized, cast out. I will give you a week to come to your senses. If I do not hear from you in that time, saying that you have been wholly mistaken in this preposterous plan, and if you do not beg my forgiveness for sullying my ears with this objectionable nonsense, then I will be aunt to you no more.’
I made her a cold bow and she swept out of the room.
Anne hung back.
‘I am sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I never knew you took our marriage as a settled thing until my cousin told me of it, or I would have made sure you knew that I did not regard myself as betrothed to you.’
‘There is no need to be sorry. I did not want to marry you,’ she said.
She smiled, and I was taken aback. There was no timidness in her smile, and as she walked up to me she looked confident and assured.
‘Am I then so terrible?’ I asked.
‘No, not that. As a friend and a cousin I like you very well – as long as the weather is fine, and you are not forced to remain indoors – but I do not love you, and the thought of marrying you made me miserable. I am glad you are to marry Elizabeth. She is in love with you. She will tease you out of your stiffness, and we will all be friends.’
‘She is in love with me? I wish I could be so sure.’
‘One woman in love recognizes another,’ she said.
She smiled again and then followed Lady Catherine out of the room.
Monday 6th October
I am once again at Netherfield. I arrived here with more hope than I have ever felt, but still I dare not take Elizabeth’s love as a settled thing. Bingley and I left Netherfield early and soon arrived at Longbourn. Miss Bennet was full of blushes and had never looked more becoming. Elizabeth was harder to understand. She, too, blushed. I wish I knew the cause!
Bingley suggested a walk.
‘I will fetch my bonnet,’ said Kitty. ‘I have been longing to see Maria. We can walk to the Lucas’s.’
Mrs Bennet frowned at her, but Kitty did not notice.
‘I am not a great walker, I am afraid,’ said Mrs Bennet, turning to Bingley with a smile. ‘You must excuse me. But Jane loves to walk. Jane, my dear, fetch your spencer. That man, I suppose, will go, too,’ she said, looking at me as though I was a disagreeable insect.
Elizabeth blushed. I ignored the remark as best I could, and thought that only my love for Elizabeth could induce me to set foot in that house ever again.
Bingley looked helpless.
‘Lizzy, run and fetch your spencer, too. You must keep Mr Darcy company. I am sure he will not be interested in anything Jane has to say.’
‘I am too busy to walk,’ said Mary, lifting her head from a book. ‘I have often observed that those who are the best walkers are those who lack the intellectual capacity to instruct themselves in the serious matters of life.’
‘Oh, Mary!’ said Mrs Bennet impatiently.
Mary returned to her book.
Elizabeth and her sister returned, having put on their outdoor clothes, and we set out. Bingley and his beloved soon fell behind. Kitty, I knew, would soon leave us to go to visit her friend. Would Elizabeth go too? I hoped not. If she remained with me, then I would be able to talk to her. And talk to her I must.
We reached the turning to the Lucas’s.
‘You can go on by yourself,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I have nothing to say to Maria.’
Kitty ran off down the path, leaving Elizabeth and me alone.
I turned towards her.
Elizabeth, I was about to say, when she stopped me by speaking herself.
‘Mr Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours.’
I felt myself grow cold. All my hopes now seemed like vanity. She was going to wound my feelings. I had been wrong to read so much into her refusal to deny the report of our engagement. It had meant nothing, except that she would not deign to deny an idle report for the benefit of my aunt.
She was obviously finding it difficult to continue.
She is going to tell me never to come to Longbourn again, I thought. She cannot bear the sight of me. I have given her a disgust of me that is too great to be overcome. I have not used my opportunities. I have visited Longbourn with Bingley and said nothing, because I had too much to say. Yet none of it could have been said in front of others. And now it is too late. But I will not let it be too late. I will speak to her, whether she wants me to or not.
But then she went on, even as those thoughts were going through my mind.
‘I can no longer help thanking you—’
Thanking me? Not blamin
g me, but thanking me? I scarcely knew what to think.
‘—for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.’
Unexampled kindness? Then she does not hate me! The thought made my spirits rise, though cautiously, for I did not know what she had heard of the business, or what else she was going to say.
‘Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.’
Gratitude. I did not want her gratitude. Liking, yes. Loving, yes. But not gratitude.
‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.’
‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.’
Generous compassion. She thought well of me, but in what way? I was in an agony of suspense.
‘If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,’ I said. My voice was low and impassioned. I could not hold my feelings in. ‘Your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’
I stopped breathing. I had spoken. I had let out my feelings. I had offered them to her, and could only wait to see if she would fling them back in my face. But she said nothing. Why did she not speak? Was she shocked? Horrified? Pleased? Then hope rose in my breast. Perhaps she was kept silent by pleasure? I had to know.
‘You are too generous to trifle with me,’ I burst out. ‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’
It seemed to be an age before she spoke.
‘My feelings are so different …’ she began.
I started to breathe again.
‘… that I am humbled to think you can still love me …’
I began to smile.
‘… now I receive your assurances with gratitude and … and pleasure …’
‘I have loved you for so long,’ I said, as she slipped her hand through my arm and I covered it with my own. To claim her was a joy. ‘I thought it was hopeless. I tried to forget you, but to no avail. When I saw you again at Pemberley I was overcome with surprise, but quickly blessed my good fortune. I had a chance to show you that I was not as mean-spirited as you thought me. I had a chance to show you that I could be a gentleman. When you did not spurn me, when you accepted my invitation, I dared to hope, but your sister’s troubles took you away from me and I saw you no more. I could not let matters rest. I had to help your sister, in the knowledge that by doing so I was helping you. Then, when she was safely married, I had to see you. I was as nervous as Bingley when we arrived at Longbourn. It was clear that your sister was a woman in love, but I could tell nothing from your face or manner. Did you love me? Did you like me? Could you even tolerate me? I thought yes, then I thought no. You said so little—’
‘Which was not in my nature,’ she said with an arch smile.
‘No,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It was not. I did not know whether it was because you were displeased to see me or merely embarrassed.’
‘I was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I did not know why you had come. I was afraid of showing too much. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule. I could not believe that a man of your pride would offer his hand when it had already been rejected.’
‘His hand, no, but his heart, yes. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and by accepting my hand you have put me forever in your debt.’
‘I will remind you of it, when you are cross with me,’ she said teasingly.
‘I could never be cross with you.’
‘You think not, but when I pollute the shades of Pemberley, it is possible that you might!’
I laughed. ‘Ah yes, my aunt expressed herself forcefully to both of us.’
‘She told me I would never live at Pemberley,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I ought to dislike her for it, but I am too much in charity with her. It is her visit that brought me to you.’
‘She came to see you?’
‘She did. In London. She was in high dudgeon. She told me that she had been to see you, and that she had demanded that you contradict the rumour of our impending marriage. Your refusal to fall in with her wishes put her sadly out of countenance but it taught me to hope.’
I spoke of my letter. ‘Did it,’ I said, ‘did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?’
‘It made me think so much better of you, and so immediately, that I felt heartily ashamed of myself. I read it through again, and then again, and as I did so, every one of my prejudices was removed.’
‘I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.’
‘The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.’
‘When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.’
‘The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.’
I could not do it. I could not let the past go without telling her of my parents, good people in themselves who yet encouraged me to think well of myself and meanly of others. I told her how I was an only son, indeed an only child for much of my life, and how I had come to value none beyond my own family circle. ‘By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.’
We talked of Georgiana and of Lydia, and of the day at the inn when Jane’s letter had arrived. Talk of Jane naturally led to her engagement.
‘I must ask whether you were surprised?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.’
‘That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much,’ she teased me.
By this time we had reached the house. It was not until we went indoors that I realized how long we had been away.
‘My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?’ asked her sister, as we sat down at the table.
Elizabeth coloured, but said: ‘We wandered about, not paying attention to where we were going, and became lost.’
‘I am sure I am sorry for it,’ said Mrs Bennet, in a whisper loud enough for me to hear. ‘I must have been very trying for you, having to talk to that disagreeable man.’
Elizabeth was mortified, but I caught her eye and smiled. Her mother may be the most dreadful woman it has been my misfortune to meet, but I would tolerate a dozen such mothers for the sake of Elizabeth.
I could not speak to her as I wished to during the evening. Jane and Bingley sat close together, talking of the future, but until I had asked Mr Bennet for Elizabeth’s hand, she and I could not indulge in such discussions.
It was time for Bingley and me to return to Netherfield. I was able to relieve my feelings a little in the carriage going home.
‘I have already wished you happy,’ I said. ‘Now you must do the same for me.’
Bingley looked
surprised.
‘I am to marry Elizabeth.’
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Yes. I proposed during our walk. She has agreed to marry me.’
‘This is capital news! Almost as good as my own. She is just the wife for you. She is the only person I have ever met who can stand up to you. I shall never forget the way she teased you when she stayed with us at Netherfield, when Jane was ill. You were bored and in one of your stately moods. Caroline was admiring everything you said and did. I remember thinking it would be a tragedy if you married her, knowing she would confirm you in your conceit. She would convince you that you were above everyone else in every way. Not that you needed a great deal of convincing!’
I laughed.
‘Was I really so arrogant?’
‘You were,’ said Bingley. ‘You know you were! But Elizabeth will make sure you never become so again. When do you mean to marry?’
‘As soon as possible. Elizabeth will need time to buy wedding clothes, and if she wishes me to make any alterations to Pemberley before she arrives then I will need time to attend to it. Otherwise, I would like to marry at once.’
‘Changes to Pemberley? It must be love,’ Bingley said. ‘I am sure I hope you will be very happy.’
‘We have been talking about that, Elizabeth and I. We have decided that you and Jane will be happy, but that we will be happier.’
‘Oh no, on that we will never agree.’
The carriage rolled to a halt.
‘Will you tell Caroline, or shall I?’ asked Bingley, as we went in. Then he went on immediately: ‘It might be better to let me tell her, or she might say something she regrets on first hearing the news.’
‘As you wish.’
On entering the house, I retired to the library, to think of Elizabeth, and of the future.
Tuesday 7th October
I met Caroline at breakfast, and I was pleased to see how well she comported herself.
‘I understand I am to wish you happy,’ she remarked.
‘Yes. I am to be married.’
‘I am delighted,’ she said. ‘It is time you took a wife. Who would have thought, when we came to Netherfield last year, that both you and Charles would find true love.’