Chapter 13 #3
How quickly she had grasped the point when they were at the cottage with Samuel and his wife.
Where he had begun, almost without thinking, to speak of leases and security, she had turned at once to the question of who would bring the news, and in what words.
It was she who had said, before he could collect his arguments, that a message sent in a stranger’s hand would never quiet a man who had not his letters.
Samuel would trust what was spoken in his own room, in the hearing of his wife and children, sooner than any number of seals and signatures.
Samuel’s rigid shoulders eased at that. The man’s eye turned from his own sober face to hers, as if the one explained the other.
It was as if their minds, differing in every outward circumstance of education and fortune, ran naturally in the same channel, his gravity and her easy kindness meeting, almost without design, in the same conclusion.
The counterpoint of her easy kindness and his serious attention to every detail wound together to accomplish more than either could have done separately.
It was not this alone that disturbed his repose.
The image that returned most often was not of the cracked wall, nor of Samuel’s respectful gratitude, but of Miss Elizabeth in the low-roofed kitchen, with the youngest child in her arms. The fellow had been a sturdy little urchin, with a smear of soot across his cheek and curls that would not lie flat even when his mother wetted them.
His eyes, large and dark, had fixed upon Elizabeth’s face with an attention that, to Darcy, seemed wonderfully well directed.
He had stood by the door, half unwilling to intrude upon a scene that did not strictly concern him, yet unable to turn away.
The sight of her, bending her bright head over that rough cradle, laughing as the child tangled his grubby fingers in the ribbon at her throat, had moved him with a force for which he was wholly unprepared.
It was no romantic vision of prettiness.
The kitchen was smoky, the air close with damp and drying linen, and the baby’s gown by no means clean.
But the tenderness she displayed met so exactly what he had, in his inmost thoughts, desired for the mistress of his house and the mother of his children.
He could not look upon it without a sort of awe.
He had often told himself, in the calmer seasons of his life, that if ever he married, it must be to a woman of his sphere and fortune, whose understanding he could respect and whose principles he could trust. He had not, till that afternoon, fully comprehended what more he asked of Providence.
That the same hand which could point out to him, with such clearness, where his duty lay, should be capable also of soothing a cottager’s infant, and of turning a poor kitchen into a scene of cheerfulness, was a combination he had scarcely dared to imagine.
The reflection brought with it a degree of happiness and of alarm which rendered sleep long impossible. If, after all, Miss Elizabeth’s good opinion extended no farther than gratitude for his compassion for his tenants, what then? He began to perceive that the task was greater than he had supposed.
Farewell
Mrs. Bennet was in such a flutter of spirits as the hour of departure approached that no one in the house could be ignorant of it.
“My dear Miss Darcy, you must take care of yourself upon the road,” she cried, hovering between Georgiana and the door.
“The air upon these horrid turnpike roads is enough to give any young lady a cold, I am persuaded. Lizzy, have you seen that the footman has the hot bricks set out? I shall be quite wretched if Miss Darcy should suffer from our want of care.”
“The bricks are already in the carriage, ma’am,” said Elizabeth. “Longbourn may be accused of many deficiencies, though neglect of our guests shall not be among them.”
Mrs. Bennet, thus eased of one anxiety, flew to another.
“Mr. Darcy, you must tell me whether your carriage is safe,” she exclaimed.
“It looks vastly elegant at the door, though I dare say it is accustomed only to the smooth roads between great houses and London. Our lanes are shocking. I protest I shall not know a moment’s peace till I hear that you and dear Miss Darcy are arrived without accident. ”
Darcy bowed.
“You are very good, madam. My coachman is well used to country roads, and the horses have carried us hither and back again with great reliability. You have nothing to fear on our account.”
“There now, Mr. Bennet,” cried his lady triumphantly.
“You hear what Mr. Darcy says. Even our abominable lanes cannot quite disgrace us in his eyes. I always knew Hertfordshire was not so bad as you represent. We have tempted him into the wilds and kept Miss Darcy here these many weeks, and they do not complain of it. We have been quite spoilt with such company, and I shall never rest till you have thanked him properly for bringing her into the country.”
Mr. Bennet, who stood at the chimneypiece, looked up from the newspaper he had not been reading.
“I am always obliged to those who bring sense and quiet into my house,” he said. “Miss Darcy has done more for my family than I ever thought any visitor could claim.”
Georgiana coloured, unused to being so directly praised, and her glance towards Elizabeth showed an affection that owed nothing to old sorrows and everything to the home she had found at Longbourn.
“You have been kindness itself, sir,” she said, in a low voice. “I am very much obliged to you for permitting us to remain so long.”
“My permission was of little consequence, my dear,” replied Mr. Bennet, with more softness.
“The good you have done my household would have obtained it in any case.” With a look of lazy amusement, he then added, “I am always ready to make an exchange to my advantage. If Mr. Darcy would leave me his sister, I might almost be tempted to offer him one of my own in return. He would, however, be very ill-used if Lydia were to fall to his share. That would hardly be called a beneficial trade.”
Lydia clapped her hands.
“I should like that extremely,” she cried.
“Mr. Darcy might think himself ill-used, though I am sure he would be excessively diverted by me. To gain Miss Darcy for a sister and Pemberley for a play-ground, and only lose a father who is always laughing at me, would be the best exchange in the world.”
Georgiana coloured again at being thus distinguished, and the little, startled smile that crossed her face showed that she knew the compliment, even whilst she shrank from hearing Lydia so named.
Elizabeth, fearing that Georgiana might be overcome, stepped nearer and linked her arm within hers.
“Come, Georgiana,” she said, with a smile, “you must not be talked into believing yourself of such importance. Pemberley will be quite affronted if it hears that Longbourn has carried you off entirely. Its woods will murmur, its lake will sulk, its piano will go sadly out of tune. You must go home and make your peace with them.”
“I do want to see Pemberley again,” Georgiana admitted. “There are so many places I wish to show you that we never spoke of. The little walk by the river, and the shrubbery behind the house, and the gallery above the saloon. I fancied you there many times.”
“Then you must content yourself with fancying me there a little longer,” said Elizabeth lightly. “Visions of impertinent young women wandering about your gallery will be an excellent exercise of patience. You know I am an idle creature. It will do me good to be so employed.”
Her tone was all playfulness. Her hand upon Georgiana’s arm was not quite so steady.
“You will come,” Georgiana said, turning to her with sudden earnestness. “You and Miss Mary will both come. Fitzwilliam has said—”
“My sister is quite resolved upon it,” Mr. Darcy interposed. “The only question is, whether Miss Elizabeth will be equally obliging.”
“Miss Lizzy is sensible enough of the honour to be properly frightened by it,” Elizabeth replied. “She must consult her father before she promises to alarm the neighbourhood of Lambton with her arrival.”
“Your journey to Derbyshire is already a settled thing, I think,” said Mr. Bennet.
“Mr. Darcy has been beforehand with you, Lizzy, and made all the proper offers. Since he is so obliging as to send his own carriages to carry you off, I see no use in my pretending to object. You may depend on your mother to approve whatever takes you nearer to Pemberley.”
“I shall be the happiest creature in the world if once I can see my girls visiting Pemberley,” cried Mrs. Bennet, clasping her hands.
“Such a house! Such grounds! Only conceive what my poor nerves will suffer from such grandeur. Mr. Darcy, you must prepare to have half the neighbourhood die of envy. Mrs. Long will not recover these ten years.”
“Envy is a complaint that threatens no one at Longbourn, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet dryly. “We are all much too good and humble for that.”
Kitty, who had been shifting from one foot to the other in restless silence, ventured a word.
“I shall have nobody to walk with now,” she said. “It will be horridly dull without Miss Darcy and Mr. Darcy.”
Mary, from her seat by the window, said, “It is amazing how soon a house alters when its best guests are gone. Rational employment of time must supply the want of such society, though few people seem inclined to try the experiment.”
“Rational employment!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “You talk like your father, child. I am sure I do not know how any of us are to bear the loss of such agreeable visitors. Mr. Darcy, you must promise to bring your sister again. I insist upon a promise.”
“You shall certainly see my sister again, madam,” Darcy replied. “She has formed attachments here which she values very highly.”