Chapter 13 #4
His eyes, in seeking Georgiana, were drawn against his will to rest for a moment on Elizabeth. She immediately looked away, busying herself with the fastening of Georgiana’s glove.
“You are not to grow melancholy,” she said, in a lower tone. “You are going home, remember, to all that you love best.”
“I have loved Longbourn very much,” whispered Georgiana. “You have all been so good to me. I shall miss you every day till we meet again.”
“Then you must accustom yourself to missing us,” Elizabeth returned, in the same tone. “It is a very improving sensation, I dare say. You will play better for it.”
A call from the door put an end to their private conference. The carriage was announced.
Mrs. Bennet’s exclamations were renewed with double vigour.
“The carriage! Gracious Heaven, how the time flies. Mr. Bennet, pray hand Miss Darcy to the door. Kitty, fetch my salts. No, do not fetch them, I shall only drop them. Lizzy, do not let them forget the hat-box. I shall be miserable if the hat-box is left behind.”
“The hat-box is safe, ma’am,” said Elizabeth. “Nothing threatens it but your anxiety.”
The party moved into the hall with that confusion which always attends such moments. Servants appeared with cloaks and packages, doors were opened and shut, the cold air from without met the warmth within.
Mr. Bennet offered Georgiana his arm.
“Come, my dear Miss Darcy,” he said. “Your brother will suspect us of detaining you on purpose, in hopes that he may repent and leave you behind.”
“That would be too great a happiness for us,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Though I should pity poor Pemberley to be robbed of such a mistress.”
“You must write to me of every ball and every new gown,” Lydia insisted. “If there is a single amusing adventure in Derbyshire and you do not tell me of it, I shall be outrageous. Only think, Lizzy, what fine things they must have to talk of in such a great house.”
Elizabeth fell a little back, allowing Darcy and her mother to pass before her. Georgiana, having taken leave of Lydia, Kitty, Jane, and Mary with real affection, and of Mrs. Bennet with grateful civility, turned once more to her.
“You will write?” Georgiana’s voice trembled. “You will let me hear of you, of everybody?”
“You shall be overwhelmed with accounts of our insignificance,” said Elizabeth. “You will soon grow tired of our little histories, and long for letters more worthy of Pemberley.”
“That will never be,” Georgiana answered, with an energy new to her. “Nothing will be more welcome than your letters.”
Elizabeth’s smile wavered, she forced a lighter one into its place.
“You will make me vain,” she said. “I shall begin to fancy myself of consequence, which is the surest sign that I am not so. Go, or I shall be accused of detaining you from your woods and your lake.”
Georgiana could say no more. She hastily embraced Elizabeth, then allowed herself to be handed into the carriage.
Darcy remained a moment longer in the doorway.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, with more formality than his countenance expressed, “I hope you will not forget your promise.”
“My promise, sir?”
“To consider whether you can be prevailed upon to visit Pemberley. My sister builds every hope upon it.”
Elizabeth met his gaze as steadily as she could.
“Your sister’s wishes must ever have great weight with me,” she replied. “My own cannot be quite silent on the subject. I am very much disposed to be prevailed upon.”
A slight colour rose in his cheek.
“It will be a great addition to our happiness,” he said. “I shall only say that Pemberley will be always ready to receive you.”
There was a pause, during which Mrs. Bennet called impatiently from the steps that the horses would take cold, and Kitty declared that the coachman was growing cross.
Elizabeth drew a breath that was almost a sigh yet managed to laugh.
“You see how we are governed here, Mr. Darcy. You must escape whilst you can. Pray convey our respects to Mrs. Annesley and tell her that her pupil has been an example to us all.”
“Miss Darcy has been more benefited than beneficial, I believe,” he answered. “Nevertheless, your message shall be given.”
He bowed, she curtseyed, and he joined his sister in the carriage.
The steps were put up, the door closed, the horses set in motion. Mrs. Bennet waved her handkerchief with many protestations of regret. Kitty called out a last incoherent farewell. Mary stood upright, her eyes shining with tears.
Elizabeth remained a little behind them all, at the threshold. Mr. Bennet, after watching the carriage till it turned from the gate into the lane, spoke at last.
“Well, Lizzy,” he said, “we have lost a very amiable friend and a very extraordinary neighbour in one morning. This is what comes of suffering agreeable people to enter one’s house. One grows used to them.”
“I hope you do not mean to forbid all future agreeable people the door, sir,” she replied. “It would be a severe punishment for the rest of us.”
“My prohibition would be quite useless,” he said. “Your mother would overthrow it. You, perhaps, would evade it. I shall content myself with observing that you have less pleasure in this departure than your spirits would persuade the world.”
Her eyes, which had been fixed upon the point where the carriage disappeared among the trees, returned to his face.
“I do not know what you mean,” she said, attempting a laugh. “I am excessively reasonable. Miss Darcy is going home, where she will be admired and loved as she deserves. Mr. Darcy will be relieved from the fatigue of country visits. We remain as we were. Nothing can be more proper.”
Mr. Bennet regarded her for a moment with a look in which irony had little share.
“Nothing,” he said quietly, “is so common as for young ladies to be perfectly at ease when their friends leave them. I am glad to see you so much like the rest of the world.”
The colour rose in her cheeks in spite of herself.
“You paint me as far more heroic than I am, sir. I shall miss Miss Darcy very much. She has been an excellent companion for Mary.”
“Mary will now be obliged to cultivate her acquaintance with the living in the neighbourhood, instead of the dead ones in her library,” he said. “As for you, Lizzy, I shall not pretend to guess whether you will be most at a loss for the sister or the brother.”
“You are determined to laugh at me,” she answered, struggling to keep her tone light.
“I assure you, I am not romantic enough to pine for the loss of any neighbour, however extraordinary. Longbourn has flourished for many years without the countenance of Pemberley. It will, I dare say, manage to do so still.”
Mr. Bennet’s smile deepened, though his voice softened.
“Longbourn will go on very well, I have no fear. Whether my second daughter will do the same is a point on which I shall exercise my paternal curiosity.”
She hesitated for half a second, looking once more towards the empty lane.
“The carriage is quite gone, Lizzy,” he said gently.
“I perceive that it is, sir.” Her answer came out more quietly than she intended.
They turned back into the house together, leaving the hall strangely still in the absence of all that bustle which, a few minutes before, had seemed as if it could never cease.
The Post
Kitty burst into the parlour so precipitately that she almost overset Mamma’s work-table.
“Lizzy, there is a letter from Derbyshire!” she cried. “Hill says the man from Meryton has just brought it. The seal has a tree upon it. I am sure it must be from Pemberley.”
Mrs. Bennet started from her chair.
“A letter from Derbyshire! Then it must be from Miss Darcy. Pray give it to me this instant. I shall die if I am not the first to hear what they say of that noble place.”
Kitty clutched the letter a little closer.
“It is directed ‘To the Miss Bennets and their honoured parents,’” she announced, in great importance. “Miss Darcy has written to us all. Lizzy, you read quickest, you ought to open it.”
“I shall not oppose such justice,” said Mr. Bennet, looking up from the book on his knee. “Let your sister be the interpreter of Pemberley to us. She is already half engaged in the office.”
Elizabeth took the letter from Kitty. The direction was in Georgiana’s graceful, rather delicate hand, the letters evenly formed.
In one corner, where the seal had not quite covered the paper, there appeared a little attempted drawing of something that might be a fir tree, or might be only a flourish.
“She has been practising her accomplishments upon the outside,” Elizabeth said, half smiling. “We must see what improvement is within.”
She broke the seal, unfolded the sheet, and saw at once that the margins were not quite clear.
In two or three places Georgiana had ventured tiny pen-and-ink sketches: a many-windowed front with smoke curling from its chimneys, a little square pianoforte, lines radiating round a circle which, by favour, could be supposed the sun upon snow.
“Is it very long?” asked Lydia, drawing close. “If it is very long, we shall know that Pemberley is everything you said, Lizzy, and more. Read quickly, for I am dying to hear of their balls and their company and all the fine things they do.”
“Lydia, you are always dying of something,” observed Mary. “It would be more rational to listen.”
Elizabeth began.
“‘To the Miss Bennets and their honoured parents.”
“My dear friends,” she read, the two last words bringing an instant colour to her own cheek, “‘you have been so very good to remember me since I left you, that I cannot delay any longer in telling you how often I think of Longbourn, and how much I feel the kindness I received there.’”
“There now,” cried Mrs. Bennet, in rapture, “only hear that. She calls us her dear friends. I always said Miss Darcy had the properest feelings in the world.”