Chapter Sixteen #5
“Now we shall see,” she said, rising. “Come, cousin. We must attend our fate.”
They found Lady Catherine enthroned, as it were, in her enormous gilt chair, her work-table drawn up beside her, her person arranged with a formality which seemed designed less for comfort than for effect.
Mr. and Mrs. Collins were already in attendance.
Mr. Collins, on the edge of his seat, looked as if he anticipated some display of magnificence in which he might bear a humble part.
His wife, her gown straining a little over her figure, sat tying and untying her ribbons and giggling whenever her eye met any one’s.
“Nephew—Anne—be seated,” Lady Catherine said. “I have sent for you upon a subject of the greatest importance. You must attend. Mr. Collins, you will be silent.”
Mr. Collins started up from his chair, made a prodigious flourish of respect, and then, remembering the injunction, sat down again with an air of pained importance. Darcy remained standing, Anne beside him, trembling slightly.
“It is high time,” her ladyship began, fixing her gaze upon Darcy, “that this foolishness was at an end. You, Darcy, will marry my daughter. It was so settled between your father and Sir Lewis. Every thing has pointed to it, every thing has been arranged with that view. You will treat my daughter with all the attention that is her due. She is of an age to be settled, and your convenience will not be the rule of every thing.”
Anne’s hand moved slightly upon his arm. He answered steadily.
“Aunt, I am grateful for all the kindness you have shown me, but I never gave, nor meant to give, any encouragement to this plan. My father never mentioned it or bound me to it. I shall not marry Anne.”
Lady Catherine startled as if he had uttered blasphemy.
“Not marry her!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? There is no impediment. You are of suitable age, you are of suitable fortune, you are of the same rank, the same connexions, the same blood. It is every thing that is proper. What more can you require?”
“I require,” he said, and his voice did not waver, “that my wife should be of my own choosing, and that she should, likewise, choose me. Anne does not desire this marriage any more than I do.”
All eyes turned, involuntarily, to Miss de Bourgh. She met her mother’s astonished look with more steadiness than any one, save Darcy, could have expected from her.
“It is true, Mamma,” she said. “I have no wish to marry my cousin. I never have had. He is very good to me. I am much obliged to him, but I do not wish to be his wife.”
For a few seconds Lady Catherine was literally speechless.
Mr. Collins’s mouth opened and shut twice, as if he longed to utter some tribute to her ladyship’s feelings and could not find one sufficiently tremendous.
Mrs. Collins, who had understood nothing but the word “marry,” tittered behind her hand.
“This is an abomination!” Lady Catherine cried at last. “Ungrateful girl! Undutiful nephew! To set yourselves against my plans—to throw back, in my face, the arrangement of years! What is to become of Rosings? What is to become of you, Anne? You are not fit to manage the estate alone. You are not fit to manage your own health. You will be imposed upon. You will be cheated. And you, Mr. Darcy—what infatuation has seized you? Do you mean to cast yourself away upon some sly, designing creature who has flattered your vanity and turned your head?”
Elizabeth's face rose before him—honest, animated, uncalculating.
Whatever else might be said of her, she had never flattered his vanity.
She had forced him to see himself with clearer eyes.
If his head were turned now, it was by a mind that would never stoop to be managed by anyone's schemes, least of all his aunt's.
“On the contrary,” he said. Now, his voice was calm. “I shall act for myself in that manner which, in my own judgement, is most likely to secure my happiness, without reference to any plans that are not of my making. Whether I marry, or remain single, I will not marry Anne.”
Lady Catherine turned to her daughter.
“And you, miss?” she demanded. “Do you persist in this monstrous folly? Have you the face to tell me that you, who have never so much as walked alone in the shrubbery without my leave, know better than I what is good for you?”
“Yes, Mamma,” Anne said. “In this, I do.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece sounded loud and harsh. Outside, a carriage rolled slowly along the avenue. Its wheels crunched on the gravel with a regularity which seemed to Darcy the very voice of Rosings—habit without heart.
“At last,” Lady Catherine said at last, in a tone of icy dignity which made even Mr. Collins sit up straighter, “you are frank in your disobedience. I am thoroughly ill-used. I have laboured all my life to promote the consequence of my family, and this is my reward. A daughter who defies me, and a nephew who insults me. Very well. Have your own way. Marry where you please, or not at all. I wash my hands of you both entirely.”
“No, Mamma,” Anne said gently. “You will scold us for it as long as you live.”
Richard, who had stood silent in a corner, could not contain a sudden cough which bore a strong resemblance to a laugh. Lady Catherine shot him a glance which promised future vengeance, then rose.
“This insolence is not to be borne,” she said. “Mr. Collins, you will attend me. Mrs. Collins—endeavour, if you can, to look less stupid. You have no cause to triumph in other people’s folly.”
She swept from the room, her unfortunate rector and his silly, already too-encumbered wife fluttering after her.
When the door had closed, no one moved. Then Richard came forward and took Anne’s hand with respect.
“My dear cousin,” he said, “you have borne the brunt like a heroine. I shall never believe that Rosings breeds only cowards.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“I am tired,” she said. “I think I shall go to my room.”
When she was gone, Richard turned to Darcy.
“Well,” he observed, with more seriousness than his words implied, “You have destroyed that bridge effectually. You must take care that the road to Derbyshire is as clear as your conscience. The sooner you are out of Kent, the better it will be for everyone—except, perhaps, my aunt, and a certain lady who has grown accustomed to seeing you in her mother’s drawing-room at Easter. ”
“What might be done for Anne?” Darcy said, after a moment.
“Anne has more spirit than you suppose,” Richard replied. “She will bear the worst of it to-day. After that, I shall suggest my mother and father insist she visit them in town. In any event, she will have the comfort of having chosen for herself. That is more than most at Rosings can boast.”
Darcy did not contradict him. He had at last, done what ought to have been done long before, for Anne’s sake as well as his own. Whatever remained to settle at Rosings would now be despatched with all the speed his pen and his horses could command.