Chapter 24
Elizabeth was received at Longbourn with an outburst of joy that had the marvellous effect of soothing the distress and sorrow which still accompanied her.
From the very next day after her arrival, she was surprised to find that their once boisterous home had entered a season of tranquillity which only Mr Bennet appeared wholly to enjoy.
“Only Mary and Lydia are missing from our circle,” he said, half in wonder, as he walked with Elizabeth through the neighbouring woods, as they had done ever since she was a child of five or six.
“And I am certain that Mary never uttered more than a few words at a time…can it be that all the noise was Lydia’s doing? ”
Though his words bore a trace of irony, his countenance expressed only tenderness for all his daughters.
“I am glad for Mary that she has found her place at the Academy. You were different—a young, energetic, stubborn lady, who had always dreamt of working and living independently, and imagined that such a life might be possible; but she…” he paused thoughtfully, even a little sadly, “poor Mary, if she ever had dreams, she never told them to us,” he continued.
Elizabeth remained silent, content to be beside him. His calm seemed to pass into her, and though Mr Darcy was ever present in her heart and mind, she found in her father’s company a kind of quiet peace.
“Tell me more about her,” he urged, for he was unaccustomed to her silence.
“I have told you many times…she is invaluable. She remains at Hampstead Hall with Mrs Robertson and a small army of workmen engaged in repairs and improvements. But I forbade them to approach my apartment,” Elizabeth smiled at the memory of the chamber she adored.
“I can scarcely wait for us to go there, that you may see that delightful place yourself.”
In a moment of uncharacteristic enthusiasm—which he regretted almost at once—Mr Bennet had promised that, at the beginning of August, he would accompany his family for a few days to Hampstead, at the invitation of Mr Clinton, who had told Elizabeth and Mary that, in his late wife’s time, the house had been overrun by friends throughout the summer months.
That custom, interrupted by her death, he was now eager to revive; therefore, he had invited not only the Bennets, but also the Gardiners with their children.
“I am sure that you and Mr Clinton will form your own programme…so please, do not be cross for having accepted,” she said affectionately, for she knew him so well, and was aware how little he liked to travel.
Yet for Mr Bennet, the summer promised to be a demanding one, for there was also Jane’s wedding to be celebrated in London, where Mr Bingley had purchased a house now undergoing its final preparations, to be inaugurated by their marriage.
Two journeys in a single month were a heavy burden, though indeed Mr Clinton’s company and the nearness of the woods were consolations.
“Perhaps Lydia will come to Hampstead as well,” Elizabeth said. She had not seen her since May, when Lydia had been the guest of Mrs Forster, wife of colonel Forster, commander of the militia regiment stationed at Meryton, which had removed to Brighton in that same month.
“How could you allow her to go to Brighton?” asked Elizabeth, who had opposed that plan but, being absent from Longbourn, could do nothing to prevent it.
“For the sake of the tranquillity that surrounds us,” he joked.
“You are unkind,” his daughter reproved him. “It is peaceful also because Jane spends all day at Netherfield, and Kitty now follows her everywhere, since she lost Lydia.”
“An excellent arrangement,” Mr Bennet said.
“With Lydia, nothing more could be done. She will, at length, commit some folly—I only hope it may not cost us too dearly in money or reputation. But Kitty, in Jane’s company, is saved.
And as I said, I have longed for this calm; therefore, I raised no objection when Lydia went to Brighton and Jane to be married. ”
Their laughter rose gaily through the stillness of the wood, startling a pair of squirrels that scrambled noisily up the nearest branches.
“I do not think you could have prevented Jane’s marriage even if you had wished,” Elizabeth replied.
“No, I believe she is as stubborn as you—or Lydia. Only her gentle nature sometimes conceals her faults—”
“Father!” cried Elizabeth. “What faults?”
“You mean your eldest sister is perfect?” he asked, with a gleam of mischief; it was a subject they had never discussed, and he was curious to learn her opinion.
“Perfect? I do not know.”
“Do you not know, or do you merely imagine her so?”
At another time, Elizabeth would have declared without hesitation that Jane was, by far, the nearest to perfection of any young woman she had ever known.
But in recent months, she had learnt that faults neither wholly defined a person nor could be wholly absent from any character, even from those who seemed the most perfect.
“Yes, perfection is a notion unattainable in this world. We all have faults,” she said. “Even Jane.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. It is wise to be cautious of those who seem perfect, and indulgent towards those who appear full of flaws.”
“I know,” Elizabeth replied. “It is a lesson I have learnt in these last months—”
“It is a lesson I have taught you all your life, but you never believed me. And rightly so…geography and history may be learnt from books, but life must be lived to be understood.”
They were strolling back towards Longbourn.
Elizabeth gathered flowers from the roadside—wild rose, oxeye daisy, harebell, and scabious—as she always did when accompanying her father.
He followed her with tenderness, though not without sadness, for he knew that such happy moments between them would soon become rare.
His eyes, perhaps, were dimmed, for Elizabeth said, holding out the fragrant bouquet, “Do not be foolish, dearest Father. We shall always walk together, even if, from time to time, you must come to London or to Hampstead for that purpose.”
And he only nodded.
But their moment of quiet was soon broken, for as they entered the garden, they already heard cheerful cries. They came not only from the Gardiner children, but also from the ladies, whose meetings were ever noisy and merry.
“Fortunately, the Gardiners are Mr Bingley’s guests at Netherfield!” Mr Bennet whispered, and Elizabeth struck him lightly on the arm.
“You are unkind, and I ought not to give you my bouquet.”
Yet she arranged with care the bouquet in the vase on Mr Bennet’s library table, which had been waiting all summer for Elizabeth’s flowers from the side of the road.
She smiled above the flowers, for Mrs Gardiner was calling her to join the ladies, who waited with eager curiosity for tales of the fashionable world that now sent its daughters to the Clinton Academy.
“You should have seen the faces of Mr Bingley’s sisters when Jane told them about Elizabeth,” she said.
“They knew of the Academy?” asked Mrs Bennet, whoever spoke of it as though it had been Elizabeth’s wealthy husband, and not the establishment wherein her daughter was employed.
“Jane took care to relate in full to Mr Bingley her sister’s success, but he was already informed,” said Mrs Gardiner.
“How so?” asked Mrs Phillips, in her somewhat na?ve manner.
“He is a friend of Mr Darcy,” replied her sister-in-law briefly, hoping the matter might rest there.
Yet her hope was vain; for from that moment commenced a most animated discussion respecting Mr Darcy among the two sisters, Mrs Bennet, and Mrs Phillips—a conversation which Elizabeth could neither moderate nor escape, and which she endured until Mrs Gardiner proposed a walk towards Netherfield, that they might arrive before dinner.
“How are you?” Mrs Gardiner asked, her voice marked by evident concern, though she tried to conceal upon her countenance the anxiety that had taken hold of her.
Elizabeth, unlike Jane, was obliged to endure her unhappiness alone—a situation made the more difficult as she was forced to hide her pain beneath smiles that often refused to appear.
“It is hard,” she said with sincerity. “But as the separation is final and there is no hope, I must endeavour to recover as quickly as I can. Yet it is difficult when news from London seems to reach me at every turn through Mr Bingley—”
“Autumn will come; things will settle…you shall see. Besides, you will meet only at Jane’s wedding. I understand that he is to stand as Mr Bingley’s witness—”
“Jane wishes me to be hers,” Elizabeth whispered. “But what if he should come to the church with his fiancée?”
“Do not speak such nonsense. That man respects you and is a gentleman of honour. He would never behave so.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I never thought I should await Jane’s wedding with fear. I dread being near him, for I am afraid that those around might perceive what I feel.”
“You shall stay apart, with your family. The ceremony will last an hour, and you may absent yourself from the breakfast if you wish. No one will notice, or if they do, I shall find means to excuse you.”
Elizabeth nodded. Yet somewhere in her heart she longed to see him once more—only once.
She could not renounce that opportunity, however painful it might be to behold him at Jane’s wedding, which might have been her own.
She knew such thoughts were useless and perilous, for they sustained her unhappiness, yet they were beyond her will to master.
“Now I wish to speak with you of something else,” Elizabeth said to her aunt.
And as everyone was preparing to go to Netherfield for dinner, they took advantage of the bustle to walk together, while Mrs Phillips—who had no children—happily watched over the four young Gardiners, assisted by Mrs Bennet.
“When Jane was first at Netherfield, ill with her cold, I was so anxious that I went to see her the next morning, and as the carriage was engaged, I set out across the fields…” Elizabeth stopped.
Mrs Gardiner looked towards her, but Elizabeth seemed not to notice the glance.
Her aunt saw that she was changed—slenderer, more graceful; and now, taking such care with her dress, she appeared more womanly than ever.
Without a doubt, her niece had matured, and the sorrow she carried within her had rendered her both more fragile and more beautiful.
“I entered the dining-room at Netherfield, and they were all at breakfast—Mr Bingley and his family, and Mr Darcy. I ought to have known then that he loved me; in those days, I should have laid aside that spirit of confrontation I so enjoy when speaking with a gentleman, and have shown more interest in him as a man. I was attentive to his words, to every inflexion of his voice, ready to begin a battle of wit, when that morning he looked at me with amusement, for my hem was soiled with mud. Caroline, or the other, had noticed it with disdain—yet also with a sort of admiration, for I had crossed the fields to reach them, and my cheeks were flushed from the effort. Yes, it was admiration—”
“I shall never tire of stopping you when you begin to speak of him. You will not forget him in this way. You said you wished to tell me something.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, struggling to free herself from the grasp of memory. “Yes. Mr Clinton wishes to make me his heiress—to leave me the Academy.”
The news fell with such force that Mrs Gardiner was left in a state of astonishment difficult to describe.
“Wait—there is more. There are legal impediments, though he has no children. So the simplest way for me to become not only the principal but also the mistress of the Academy would be to marry him.”
Mrs Gardiner sank heavily onto a stone bench which, by good fortune, stood in their path.
“And?” she murmured at last.
“And he has given me time to consider…what am I to do?”
But Mrs Gardiner did not venture to offer any advice, and Elizabeth understood that the matter was far too serious.
“Perhaps in the autumn I shall accept,” she said simply, and held out her hand to help her aunt rise.
As they ascended the staircase at Netherfield, Mrs Gardiner whispered to Elizabeth, “All will be well!”
But no sooner had they entered the drawing-room than they discovered that the subject of conversation was still Mr Darcy; and as they had not been present before, Mr Bingley, in his usual cheerful manner, began the story anew for their benefit.
“Darcy has gone to Pemberley with Miss Darcy, and although they usually remain there until the end of August, it seems that this year they intend to return to town sooner—about the middle of the month. In this way, I am easy, for he will certainly be present at our wedding.” He cast a hasty glance at Jane, whom he had lost from sight for nearly fifteen seconds.
“And I was just telling them,” said Miss Bingley, “that I am certain Mr Darcy returns to town earlier to prepare for his marriage. I rejoiced exceedingly when I heard of the engagement. Lady Elizabeth is, indeed, a young woman worthy to be the mistress of Pemberley.”
She looked pointedly at Elizabeth as she spoke.
She was, in truth, somewhat vexed that Mr Darcy was to be married; for at times she had indulged the hope that he might have felt some interest in herself.
Yet the fact that he had cared neither for Miss Elizabeth nor for her was a satisfaction which she celebrated in her own fashion—by uttering insinuations she hoped everyone would comprehend.
But no one did understand them, nor was anyone much interested in Mr Darcy’s marriage that evening; for Elizabeth was, as usual, the centre of attention.
Surrounded by admiration and curiosity, she spoke with delight of the Academy and her work there, praised Mary, and described how her timid sister had changed into an active young woman who, quite unexpectedly, could now resolve disputes among the pupils and even advise the teachers upon the subjects they ought to teach.
Elizabeth seated herself beside Kitty and promised, in the hearing of all, that from the autumn her sister too should come to London to the Academy.
“We already have a class formed of young ladies of seventeen and eighteen,” she said.
Kitty’s face shone with joy, but Elizabeth added playfully, “You cannot slip out of our classrooms as easily as from Father’s library.” The company laughed, yet Kitty perfectly understood the meaning and whispered, “Believe me, I shall not disgrace you.”
And Elizabeth believed her, for she had Mary’s eyes and Jane’s smile, while the manner in which she had once mimicked Lydia was now entirely gone.