Chapter 36
A thinning October mist veiled the church when Darcy’s carriage climbed the final rise, giving the place a touch of strangeness so fitted to the mission he had to accomplish.
St John-at-Hampstead stood upon a small hill above the road, grey and solemn against the pale sky, its square tower crowned by a slender spire that caught the faint glimmer of dawn.
A few yellow leaves clung yet to the limes near the iron gate, fluttering as the carriage drew nearer.
Beyond the low wall, the path to the porch shone faintly with moisture, and a bell began to sound—deep and slow—each note breaking through the mist like a summons from another world.
“I cannot do this,” said Darcy, and bade the coachman turn back.
The colonel made no answer for a while; then, directing the carriage farther down the road from the church, he ordered it to stop and almost compelled Darcy to alight.
“How can I enter a church and stop a wedding?” Darcy struggled.
Yet the colonel perceived that the obstinate resolution not to interfere, lest he be ridiculed, was beginning to yield before the strength of feeling that urged him on.
What would his life be like if he lost Elizabeth through the same fear of decorum that ruled all their kind?
He was but a step away from trying to prevent her from becoming another man’s wife, and this was the final moment when her fate and his might still be changed.
They strolled towards the church, Darcy still waging a battle within himself to return to the carriage and depart, but the colonel knew the struggle was already lost.
“Darcy,” he said gently, “you need not make a scene within the church—”
“An odious one,” murmured Darcy.
“Agreed, it would be odious, particularly for Mr Clinton.”
“For you do not doubt that Elizabeth would renounce him and depart upon my arm?”
“I do not,” returned the colonel gravely. However, in his heart a shadow of doubt persisted—not because Miss Elizabeth did not love him, but because of that same tyranny of custom which had brought them all to this dreadful pass.”
“And what am I to do?” Darcy asked, a note of hope trembling in his voice; anything seemed preferable to breaking in upon a ceremony.
Being a man of strategy, the colonel had already observed the place—the iron gate of the churchyard, where the carriage must inevitably stop, and from which the bride would walk those few yards to the porch where her father would most likely await her.
“The carriage will stop there—just there—before the gate.”
Darcy looked carefully and at once understood. He turned towards the colonel with a look of gratitude.
“The bride arrives last,” he said, and the colonel inclined his head.
“Precisely; all will already be within the church—only you and she will remain.”
“And Mr Bennet, at the door, will see us. If she decides—”
Darcy broke off; it was hard to speak. Until that moment, he had scarcely believed he would go through with it, yet now that he was resolved, uncertainty was agony.
Would Elizabeth refuse him a second time?
She had every reason. Who would not? Why had he not acted sooner—before she had been forced to decide, before she had accepted another, before this public humiliation of a man who did not deserve it?
“Darcy, Miss Elizabeth loves you. I saw it plainly at Netherfield.”
“I know…but is she capable of doing what I could not—of breaking an engagement?”
“You have but one chance—to wait here and speak to her, unseen by others. What comes after, you must face as it arrives.”
Sheltered beneath two venerable trees on the opposite side of the lane from the churchyard, they watched as, one by one, the guests began to appear—relatives, acquaintances, strangers.
Then Mr Clinton arrived, and Darcy’s heart tightened, assailed by every feeling at once: fear of losing her, shame, and remorse for what he was about to do to this honourable man.
For one brief instant, he was ready to return to the carriage and go home. But the colonel was there precisely to prevent such retreat.
Soon, Mr Bennet appeared and remained before the church door. After a while, no one else came, and they knew the bride’s carriage must be near. Darcy’s heart beat wildly; he set his palms against the tree, as though seeking its strength for the ordeal before him.
At last, they saw a carriage ascending the road; Mr Bennet left his place and moved towards the gate. Darcy’s breath came hard, yet his decision was taken. He stepped from their shelter and advanced towards the carriage as it drew to a halt.
From it descended Miss Mary first, and then Elizabeth, who, upon seeing him, almost stumbled in surprise. He moved instinctively to assist her, under the astonished gaze of Miss Mary and Mr Bennet, who was already approaching.
“Mr Darcy!” cried Elizabeth, startled. “What are you doing here?”
Mr Bennet came close, as if to shield his daughters. Though at first Darcy would rather he had not been present, in a flash, he understood that the father might bear his message to the bridegroom, should Elizabeth consent to end the engagement.
“I wish to speak with you,” he said firmly.
“Now?” Elizabeth glanced at her sister and then at her father.
“Yes, now. There will be no other moment in which to tell you that I am free—my betrothed has released me—that I love you desperately, and I have come to ask you to be my wife.”
“Now?” repeated Elizabeth, glancing towards the church where Mr Gardiner had already stepped out to see what was amiss.
“Now—before it is too late,” answered Darcy. “When else could I ask you this?”
“After the ceremony?” said Elizabeth, in that tone he adored—half-ironic, half-playful.
“After the ceremony,” he murmured faintly. “When you are another man’s wife—what purpose would there be in asking you to be mine?”
The three Bennets looked at one another in astonishment. Then Mary laid a hand upon his arm, as though to steady him.
“Mr Darcy,” she said gently, “I am the bride—and you are preventing me from reaching my own wedding.”
She then turned to Mr Bennet. “Papa, I am ready.” And they departed, leaving behind a man in shock and a woman in happiness.
Then Elizabeth turned towards him. “Fitzwilliam, you may close your mouth now,” she said with a radiant smile not wholly free from irony. Darcy had not, in truth, stood with his mouth open, yet his entire countenance gave that impression.
Confronted with such unexpected happiness, he recovered himself at once. “I shall close it only after you have answered my question.”
“Here?” Elizabeth looked about in astonishment for help.
But Mr Bennet and Mary were already at some distance.
Luckily, she perceived the colonel watching from afar, endeavouring to comprehend what was taking place.
She waved to him, asking without words that he should join them.
He covered the few yards almost at a run; yet seeing her remain with Darcy was an excellent sign, and he wished most sincerely to share in their joy.
“Here,” Darcy answered, looking deep into her eyes. “Right here, before Richard himself, that I may have witnesses.”
“Witnesses to an engagement? I never heard of such a thing, but since it is the colonel, I accept.”
She paused to recover her composure, which had almost fled before the happiness that now lay open to her. He had been tormented by doubts and fears when he came to meet her, but now, certain that she would be his wife, he regained his calm—and it was her turn to understand him.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam, I shall marry you. Now, will you permit me to attend my sister’s wedding?”
Thus was the mystery resolved. Darcy and the colonel exchanged a brief look.
“Go,” said Darcy, aware that his cousin had yet to settle his own affairs, that words of affection must still be spoken before his own betrothal might indeed take place.
“Only let the dates not coincide,” he added.
“As for that, we shall see which of us proves the swifter,” returned the colonel, and departed well pleased.
Elizabeth hastened to her place in the first pew beside her mother and aunt, while Darcy, seeking discretion, took his seat in the last. Yet Elizabeth’s delay—which all very rightly ascribed to her late arrival—provoked a gentle stir of conversation that ceased only when Mary cast a look of most solemn reproof towards her family.
All had happened so quickly, and the circumstances had been so unexpected, that for the first time in many months, Darcy closed his eyes and allowed the solemn yet cheerful atmosphere to surround and subdue him, bringing him nearer to a state of happiness he had not imagined still possible.
He could scarcely believe that it had ended so simply; yet his heart sang with joy that Elizabeth had not consented to become Mr Clinton’s wife.
Perhaps there was some measure of masculine pride in that happiness, but it mattered little now.
Miss Mary was getting married, and he tried to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth, but the pews were full and the front row was distant.
Yet she was not only there—within his heart—but present at last, and in truth.
The ceremony began.
It was the second wedding Darcy had attended within two months. Still, here, unlike that of Bingley, he drank in every word spoken by the clergyman, knowing that soon he himself would be the one to reply—and beside him would stand Miss Bennet.