Chapter Twenty-Six
The following morning Mr. Bennet was in the book room when the knock came.
Mr. Bennet rose. "Mr. Darcy. What can I do for you, sir?"
"Sir, I am here to request permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."
Mr. Bennet regarded him for a moment, as though Darcy were an unexpected inconvenience that might yet prove entertaining. "My daughter. You must be more particular. I have five."
"Miss Elizabeth."
"Indeed," said Mr. Bennet, settling back into his chair. "And upon what grounds do you form so decided a preference?"
Darcy met his look steadily. He began with the facts, because facts were what he could manage; the length of their acquaintance, the circumstances under which it had formed, the quality of the understanding they had reached.
He spoke with measured precision, and then, because precision was not quite sufficient and he found, unexpectedly, that it could not be, he said what he meant rather than what he had prepared.
"I esteem her," he said. "More than I have ever esteemed anyone.
She has more sense and steadiness and genuine worth than I have encountered in any other woman of my acquaintance.
I am aware that I have not your experience of her character, but I have the evidence of six weeks' close observation, and I have never found that evidence wanting.
I should count it the greatest honour of my life to be permitted to make her happy.
" He stopped, having said rather more than he had intended. He was not certain he regretted it.
Mr. Bennet looked at him for a moment. "Six weeks," he said. "And in six weeks you have formed a regard sufficient to bring you to my door at eight in the morning. I confess I am impressed by the efficiency, if not the judgement."
"My regard is neither slight nor hastily formed."
"So you say. Gentlemen are often very well satisfied with their own judgement in such matters." He picked up his pen and set it down again. "Tell me, Mr. Darcy, is it common practice among men of your acquaintance to pay addresses to a young woman while remaining engaged to another?"
Darcy went very still. "I beg your pardon."
"My cousin was good enough to inform us last evening that you are engaged to your cousin, Miss de Bourgh, by the express design of your respective mothers.
A long-standing arrangement, by his account, and very particularly stated.
" Mr. Bennet glanced at the papers before him.
"I mention it only because a man in your position seeking an alliance with a young woman of modest fortune while already contracted elsewhere is a thing that wants some explanation. "
"There is no such engagement," said Darcy. "It exists only in Lady Catherine's imagination, and I am sorry that her imagination has been permitted to travel so far."
"Is that so." Mr. Bennet looked up. "How very convenient for you."
"It is the truth."
"Perhaps it is." He leaned back in his chair. "It does not alter my answer. My daughter is not at liberty to receive your addresses, Mr. Darcy, engaged or otherwise."
Darcy's expression altered. "Not at liberty?"
"I see no necessity to explain myself further. It is sufficient that I do not approve."
"I must request your reasons."
"And I must decline to give them. You have presumed far enough already."
"I have acted with honour in every particular," Darcy said, drawing himself up.
"I came here directly, I stated my intentions plainly, I asked for nothing I did not have the right to ask.
If there is some prior claim upon Miss Elizabeth's hand I have not been informed of, I think I am entitled to know it. "
"Entitled," said Mr. Bennet. "You may feel entitled, but I am not obligated to you."
"Is not Miss Elizabeth at least entitled to know?"
"How do you know she does not, and is not simply playing with you?"
"I know," Darcy said, and said nothing more.
"You know, do you?" said Mr. Bennet. "Are you quite sure?"
"I am." He tried once more. "Sir, whatever arrangement exists, whatever prior claim you speak of, if it affects Miss Elizabeth's future she deserves to understand it. Whatever you think of me, she has done nothing to merit being kept in ignorance of her own situation."
"And I think it is none of your concern how I manage my family. I would thank you to stay out of it."
"Please, sir. For her sake."
"Her sake." Mr. Bennet's voice was very level. "Perhaps I will tell her. But not you. You mean nothing to me."
"I may mean nothing to you," he said, "but I am a gentleman and have acted accordingly and with honour, which is more than can be said for—"
"You are very like your kind, Mr. Darcy.
Rich, assured, accustomed to having what you want.
You think your consequence entitles you to everything, including what is not yours to take.
Elizabeth's grandfather thought the same, and it came to nothing.
And so too shall this." He rose and opened the door.
"You will oblige me by not calling at Longbourn again. "
Darcy rose and left without bowing.
Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner saw him from the upper passage window. They saw only his back and the rigid set of his shoulders, and neither spoke. At length Mrs. Gardiner said, "That did not take long enough."
"No," Elizabeth said. "It did not."
"So. It is as we expected."
“It is. And yet I know him; we will get no explanation if he does not wish to give it.”
Mrs. Gardiner gathered her into her arms. "We will find a way. I will write to Edward. It is not all lost. But for now I think it would be best to say nothing."
Elizabeth dried her eyes. "We should go down. I am sure he will announce his decision, and if we are not there—"
They went downstairs together. Elizabeth was aware, as they descended, that her face would be observed the moment they entered any room, and she took the remaining steps to compose it into something that could bear examination. Mrs. Gardiner squeezed her hand and nodded.
They appeared in the breakfast room and had barely settled when Mr. Bennet came to the doorway.
Jane and Mary were already at breakfast with Mr. Collins, who half rose from his chair with the uncertain reflex of a man determined to be respectful without being entirely sure what the occasion required.
Mr. Bennet picked up his newspaper from its usual place by his chair and spoke before he had quite opened it.
"I have this morning received a call from Mr. Darcy," he said, his eyes settling on Elizabeth, "and have informed him that his visits to Longbourn are not welcome. I trust that is clearly understood by everyone."
"Perfectly," Elizabeth said, and reached for the toast.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat and attempted to swallow what was in his mouth before speaking, and failed at the attempt.
"I feel it my duty to observe," he said, fragments of toast accompanying the sentiment, "that Mr. Darcy is the nephew of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and that any discourtesy shown to him reflects, by extension, upon her ladyship's consequence, which I should not wish—"
“Mr. Collins,” said Mr. Bennet, with dangerous civility, "this is my house. You are welcome to apply to Lady Catherine for her opinion of it, but I do not expect her answer will alter my arrangements."
Collins subsided, not entirely satisfied but sufficiently aware of his position as a guest to pursue the matter no further, and returned to his breakfast.
Mrs. Gardiner set down her fork and said, pleasantly, "I see."
Mr. Bennet looked at her for a moment, then at Elizabeth. Folding his newspaper under his arm, he said to the parlour maid, "Send a tray to my book room. I am not to be disturbed," and withdrew.
Some time later, from his window, Mr. Bennet observed Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner crossing toward the northern field, Elizabeth dressed as she always was when calling on the tenants.
He watched them for a moment, considered the matter, and decided she was about her usual business.
There was no reason to interfere. He returned to his book.
They met Darcy on the lane beyond the east field, which was where they had agreed to meet, and which neither of them made the slightest attempt to pretend was accidental. He took her hand the moment she reached him and did not let go.
"He has banned you from the house," Elizabeth said. Her voice was steady. Her eyes were not.
"What happened?" Mrs. Gardiner said. "Tell me exactly."
Darcy told them. He kept his voice even and his account precise.
Clarity was easier than anger. He told them what Mr. Bennet had said, and what he had said in return, and the shape of the refusal, and the accusations that had been made, and the pleasant implacability with which they had been delivered.
"He said Elizabeth's grandfather," Mrs. Gardiner said at last. It was not quite a question.
"Yes," said Darcy.
"But—" Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Gardiner with confusion.
Darcy was looking between them. Mrs. Gardiner finally explained. "Elizabeth's grandparents died before she was born. Both sets."
"Then—" Before Darcy could finish his thought, the sound of running footsteps reached them. Kitty came around the bend at a pace that was nearly undignified and entirely unlike her usual careful self, her bonnet pushed back and her face urgent.
"Aunt Gardiner," she said, breathless. "An express has come from Gracechurch Street. Mama sent me directly."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at Elizabeth, then at Darcy, with the swift calculation of a woman rearranging everything she had intended to do and finding the rearrangement painful.
"Go," said Elizabeth at once. "We will follow."
Darcy had already stepped forward. "My carriage is at Netherfield. You may have it within the hour, or tomorrow, whenever you need it. You have only to send word."
Mrs. Gardiner pressed his hand briefly, looked at him for a moment, and then turned toward the house at a pace that made Kitty hurry to keep up.
Elizabeth turned to follow, then turned back. She stepped into his arms without hesitation.
"I am afraid," she said. "For my aunt. For myself. For us. For all of it."
He held her, briefly and firmly. "I know. But go. I love you, and we will find a way."
"I love you too," she said.
She stepped out of his arms and followed her aunt without looking back.