Chapter XI
Darcy returned to Pemberley in a state of mind far removed from composure.
The ride back, though undertaken at no slower pace than prudence absolutely required, seemed to him intolerably long.
More than once, his thoughts returned to the same point and found no rest there.
Elizabeth had left Lambton in tears. Some sudden calamity had plainly occurred.
Yet what calamity could so entirely overthrow every other consideration, carry her from Derbyshire in such haste, and leave behind only that brief, guarded note?
He could not determine it.
Nor could he entirely free himself from another fear, less reasonable perhaps, but not therefore less painful: that yesterday’s renewed ease between them had existed only for a moment; that, upon calmer reflection, she had repented encouraging an intimacy which ought never to have been renewed.
The suspicion returned precisely because he struggled against believing it.
By the time Pemberley appeared again before him, his uneasiness had settled into something heavier and more difficult to resist.
He entered the house with outward calm, though Georgiana, who met him in the hall, looked at him with visible surprise.
“Brother! You have returned already?”
“Yes.”
“You did not meet them?”
Darcy removed his gloves slowly before answering. “They left Lambton this morning.”
Georgiana’s expression altered at once. “Left?”
“In great haste.”
She followed him silently into the drawing room, where the remainder of the party still lingered after luncheon.
Bingley rose. “Well? Have you brought our guests at last?”
Darcy paused only briefly.
“The Gardiners have quitted Lambton.”
The cheerfulness vanished from Bingley’s face. “Quitted Lambton? What do you mean?”
“They must have received news which obliged them to depart directly.”
Miss Bingley, who had been arranging cards upon a table near the window, looked up with sudden attention. “Indeed? Some family drama, perhaps.”
Darcy’s eyes moved towards her.
There was nothing elevated in his expression; indeed, his composure remained almost perfect. Yet something in the cold steadiness of his look caused even Caroline to falter slightly.
“I do not know the particulars,” he said, “except that Miss Bennet appeared greatly distressed.”
Georgiana gave a soft exclamation of concern.
Bingley stepped forward at once. “Distressed? Good God! Is Miss Jane Bennet ill? Or her father? Did they say what had happened?”
“No.”
Bingley passed one hand distractedly through his hair. “There must be something very serious indeed to carry them off in such haste.”
Mrs. Hurst, who disliked agitation of every kind unless it directly entertained her, observed languidly, “Whatever it is, I dare say it can have nothing to do with us.”
“No,” added Miss Bingley carelessly, recovering some portion of her composure, “and after all, you relinquished that connexion long ago. It cannot now be of much personal consequence.”
Bingley coloured.
“I-I do not know that one entirely relinquishes…” He stopped. The unfinished sentence appeared to embarrass him more than silence itself.
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “My dear Charles, you cannot seriously mean to involve yourself again in Hertfordshire anxieties.”
Darcy spoke before Bingley could attempt another answer.
“I believe,” he said with calm authority, “that compassion for the distress of others is not generally considered an impropriety.”
The reproof, though perfectly composed, fell with unmistakable force.
Miss Bingley coloured. “I merely meant…”
“I understood perfectly what you meant.”
The quiet severity of the reply silenced her entirely.
Even Mrs. Hurst looked slightly uncomfortable.
Georgiana lowered her work into her lap and glanced towards her brother with an expression partly anxious, partly grateful.
Bingley himself said nothing further, yet the look he directed towards Darcy contained more seriousness than his countenance commonly expressed. Something seemed struggling within him – regret, perhaps, long suppressed and now unwillingly awakened.
The conversation soon dispersed into fragments and, finally, into silence.
Darcy remained among them only as long as civility required.
There was no longer any possibility of ease in society.
During the days which followed, he became almost entirely withdrawn.
The guests at Pemberley, though treated with every outward propriety, gradually found themselves deprived of nearly all his company. He breakfasted early, rode out frequently upon estate business, and spent long hours shut within his study under the pretence of correspondence and accounts.
The pretence was not wholly false.
Work became, if not relief, at least occupation.
He buried himself in estate matters with an attention approaching severity.
Tenant reports were examined more closely than before; steward meetings prolonged; harvest preparations reviewed repeatedly.
Men who had served him for years began quietly remarking among themselves that the master had become more exacting than usual.
Once, while reviewing accounts with the steward, Darcy found himself asking the same question twice.
The steward, after a moment’s hesitation, supplied the answer again.
Darcy apologised briefly and returned to the papers before him.
It was an error he would not ordinarily have made.
His thoughts continually escaped him.
Elizabeth’s face, as he had last seen it, haunted him with painful persistence. Then came the recollection of her agitation, of her tears, and of the abruptness of her departure after all that had passed between them.
Again and again, he attempted to reason himself into patience. Whatever difficulty had arisen belonged properly to her family. He possessed no claim upon her confidence. To intrude himself where he had not been invited would be presumption.
And yet he could not remain wholly inactive.
Not now.
The old habits of reserve and distance, which once might easily have persuaded him to silence, no longer governed him so completely. He had changed too much for that. Or rather, he had begun to understand how often such reserve had served chiefly his own comfort.
If Elizabeth Bennet suffered, could he be content merely because propriety offered him an excuse for inaction?
Once honestly considered, he could no longer answer in the affirmative.
Yet whenever he attempted to persuade himself that silence remained the wiser course, his thoughts returned to Lambton.
She had said she was glad they had met again.
The words had been simple enough, and he was not vain enough to mistake them for more than they were.
Yet they remained with him.
For a man who had once believed himself regarded with nothing but resentment, they had meant a great deal.
And because they had meant a great deal, the thought of her present distress became harder still to endure.
Several days passed before he finally resolved upon writing.
Even then, the letter cost him more hesitation than he would willingly have acknowledged.
More than once, he began and destroyed what he had written.
To express concern without presumption, attachment without impropriety, and assistance without appearing to force obligation upon a man barely acquainted with him proved no easy task.
At last, however, he completed it.
He sealed the letter himself before allowing himself time to reconsider.
Then, summoning a servant, he gave orders for it to be dispatched to Longbourn.
When the door closed again behind the servant, Darcy remained for some moments motionless beside the writing table.
He had done little, perhaps.
Yet for the first time since returning from Lambton, he felt he had at least acted rather than merely endured uncertainty.
And if the letter should bring him no answer – if it should be considered intrusive, unwelcome, or unnecessary – he knew he would still not regret having written it.
For Elizabeth Bennet’s distress had become impossible for him to regard with indifference.
The letter ran thus:
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dear Sir,
I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in addressing you upon a matter in which I fear your family may be experiencing considerable distress.
Mrs. Gardiner’s sudden note, received on the morning appointed for their visit to Pemberley, together with the evident haste of their departure from Lambton, has since occasioned me much uneasiness.
Though I am sensible that I possess little claim upon your confidence, I trust you will allow me to express my sincere concern.
I had the honour of becoming acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet during her stay at Netherfield last autumn, then in the spring at Rosings Park, and had lately again enjoyed the society of herself and her relations in Derbyshire.
Their abrupt departure, under circumstances plainly distressing, cannot but awaken the strongest apprehension in all who esteem them.
Should there exist any service which my knowledge, influence, or exertion may enable me to render, I beg you will command me without hesitation.
I should think myself honoured to be permitted to assist, however imperfectly, in alleviating any difficulty affecting a family for whom I have the highest respect.
I remain, dear sir,
Your obedient servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy