Chapter XIII #2
Darcy reproached himself for the influence he had exerted; yet he could not wholly absolve his friend of weakness.
There were moments indeed when he debated whether justice now required him to confess everything – to tell Bingley plainly that he had been mistaken in Jane Bennet’s feelings, and that Elizabeth herself had convinced him of it long ago.
But each time the resolution arose, another consideration checked it.
Too much time had passed. The circumstances at Longbourn were now too unhappy.
And perhaps, most uncertain thought of all, Miss Bennet herself might no longer wish her former attachment remembered.
At last, towards the end of August, the long-discussed journey to Scarborough was resumed.
Miss Bingley announced the plan repeatedly during the preceding week with a degree of satisfaction which she appeared to think delicately concealed.
Mrs. Hurst complained incessantly of the inconvenience of travel while simultaneously directing servants to pack half her possessions.
Bingley alone seemed genuinely reluctant to depart.
“You will join us later, perhaps?” he said one evening as they walked together after dinner.
“No.”
“You bury yourself too much at Pemberley, Darcy.”
“I have business enough here.”
Bingley looked at him thoughtfully. “Business is a tolerable excuse for many things. But not always for unhappiness.”
Darcy made no answer.
Fortunately, Bingley possessed neither the vanity nor curiosity to press where confidence was not offered.
When the morning of their departure finally arrived, Darcy experienced a sensation bordering very nearly upon relief.
The house grew quieter after they left.
Miss Bingley’s restless attentions vanished with remarkable pleasantness.
Mrs. Hurst’s languid complaints did not drift through the drawing rooms. Even Bingley’s good humour, though missed in some degree, had become lately too closely associated with recollections Darcy found increasingly difficult to bear.
Georgiana herself seemed sensible of the change. “You are easier now that they are gone,” she observed gently one evening.
Darcy glanced up from the letter he had not truly been reading. “Am I?”
“A little.”
He considered denying it, then abandoned the attempt.
“Yes,” he said simply.
September arrived.
The harvest occupied much of his attention.
For several weeks, Pemberley assumed that peculiar activity belonging only to early autumn: tenants and labourers constantly moving across the estate, wagons upon the roads from morning until dusk, endless reports regarding weather, grain, storage, and accounts.
Darcy applied himself to these concerns with his accustomed diligence.
Yet even labour did not produce the distraction it once might have afforded.
No answer came from Longbourn.
Eventually, he ceased expecting one with every post.
And because expectation itself diminished, his spirits sank still further.
For uncertainty, however painful, had at least preserved hope.
Silence began gradually to extinguish it.
At times, he persuaded himself that this silence itself constituted answer enough. The Bennets, once removed from the temporary openness occasioned by Lambton, had perhaps resumed their former opinion of him. Elizabeth herself might now regret whatever gentleness she had unintentionally shown him.
The recollection of her distress at the inn still resisted that conclusion.
Yet memory could not sustain confidence anymore against weeks of silence.
He became quieter even with Georgiana.
Not cold – never cold with her – but more inwardly absent. She observed it without entirely understanding its cause, though he surprised her several times when she looked at him with anxious concern.
Towards the middle of September, he proposed accompanying her to London for some weeks.
The idea had first occurred to him almost accidentally.
Pemberley, which had once offered him every comfort, had lately become associated with expectations better forgotten.
Everywhere he turned, some trivial recollection seemed ready to present itself: a room he had intended Elizabeth to see, a path through the grounds he had hoped to walk with her, a conversation interrupted before it had properly begun.
A change of scene appeared desirable.
When he mentioned the possibility to Georgiana, the suggestion delighted her.
“I had wished very much to see the new exhibition at Somerset House,” she confessed shyly. “And Mrs. Annesley says there is to be a performance at Theatre Royal which everyone admires exceedingly.”
“Then we shall see both.”
Georgiana smiled with more animation than he had observed in her for some time.
The journey south proved beneficial to her almost immediately.
London, visited now without the former shadows associated with Ramsgate and its unhappy recollections, offered Georgiana pleasures she could enjoy with increasing confidence under her brother’s protection.
Museums, exhibitions, musical evenings, the theatre – all succeeded in drawing her gradually from the habitual reserve which still clung to her in larger society.
Darcy watched the improvement with genuine satisfaction. It relieved him, at least, to feel himself useful to someone he loved.
Indeed, much of his own comfort during those weeks arose solely from observing hers.
They attended the theatre several times. Georgiana admired tragedy most, though she wept so sincerely during one performance that Darcy afterwards forbade himself from smiling at her emotion, however tempted he had briefly been.
At the British Museum, she moved with quiet wonder through galleries which she insisted upon examining far more carefully than fashionable visitors generally thought necessary.
Darcy accompanied her patiently everywhere, listening while she spoke with increasing intelligence and confidence regarding paintings, sculpture, and music.
To outward appearance, his life had resumed perfect regularity.
Only inwardly, nothing was restored.
For even amidst the movement and distraction of London, Elizabeth Bennet remained present in his thoughts with a constancy time had done nothing to diminish.
Sometimes, crossing crowded streets or entering brilliant drawing rooms filled with fashionable company, he would suddenly recall with painful vividness the quiet parlour at Lambton; her voice across the tea table; the softened expression in her eyes.
Then would follow inevitably the recollection that she had vanished from his life almost in an instant afterwards.
And still no word came from Longbourn.