Beginning, Previous Section, Section VIII
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Chapter XXII
The day of the Wickham's departure soon came, and the family gathered to see them off. Mrs. Bennet's distress at the loss of her favourite daughter, just when she had finally achieved that state calculated to make her most interesting, was considerable.
"Oh, my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
"Oh, lord, I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps."
"Write to me very often, my dear."
"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing, do we, Cathy?" Despite a complete want of encouragement from Catherine, Lydia had not given up her campaign to make a particular friend of her sister-in-law. "My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do."
Catherine, who kept up a voluminous correspondence with her friends in Fullerton as well as Georgiana Darcy and the Viscountess Whiting, bit her lips as though she longed to say something very much, but thought better of it.
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. Henry had not mentioned his friends' impending visit, not wishing to distress his sisters; but once Mrs. Nicholls began to prepare Netherfield to receive its master, the news could not be long secret, and it soon arrived at Longbourn via the usual conduit of such intelligence, namely, Mrs. Philips. Mrs. Bennet's spiritless condition was immediately relieved, and her fondest hopes of the previous year revived.
"As soon as Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," she said to her husband, "you must wait on him, of course."
Mr. Bennet indicated, in no uncertain terms, that he had no intention of doing so.
"But you must visit him, Mr. Bennet," she fretted, "for it is unlikely that he will come to Longbourn otherwise, and we must invite him to dine before Mrs. Long does."
"You forget, madam," said Henry with a smile, "that Bingley is my particular friend, and he knows that I am at Longbourn. It is likely that he will call here, whether or not my father calls at Netherfield."
Mrs. Bennet was instantly all smiles. "I did forget, Henry! How delightful! I'll warrant that Mr. Bingley calls upon us before any other family in the neighbourhood!"
Her prediction turned out to be correct; the day after Bingley was known to be at Netherfield--intelligence that Mrs. Bennet had been at some pains to procure--Henry and Catherine spent much of the morning wandering about the shrubbery, planning improvements to their own property. When they returned to the house, the butler informed them that the Netherfield gentlemen had come to call, and they hastened into the drawing-room.
A few minutes were necessarily passed in the civilities demanded by long friendship. "I am especially delighted," Henry could not resist saying, "that you have torn yourselves away from Netherfield so soon after your arrival. It is a mark of true friendship." He was amused by the embarrassed smile that spread across Bingley's face at his sally.
Both gentlemen expressed their delight in seeing their friend's wife, and both kissed her hand. Catherine asked how her friend Georgiana did, and was assured that her brother had left her at Pemberley well and in good spirits. "In fact," said Darcy, withdrawing a fat packet from his pocket, "when she learned that you were still at Longbourn, she charged me with bringing you her latest letter." Catherine took the letter with great delight, and thanked him prettily.
"And a substantial missive it is," said Henry. "By the looks of it, you have saved me at least half a crown in postage, Darcy." He met his friend's gaze levelly. "I am in your debt."
To most observers, it was the sort of lighthearted raillery engaged in by friends of long standing, but Henry was sending Darcy a more serious message, and there was comprehension in his friend's expression. "It is no trouble," Darcy replied. "I am happy to be of service."
They all sat down again; Henry expected Darcy to take a seat by Elizabeth and employ all the arts of pleasing that he had demonstrated at Pemberley, but instead he sat by himself and, with a serious face, observed the interaction between Jane and Bingley. Henry had to admit to himself that he was no less interested.
At first, Jane and Bingley talked together but little; however, every five minutes he seemed to be giving her more of his attention. Jane responded with her usual good nature, and she was as unaffected as always, and in particularly good looks. Within a short time, it appeared that Bingley's former admiration was rekindled.
Mrs. Bennet noticed it as well, and was prepared to encourage it. "It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," she said.
He readily agreed to it.
"I began to be afraid you would never come back again," she continued. "People did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It only said, "Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet," without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Henry watched Darcy's face, which remained perfectly composed and serious, though he seemed resolutely unwilling to catch his friend's eye.
"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married," continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! He has some friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves."
"Perhaps, madam," said Henry, his face and tone all respect, "but I suspect that Wickham--and his wife--have more friends than you know of."
At this, Darcy's glance at last met Henry's; his expression did not change, though there was a certain warmth in his look. Henry believed that he and Darcy understood one another tolerably well.
Elizabeth hastily changed the subject. "Mr. Bingley, do you mean to make any stay in the country at present?"
Henry glanced at his sister sharply. Her colour was high--indeed, had been so since he came into the room, though he had attributed it, with pleasure, to the consciousness of Darcy's presence; but Elizabeth now seemed strangely agitated, as though she wished to deflect her mother's attention away from Darcy's relationship with Wickham. Her stratagem was successful: Mrs. Bennet left Darcy to his silent ruminations and turned all her officious attentions to Bingley. Henry watched his sister's face, but it revealed nothing other than the blush, though that could be attributed to distress at her mother's rudeness, or a thousand other things. Does Lizzy know something? Or, like me, does she merely suspect it?
After considerable soul-searching, Catherine had told Henry of Lydia's thoughtless revelation; not out of any desire to carry tales, she hastened to assure her husband, but so that he could be prepared for any questions Elizabeth might ask. Only her knowledge that Mr. Darcy particularly wished that Elizabeth not learn of his involvement in Lydia's marriage could persuade her to speak. Her own brothers had not brought her up to be a tattle. Catherine's scruples amused Henry, and he had been glad for the intelligence; but fortunately, no questions had come from that quarter. It never occurred to Henry that Elizabeth might seek enlightenment elsewhere.
The gentlemen stayed nearly an hour. When they rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet invited them to dine at Longbourn in a few days' time, an invitation that was graciously accepted. Henry accompanied his friends to the drive, where a groom stood ready with their horses.
"Will you come and shoot with us tomorrow, Tilney?" Bingley asked him. "It will be like old times. Unless, of course, your father has already claimed you." He stopped, looked around him, and laughed. "A great deal has occurred in the past year, since first we arrived in Hertfordshire!"
"Indeed," said Henry with a grin. "And I am at your service on the morrow. My father is a dilatory sportsman at best, and can spare me quite well for the morning. I shall be at Netherfield at seven o'clock, and I expect breakfast, mind."
"You shall have it," declared Bingley. "Breakfast, and any other meal you like. I fear I cannot invite Cathy to dine at Netherfield as I would like, not having a lady to receive her. Make my excuses to her, will you?"
"Of course. Fear not, Bingley. You can do little wrong in my wife's eyes. Nor can you, Darcy," he added.
Darcy smiled and swung himself easily onto his mount. "Until tomorrow, then."
"Until tomorrow," echoed Bingley, as the groom boosted him into the saddle.
"Until tomorrow," Henry agreed, and watched them ride away.
Unfortunately for Henry's curiosity, which was extreme, he found little opportunity to speak to Darcy alone during the next morning's sport. Darcy kept a servant in constant attendance, and stayed near Bingley as much as possible. Finally, as they walked back to the house, Henry found a chance to seize his friend by the elbow and pull him aside.
"Why do you avoid me, Darcy?" he asked. "You must know that I am keen to speak with you."
"I am not avoiding you," Darcy replied. "Why would I?"
"Perhaps because you suspect that I wish to question you about your involvement with the final arrangements of my sister's marriage."
"You seem convinced that I was involved."
"I am convinced."
Darcy glanced at Henry askance. "From what source came this intelligence?"
"I need no source. I know you too well; indeed, I have the evidence of your late generosity to myself. I now depend upon you for a more complete explanation of the events that occurred after I left town."
"There is nothing you need to know, Tilney. I beg you will not importune me." Darcy lengthened his stride until he caught up to Bingley.
Henry did not see his friends again until they came to dine at Longbourn a few days later. Mrs. Bennet had thoughtfully assembled a large party for their entertainment, and yet when they all repaired to the dining room, Bingley managed to secure the chair next to Jane. Darcy, to Henry's astonishment, placed himself at Mrs. Bennet's right hand, presumably so that he might observe Jane and Bingley across the table; but this solicitude for his friend placed him almost as far from Elizabeth as the table could divide them. Elizabeth had eschewed her usual place to sit near her father with Henry and Catherine. Henry wondered briefly if she had done so in the assumption that Darcy would sit near Henry as well; she rarely spoke, and seemed not in spirits throughout dinner.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Darcy started toward the table where Jane and Elizabeth were pouring tea and coffee, but was prevented from sitting down by one of the young ladies present, who moved her chair closer to Elizabeth and whispered in her ear. Darcy took a cup of coffee and retreated to the other end of the room, where Catherine had taken a seat a little ways apart from the rest of the company. Henry watched them speak together for a few moments; finally he decided to ignore the common etiquette that dictated a husband desert his wife on most social occasions, and took the chair on Catherine's other side. He reached for her hand and said, "You look a trifle peaked, my sweet."
She gave him a weary smile. "I am a little tired."
"That is not surprising. You have had a busy day." Mrs. Bennet had used her daughter-in-law as her primary messenger and aide-de-camp in the preparations for the dinner party; Catherine, from both a strong sense of duty as well as a genuine desire to be helpful, had cheerfully complied, running countless times up and down the stairs between Mrs. Bennet's dressing room and the housekeeper's room near the kitchen. Her industry, however tiring, had a reward of sorts: Henry heard his stepmother tell Mrs. Philips that "Mrs. Tilney is a helpful creature, I suppose. I dare say she pictures herself as mistress of Longbourn, but after all, that is her right." Even such grudging praise was a far cry from the open hostility she had formerly practiced, but Catherine did not seem overly pleased by her promotion. Indeed, there were faint rings of weariness under her eyes.
"I hope I did not intrude," said Henry. "You two looked so cozy together here in the corner that I could not resist joining you."
Darcy smiled. "I see that even Henry Tilney is not immune from the importunities of an envious nature."
Catherine looked at Darcy in surprise. "Henry is not envious, Mr. Darcy! I dare say he was just curious about our conversation." She turned to Henry. "Mr. Darcy saw me sitting here alone and undertook to entertain me. Was not that kind of him?"
"Indeed," said Henry, bowing to his friend. "I can state emphatically that Darcy's speculations are false; whether or not I trust him, my sweet, I certainly trust you without reserve, at least in a crowded drawing-room." Darcy laughed at his sally, though Catherine looked confused. "Now I cannot determine the veracity of your speculations upon Darcy's motive, Catherine, but I can at least attribute them, as always, to your delightful and generous habit of assuming the best motivations in the actions of all whom you meet."
Catherine smiled at Henry, and then suddenly let forth a great yawn. She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked rather surprised. "I beg your pardon! I must be more tired than I realized." She rubbed at her forehead. "This room is so close, and the noise gives me the headache."
"Why did you not say so?" cried Henry in concern. "Perhaps you should retire."
"Before the company has left? Would not that be terribly rude?"
"As my stepmother loves to point out, you are not the mistress of Longbourn, and you are ill. No need to make a scene; slip away, and I will make your excuses."
"Very well. I beg you will excuse me. Good night, Mr. Darcy," she added as she rose from her chair.
The gentlemen rose as well, and Mr. Darcy shook her hand. "I am afraid that I must not say good night, but good-bye," he said. "I have business in town, and leave in the morning."
"Oh, no!" cried Catherine. "You have just got here! Will you return?"
"Yes, in a week; perhaps a little more. Good-bye, Catherine. Please accept my best wishes for a return to your customary good health."
"Thank you--and do come back soon, Mr. Darcy. You will be very much missed." Catherine smiled at them both and left the room so quickly and quietly that no one else realized that she had gone.
Darcy returned to his chair, looking bemused. Henry took the chair that Catherine had vacated. "Now, Darcy, I have you as a captive audience. I wish you would answer my question. No one is paying us any mind; we are quite private."
Darcy looked at Henry, his face all innocence. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you, Tilney. What question would that be?"
"You know perfectly well," said Henry in a low, firm voice. "I want you to tell me your part in the arrangement of Lydia's marriage. Do not deny it; I know you had a hand in it."
As they talked together, Mrs. Bennet had been busy setting up the card tables, and at that moment her rapacious glance fell upon them. "Come, gentlemen!" she cried with brittle good humour. "I need two more to make up this table! You cannot hide in the corner all night! Come along!"
Private conversation was certainly not possible at a card table, and Henry swallowed his curiosity with all the grace he could muster.
Mrs. Bennet had contrived to get Jane and Bingley at the same card table, but her genius failed at keeping the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper. Their carriage was ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
The remaining guests departed soon after, and Mrs. Bennet happily declared the evening a success. She did not mention Bingley in front of Henry, but the triumphant light in her eye showed as plainly as words could that she considered him a certain thing.
Henry made his excuses and left them. He put his head into his father's library to inform him that the guests had gone away and that Mr. Bennet might now safely emerge without danger of encountering any absurdities besides the customary domestic ones, and went up to his bedchamber. As he reached the top of the stairs, he became aware that Elizabeth was just behind him, and waited for her.
"Where is Catherine?" she asked.
"She did not feel at all the thing, and went up early."
"Poor girl! Can I do anything for her?"
"I think a good night's rest will do all she could want. What of you, love?"
"I?" she replied, looking her surprise.
"You said barely a word at dinner, and you have not been in your usual spirits for some days now."
Elizabeth hesitated. "It is difficult for me to be in Mr. Darcy's company, after everything that has happened."
"You were not uncomfortable at Pemberley. What has happened to change your disposition?"
She gazed at him in open astonishment. "Why--the service he performed for Lydia. Surely you know about it?"
Henry stared back at her for a moment, then motioned her into her bedchamber. "I think it possible that you know more than I. Has Darcy told you something?"
"No, he did not." Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, and then crossed to the table next to her bed and took up her prayer book. "Lydia said that Mr. Darcy was at her wedding--"
"Yes, Catherine told me about it."
"Naturally, my curiosity was raised by Lydia's remark. I wrote to my aunt and asked her about it." She drew forth a folded piece of paper from within the pages of the book and handed it to her brother.
It was a letter from Mrs. Gardiner, and explained Darcy's involvement in the affair in detail. When Wickham had refused to adhere to the bargain he set prior to the boxing match, Darcy went to him, unknown to Mr. Gardiner, and offered Wickham a financial motivation to marry Lydia. Wickham wanted more than he could get at first, but at last agreed to Darcy settling his debts, buying his commission, and making a settlement upon Lydia. Every action that Mr. Bennet had ascribed to his brother-in-law had been performed by Darcy--but, Henry noted with some relief, his father had overestimated the exact amount paid out.
Elizabeth watched Henry read the letter. "You did not tell me that Mr. Darcy arranged your--meeting--with Wickham."
"Arranged it! He did everything but step into the ring in my place." Henry folded the letter and handed it back to her. "For all the good it did."
"No, Henry." She reached for his hand. "Do not discount your actions. You stood up for your sister, and for your family. I am proud of you, and I know Papa is too. You cannot be blamed for Wickham's failure to honour his word. But I do not understand why you kept secret Mr. Darcy's involvement."
"Darcy asked me not to tell my family--he particularly did not want you to know. I could not but respect his wishes."
"He did all this," she said, shaking her head, "and did not want me to know! Why did he do it, then? I can only imagine out of friendship to you--but then why did he not tell you of his later actions?"
"No, no," cried Henry, putting his hands in front of him in a warding-off motion. "You shall not trap me into speculation. If it must be guesswork, let us guess for ourselves. Search your heart, Lizzy; what does it tell you?"
She coloured, and turned away, raising her hands to her burning cheeks. "I cannot believe--not after all that has occurred--" She shook her head. "No, I will not torture myself with fancy and conjecture."
Henry knew better, and judged it best to leave Elizabeth to her own thoughts. "Good night, dearest Lizzy," he said, taking up his candle. "Sleep well."
Elizabeth's sense of humour had returned, and there was a twinkle in her eye that delighted her brother. "Wretch! As though I could sleep at all after this conversation! Good night, Henry!"
He kissed his hand to her and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Chapter XXIII
With Darcy gone to town, Henry suspected that Bingley would haunt Longbourn, but he did not turn up until a few days after the dinner party. Mrs. Bennet naturally pressed him to stay for dinner, but he was obliged to decline on account of a previous engagement. His disappointment was so obvious that Mrs. Bennet immediately invited him to dine the next evening, and he accepted with alacrity.
He presented himself the next evening in such good time that they were none of them dressed. Mrs. Bennet hysterically rushed everyone downstairs to join them, and then spent the rest of the evening trying to get them all away from Bingley--except for Jane, of course. Henry and Elizabeth refused to succumb to her nods and winks, and both Catherines were genuinely mystified. Mrs. Bennet's scheming went for naught that evening, though Henry earned the appellation "dear boy" from his stepmother when she learned that he had invited Bingley to Longbourn the next morning to shoot with Mr. Bennet.
Bingley was punctual to his appointment, and the three gentlemen set out with the necessary attendants and a few dogs. It was a fine morning--a little cold, but not unusually so for early October.
At first, Henry and Mr. Bennet did most of the talking, but Bingley's good nature did not permit him to stay quiet for long. Within the hour, he was walking next to Mr. Bennet, deep in discussion about the proper stabling of carriage horses.
Henry hung back, willing to allow them time to become acquainted. Mr. Bennet could be an engaging companion when he chose, and as there was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule or disgust him into silence, he was more communicative and less eccentric than Bingley had ever seen him. All in all, it was a pleasant morning.
They all returned to the house for breakfast, and Mrs. Bennet immediately asked Bingley to stay to dinner. Henry cringed inwardly at his stepmother's determination to keep Bingley near Longbourn and Jane, but Bingley seemed genuinely pleased to be asked.
Unfortunately, dinner proved less pleasant than the shooting party. Mrs. Bennet's ill-judged officiousness continued unabated throughout dinner, though Bingley remained indefatigably good-natured. Henry admired his friend's forbearance and command of countenance; however, once their eyes met, and Henry was able to detect a hint of laughter deep within. He raised his wine glass silently to his friend, and Bingley returned the salute with all the good nature in the world.
Jane was glowing and beautiful in the candlelight, and in the very few moments when Mrs. Bennet fell silent, it was clear to all that Bingley admired her a great deal. For her part, Jane was too diffident to meet his gaze with confidence, much less to flirt, but Bingley seemed perfectly satisfied to gaze upon her, and she to allow it.
As they passed into the drawing room for tea, Henry asked Bingley if he would care for a game of billiards. With his father's encouragement, Henry had a little-used room in the back of the house converted for the purpose and a table installed.
"I would like that, Tilney, very much, I assure you--" Bingley stood in the passage, clearly torn. "But I think I would rather--" he glanced toward the drawing room-- "Perhaps another time--"
"Very well, Bingley! If you prefer the company of my lovely sisters and still lovelier wife--and loveliest of all, my stepmother--to a game of billiards with an old friend, I cannot hope to claim you. Perhaps, if you are very fortunate, Mrs. Bennet might get up a game of vingt-un."
"Next time, Tilney, I assure you--"
"Nay, sir! Next time me no next times! I cannot hope to compete. Perhaps when you are an old married man like me you will remember this and take pity on your friend Tilney."
Bingley knew Henry much too well to take any of his nonsense seriously, and went into the drawing room with a perfectly clear conscience.
Once the party was assembled in the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet's genius was again at work to get everyone out save Bingley and Jane. Mr. Bennet obliged her by retiring to his library after tea, as was his custom; Mary furthered her hopes by going upstairs to her instrument; Elizabeth went into the breakfast-room to write a letter; but the others stubbornly stayed. Mrs. Bennet appeared resigned to their presence, and sat down to cards with Bingley, Jane, and Kitty. Catherine drew forth her netting-box as Henry opened a book.
After a few moments, Catherine asked Henry if he had seen her skein of netting cotton.
"Not since last night," he replied. "I believe you returned it to your box."
Catherine rummaged in the box, her brow creased in consternation. "I know I put it here last night! I cannot think where else it can be."
"I dare say that you took it upstairs, Mrs. Tilney," said Mrs. Bennet from the card table. "Why do you not go up and look in your chamber?"
Catherine looked at Henry in surprise, but obediently went up. A moment later, Mrs. Bennet said, "Henry, I did forget to tell you, your father wished you to attend him in the library tonight." The air of assumed resignation was gone. Mrs. Bennet fairly sparkled with ill-concealed cunning. It was clear to all that she had another scheme afoot; indeed, Jane's face was flushed with distress at such premeditation.
Henry turned a page of his book and said, "Then I am surprised that he did not tell me himself, or send a servant to fetch me."
"Send a servant! Nonsense! He asked me to tell you, while you were speaking with Mr. Bingley earlier."
Henry closed the book. If his father did not really want him, it would be a moment's work to find out, and even such an anxious mamma as Mrs. Bennet could not break up the card party so quickly. He accordingly went to the library, tapped softly on the door, and was bidden to enter.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Did I? I do not recall a particular wish, though of course you are always welcome."
"Mrs. Bennet seemed sure of it."
Mr. Bennet's eyes twinkled from behind his spectacles. "Well, then, Henry, take a seat and bide a while. It would be a shame for all her scheming to come to naught."
Henry laughed and dropped into one of the comfortable wing chairs with which the library was provided. "Mrs. Bennet puts one in mind of the director of a Greek play--sending out the chorus while arranging the spear-carriers offstage."
"An analogy that casts young Bingley as the deus ex machina, I suppose. I like your friend, Henry. He will do well for Jane, I think, if he ever manages a moment alone with her to speak." He removed his spectacles and rubbed his nose. "Yes, a good match for Jane. Better than I have a right to expect. I'll be glad to see her so well settled. She is a good girl, and deserves every advantage, even if I cannot provide them."
"Father--" Henry protested, embarrassed.
"Do not 'Father' me, son. Lord knows I've made mistakes in raising the girls. I am fortunate that Jane and Lizzy turned out so well."
"That they have turned out so well must speak to your influence, sir."
"Make no excuses for me," said Mr. Bennet bluntly. "The past cannot be changed, but it should not be ignored. Learn from my mistakes, Henry. Take your children in hand, give them what they need--not just money, and clothes and fripperies, but the education and spiritual strength they will need when the time comes for them to leave you." He brooded for a moment, and then shook his head and laughed. "Here I am, prattling on. I must be getting old and philosophical. That must be avoided at all costs. I would hate to be one of those ridiculous old men who go about annoying everyone with good advice. Do me a favour, son: should I get that way, lock me in the attics where others shall be safe from me."
They talked together for a time, discussing the estate in a roundabout way; Henry knew that his father was concerned about a settlement for Jane, and he did his best to alleviate the older man's concern. He suspected that Bingley's demands would not be onerous.
There was a knock at the library door, and Henry rose to open it. Bingley stood there, looking a trifle apprehensive. Henry exchanged a glance with his father and went out, closing the door behind him.
"Wish me joy, brother," said Bingley quietly, grasping Henry's hand. "Jane has made me the happiest man in the world."
"I do wish you joy," said Henry, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "All the joy and blessings I have to bestow, on both of you."
"Thank you, indeed; you are a generous friend, Tilney." Bingley glanced at the door apprehensively. "Your father--you do not think--"
"No, I do not," Henry laughed. "Mr. Bennet is not as irascible as he likes to pretend."
"He has a sharp tongue, does your father, but you know," said Bingley in a confiding manner, "he really was very kind to me this morning! It made it that much easier to make my declarations to Jane. I had only to wait for an opportune moment."
"Fortunately, that happy event was not long in coming, with Mrs. Bennet at the helm." Henry opened the door to the library and said, "Father, Bingley would like a moment of your time if it is convenient."
"By all means. Come in, Bingley. Will you take brandy?"
Henry shut the door and left them. As he walked to the drawing room, he met an indignant Catherine descending the stairs. She held out a skein of netting cotton. "Mrs. Bennet took this from my box! She hid it in her dressing room to lure me upstairs, and has kept me there these fifteen minutes!"
"It was in a good cause, Cat. Jane and Bingley are engaged."
Catherine's pique was instantly forgotten. "Is it so, indeed? How delightful!"
The door to the drawing room burst open, and Jane flew out, bubbling over with happiness. Henry held out his hands to her. "I give you joy, Jane. Bingley told me."
"Oh, Henry!" She accepted his embrace and kiss, and another from Catherine. "Such happiness! I do not deserve it!" Her hands were trembling.
"On the contrary, my love. No one deserves happiness more than you."
"It is not just for myself," she said breathlessly, on the verge of joyous tears. "My mother--all my kind friends--it will give them such pleasure as well! Oh, I must find her--"
"She is in her dressing room," said Catherine.
"Thank you, dearest--I will go to her at once--" She flew up the stairs in a whirl of white muslin.
"Well, Cat?" said Henry when she was out of sight. "One affair of the heart has been satisfactorily settled. Dare we hope for another?"
"I have hope, certainly; but Mr. Darcy must return from town."
"Indeed he must, and I trust that he will when he receives word of Bingley's newfound joy."
Longbourn buzzed with anticipation of the impending nuptials. Mrs. Bennet's joy even led her to tolerate the presence of her usurper with equanimity, going so far as to call her "dear Mrs. Tilney" some once or twice.
For her part, Catherine was happy for Jane and Bingley, but her indisposition continued, and she often complained of fatigue or the headache. Henry was concerned, and did his best to get her away from the worst of Mrs. Bennet's raptures. Catherine usually found a walk in the shrubbery refreshing, especially when combined with a short nap in a darkened room afterward.
One morning, about a week after Jane and Bingley's engagement had been formed, the Tilneys were taking their daily walk when they were joined by the happy couple. "We ran away," Bingley reported with a grin. "There was a chaise and four coming up the drive, so I convinced Jane to walk out with me."
"A chaise and four?" cried Catherine. "Who could it be?"
"I did not recognize the livery," said Jane.
"Oh," said Catherine, disappointed in her first romantic flight of fancy, that Mr. Darcy had come to sweep Elizabeth away to Scotland for an immediate marriage over the anvil.
"I dare say it is one of Mrs. Bennet's friends, come to pay a morning call," said Henry. "Quite possibly to inspect the prospective son-in-law. Very bad form to run away, Bingley."
"I hope you do not consider it bad form if we run away from you," said Bingley, his grin flashing once again.
Henry reflected that his friend smiled even more than usual these days. "Off with you, then," he said, waving a hand grandly. "Catherine and I were about to return to the house, though perhaps we shall wait till the caller has departed."
"I would if I were you," Bingley replied. "It is much too fine a day to be trapped inside by morning callers!" He gave Jane his arm, and they walked quickly down the path of finely-crushed gravel that wound into the shrubbery.
"Do you want to go inside?" Henry asked Catherine.
"I am not feeling up to callers, Henry. Can we walk some more?"
"Of course. You are not feeling ill?"
"Not a bit." She stretched her arms and smiled up at the sun. "On such a glorious day, who could feel ill?"
"I believe we should be thinking about going back to Woodston, Cat," said Henry. "I had a letter from Robinson today, and the improvements that I ordered are complete. The house is ready for us."
"He did not tear down my cottage?" Catherine asked anxiously.
"No, my sweet. You will still be able to see it from the drawing room windows. The apple trees bore well, he writes."
"Did they? I am glad of it." They walked on for a time, talking of their home and making plans. Henry directed their steps toward a prettyish kind of little wilderness on one side of the lawn. As they approached the hedgerow that separated the gravel walk of the shrubbery from the copse, they heard voices, and hesitated, neither wishing an interruption of their tête-à-tête.
"That could not be Jane and Mr. Bingley," Catherine whispered. "They went the other way."
Elizabeth's voice floated through the branches, along with another female voice, high-pitched and strident, and possessing an aristocratic accent. "Miss Bennet," said the strange voice, "I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance I require."
Henry and Catherine exchanged looks of surprise at such an address. However, Elizabeth's response was spirited. "And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject."
Henry's quick understanding comprehended the situation: Darcy's aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, must have heard that her nephew's eye had strayed in the direction of Longbourn, and she had come to prevent the undesirable connection.
Catherine tugged on his arm to pull him away. "It is very rude to eavesdrop, Henry," she whispered severely.
"Any other time I would agree with you; but if you are a friend to romance, let us stay for a moment."
Catherine looked at him with great curiosity, but did not resist.
"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the expense of your father and brother and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth! -- of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"
Catherine began to comprehend; her eyes grew wide and her mouth opened, as if to speak, but she said nothing.
"You can now have nothing farther to say," said Elizabeth resentfully. "You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house."
The voices receded, and Henry took Catherine's hand. "Quickly, now, my sweet. I think we must do the duty of the house toward our caller." With the advantage of the covering provided by the shrubbery, they were able to reach the front of the house before the ladies, and stood by Lady Catherine's chaise as she approached.
Lady Catherine stared at them for a moment, and then said to Elizabeth, "This is your brother, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am; may I present Mr. and Mrs. Tilney."
Catherine made her usual curtsey, and Henry swept off his hat and made a most elegant leg. "I beg to be considered your ladyship's most obedient servant."
"Hmph," said Lady Catherine. "You are the one who was kidnapped, and found, and made heir to Mr. Bennet's estate." Her eyes ranged over the house assessingly.
"I have the pleasure of confirming that your ladyship's conjectures are indeed correct."
Catherine looked at Henry in mild astonishment at his using the florid sort of language that he normally deplored, but noticed the gleam of humour deep within his eyes, belaying the gravity of his countenance, and pressed her lips together to keep from laughing aloud.
"It is most irregular. The de Bourghs and the Fitzwilliams never held with such goings-on."
"Indeed, I am devastated to acknowledge that it is most irregular; but as I was an infant at the time and unable to prevent it, I pray that I shall escape the worst censure of society. I depend upon your ladyship's kindness to set the example."
Lady Catherine glanced at him sharply, but there was nothing in his expression to confirm her sudden suspicion that she was the object of vulgar raillery. "And you, Mrs. Tilney," she said to Catherine. "I believe you are a clergyman's daughter?"
"Yes, your ladyship."
"And you are a clergyman?" she asked Henry.
"Once again, your ladyship's knowledge is perfection itself." Henry bowed again.
"It is good to see," said Lady Catherine with a significant glance at Elizabeth, "that some young ladies do not attempt to quit their own sphere. A clergyman's daughter, married to a clergyman; that is the kind of marriage I like to see."
"A most excellent notion, your ladyship," Henry replied. "However, it is my experience that the number of clergymen is never equal to the supply of clergymen's daughters. There must always be some ladies left out."
Elizabeth coughed suddenly, and became very interested in the handle of her parasol.
"But do not you agree, Mr. Tilney," her ladyship persisted, "that it is unseemly for a young lady to seek to make an alliance that is higher than her circumstances warrant?"
"Perhaps it is unseemly; but after all, it is the man who has the advantage of choice, and woman only the power of refusal. When one considers the matter at length, it is a young lady's responsibility to accede to a gentleman's wishes, especially when, as you say, he is her social superior. To refuse such an obliging offer would tear at the very fabric of society! I think it would be a sad day if the nobility could not expect such a simple accommodation from their inferiors! Do not you agree, Lady Catherine?"
She stared at him for a long moment, then said, "You make roundabout arguments, sir; but you shall not draw me in. Good day." She placed one foot on the steps of the carriage and said in quelling tones, "I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased." The servant shut the door behind her, and the chaise rumbled down the drive.
Henry looked at his sister, who wore a slight smile. "That was a very fine imitation of Mr. Collins, Henry."
"From what our cousin tells us, that is Lady Catherine's ideal of a clergyman, and I would not distress so dignified a lady by forcing my usual poor self upon her."
"Daring to tease Lady Catherine to her face in such a way! I have not your courage."
"Somehow, I doubt that," said Henry, returning the smile.
"I wish I could laugh at the things she said to me today."
"You should. It is not like you to do otherwise, Lizzy. The opinions expressed by such a woman should have no bearing upon yours."
Elizabeth shook her head and went into the house.
Darcy had written to Henry when first he arrived in town, but there had been no word since. Henry knew that Bingley had written to Darcy about the engagement, and wondered if Darcy would make some excuse for not returning to Hertfordshire; but a few days after Lady Catherine's visit, Bingley arrived at Longbourn for breakfast with Darcy in tow. Mrs. Bennet greeted him with a cool politeness; Elizabeth's greeting was little warmer, but in her case it could be attributed to consciousness rather than incivility.
"It is a glorious day," Bingley declared as he cracked an eggshell. He had been spending his days at Longbourn since the engagement, from breakfast through supper, and was quite at home. "Clear and cool, just what autumn should be. When we have all had our breakfast, I propose that we walk out together. What say you all?"
Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the rest agreed to Bingley's plan, much to his delight, as his real motive was to be alone with Jane. Indeed, when they set out, Bingley and Jane lagged so far behind the rest that they were nearly out of sight.
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria. After she left them, the others walked on together with no fixed objective. Henry attempted to start a conversation, but neither Darcy nor Elizabeth seemed inclined to talk. After a few moments of silence, Darcy glanced back at Henry consciously, then at Elizabeth, and back at Henry, his expression almost beseeching.
Henry took the hint at once. He said to Catherine, "Over there is the kind of tree I wanted for our garden at Woodston, my sweet. Come, let me show it to you." Catherine was astonished, and a little indignant, but allowed Henry to lead her a little ways from the path while Darcy and Elizabeth walked on. The tree still had some golden leaves hanging from its branches, and Henry plucked one and handed it to Catherine, whispering, "Let us leave them alone for a moment."
Catherine's eyes widened. "Henry, do you think--"
"I do."
She clasped her hands together, thoughtlessly crushing the leaf within, and smiled up at him. "Oh, I do hope that she accepts him!"
"As you have wisely said all along, Cat, it is Lizzy's decision."
"But I can still hope."
"Indeed."
A few moments passed, and Henry wished he had placed himself in such a way as to see what was going on. "What are they doing?" he whispered.
Catherine peeked over his shoulder. "Mr. Darcy is talking to Lizzy--oh, Henry!" She clutched at his sleeve. "He has stopped--he has taken her hand! Henry, he is kissing her hand!"
Henry dared to look around at this, and saw the very scene she had described. Darcy had lifted Elizabeth's gloved hand to his lips; as they watched, he placed her hand against his cheek. The tilt of Elizabeth's bonnet showed that her eyes were firmly fastened to the ground. Darcy released Elizabeth's hand; at this, she raised her eyes to his, and moved her hand upon his face in a caressing motion. Darcy seized her hand again and fervently kissed her palm. It was a moment that should not be observed, and Henry quickly led Catherine into a small copse of the same golden-leaved trees, out of sight of the happy couple.
"They are engaged," Catherine said happily. "They must be engaged. Mr. Darcy would not behave so if they were not."
"I believe you are right, my sweet."
"Shall we go and congratulate them?"
Henry laughed. "Did you want your brothers and sisters to come tumbling from the trees when I proposed? I understood that you were perfectly happy for us to be alone at that particular moment."
Catherine's eyes were as blue as the clear autumn sky as she looked up at Henry. "I was."
"And I notice," he said, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close, "that you have lately taken to wearing bonnets with much narrower brims."
She gave him a smile full of female wisdom, and he bent to kiss her.
"Hey now!" said a voice behind them. "This is a public place, man! Conduct yourself with some dignity! If you care not for your own reputation, or your family's, consider poor Cathy's!"
They turned to see Jane and Bingley standing by the edge of the copse, laughing at them.
"We saw you turn in here," Bingley added as Henry and Catherine joined them. "We could not determine why you would want to skulk about in such a dark little place, but now I understand."
"Where are Lizzy and Mr. Darcy?" asked Catherine, looking around.
"They were not here when we arrived," said Jane. "I dare say they walked ahead."
They all accordingly turned their steps in the direction that the others were thought to have taken, but when they all arrived back at Longbourn, Elizabeth and Darcy had not yet arrived, and did not return until a half-hour afterward. When questioned as to their whereabouts, Elizabeth's face coloured as she murmured something about having walked beyond her recollection. Henry and Catherine exchanged smiles, but allowed the happy couple to choose their own time for announcing the engagement.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, and the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth sat quietly working on her embroidery, occasionally smiling to herself, and some once or twice allowing her eye to meet Darcy's. Darcy made no move to speak with Mr. Bennet, and it was clear that the betrothed couple intended to keep the news to themselves for the present.
The Netherfield gentlemen left after supper, and the rest of the family retired. Henry and Catherine were in their room for only a moment when a light knock sounded upon the door. Catherine opened the door to admit Elizabeth.
"I have a piece of news for you," she said.
"Good news, I hope," said Henry with a knowing smile.
"Yes, it is good news--at least, I hope you will consider it so." She paused a moment, then said in a rush, "Mr. Darcy has given me the kindest assurances of his affection, and made an honourable offer of marriage, which I have accepted."
"Oh, Lizzy!" cried Catherine, rushing to embrace her. "It is just what I have wished for! I hope you will both be very happy!"
Elizabeth seemed a little taken aback by her sister's vehemence, but returned the embrace warmly. "Thank you, dearest Catherine! Your kind wishes mean a great deal to me." She turned to Henry rather tentatively. "And you, Henry? Will you give me your blessing?"
He had risen from his chair, and stood looking at her. "Gladly; but only if you are sure that this marriage is what you want, and that you did not agree to it out of a sense of obligation."
"It is what I want. Oh, Henry, it is. I have wanted nothing else for months. I know that I was wretchedly unfair to Mr. Darcy when he first arrived in Hertfordshire. I allowed my first impressions to prejudice me against him, and further allowed Wickham's flattery to harden those prejudices." She smiled as if at a fond memory. "We had a difficult beginning, Mr. Darcy and I, but we have talked it all out."
"You love him, then?"
"With all my heart."
"Then I wish you joy, Lizzy. I wish you joy." Henry embraced Elizabeth tightly, and kissed the top of her head. "I am pleased to see you so happy, and I know this makes Darcy very happy as well."
"He has spoken to you of me?" Elizabeth asked, her words light but full of meaning.
"He has, many times. Do not doubt Darcy's affection."
"I do not. He was--" she coloured-- "rather eloquent on the subject."
"You perceive one of the benefits of an Oxford education. It makes a man well-spoken when the occasion requires it."
Elizabeth laughed and said, "I must go and tell Jane now. I dare say she will be no more surprised at the news than you! Good night!"
When she had gone, Catherine sat at her dressing table, smiling dreamily into the mirror. "Isn't it terribly romantic, Henry? First Jane and Mr. Bingley, now Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. All the time and the separation and the trouble, and now they are going to be married! It is like something in a book!"
"We were married after some time and separation and trouble," Henry pointed out as he untied his cravat. "Do not you think our marriage is like a romantic book?"
"No," said Catherine calmly as she removed pins from her hair. "Our marriage is much better than any book could be."
Henry removed the pins from her hand, fearing she might inadvertently stick him, and kissed her soundly.
The following evening, when Mr. Bennet retired to his library after tea, Darcy rose and quietly followed him. No one remarked upon it except Henry, who noticed Elizabeth's anxious expression as her eyes followed Darcy out of the room.
He returned in good time, and after a few moments went to stand by the table where Elizabeth was sitting with Kitty. He whispered something to her as he admired her work, and when he sat down again, Elizabeth rose and left the room. Henry could guess what was happening; Darcy had applied for Mr. Bennet's consent to the marriage, and he asked to see his daughter. Henry waited a few moments, not sure if he should follow her, but finally he rose and went to the library.
He knocked and was told to enter; inside, he found his father holding Elizabeth's hands as tears ran down her face. "Father, Lizzy has told me her happy news. I hope you have given your consent."
"I have; I had my doubts about it, but Lizzy has alleviated my fears." Mr. Bennet raised a sardonic eyebrow in his son's direction. "I suppose I have you to thank for this in part; I suppose you did all you could to forward the match."
"Indeed I have not, sir. I would not have any of my sisters unhappily married, solely to oblige me. Catherine and I have watched the progress of this courtship, in Derbyshire and in Hertfordshire, and we are delighted to see it reach its happiest and most logical conclusion; but we purposely removed ourselves from the process."
"That is what Lizzy has been telling me; that her affection for Mr. Darcy has stood the test of many months, and that he has worked actively to achieve her regard. Therefore, I have no objection to make."
"Papa, you know not the half of it," said Elizabeth eagerly. "You do not know what he has done for our family." She told him what Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia.
"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, when Wickham refused to fulfill the bargain he made with Henry, Darcy gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and would have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry everything their own way. I shall offer to pay him tomorrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."
Henry smiled to himself, quite unable to imagine Darcy ranting and storming about anything. He was pleased that his father would be relieved of that particular burden, but still planned to pay Darcy himself. Mr. Bennet need know nothing of it.
He left his father and sister together and went back into the passage. As he walked toward the drawing room, Darcy came out. Henry held out his hand. "I have not had an opportunity to congratulate you on your engagement, Darcy. Lizzy told me last night."
Darcy smiled. "I thank you, Tilney. I hoped you would look upon the marriage with approbation."
"Indeed I do." He shook his friend's hand as Elizabeth emerged from the library and joined them.
"Will you return to the drawing room?" Darcy asked her, anxiously, and yet with a certain kind of softness in his voice.
Elizabeth smiled wanly. "I will, but first I require some time alone, to compose myself. I hope you do not mind."
"Of course not." Darcy took her hand and pressed it. They exchanged a glance that spoke volumes, and any doubts remaining in Henry's mind about the marriage vanished with it. Elizabeth smiled at her intended, and ran lightly up the stairs.
"Mrs. Bennet cannot know," said Henry. "She has been prodigiously uncivil to you all day."
"Elizabeth was to tell her tonight, after Bingley and I are gone. I confess I wonder how the news will be received."
"Fear not, Darcy," said Henry, leading the way into the drawing room. "Mrs. Bennet is not in general backward to credit what is to the advantage of her family, or that comes in the shape of a lover to any of her daughters. I think she will find you a great deal more tolerable as a son-in-law than she did as a mere friend of the family."
Chapter XXIV
It is to be expected that two sisters who had shared as much as Jane and Elizabeth Bennet would also be not only willing but happy to share their wedding day. Thus, a date was fixed, and the preparations begun. Mrs. Bennet descended upon London with her daughters in tow, storming her favourite warehouses like a campaigning general and spending lavishly on the girls' wedding clothes (and a few incidentals of her own--only a gown or two, perhaps a few bonnets, nothing at all out of the way). Jane and Elizabeth, like most young ladies, took a decided interest in their clothing, but even they grew tired of choosing fabrics and fitting garments, and after a few days were happy enough to return to Longbourn.
Even while they were away, their gentlemen were often at Longbourn, waiting upon their friend Tilney. Henry was always glad of his friends' company, even though it meant listening to a constant panegyric upon the merits of his sisters; a forgivable circumstance, since he had subjected his friends to similar treatment before his own marriage. Mr. Bennet often joined them, and Henry was pleased to see him taking pains to become acquainted with his future sons-in-law. Indeed, there was little to trouble Henry, except for some very strange behaviour on Catherine's part.
One morning, she received a letter from Fullerton. Normally, Catherine would read such a letter to Henry, or at least pass on the news from home. However, she read this particular letter gravely, and then slowly folded it into her lap, an oddly distant expression on her face.
"Catherine?" asked Henry in concern. "What is it? I hope you have not had bad news from Fullerton."
Catherine jumped as if startled upon being addressed, staring at him wildly, her hand at her throat. "Oh, no," she said finally. "Everyone is well, and Mamma sends her love."
"You look pale," he said. "Are you well?"
"Yes, perfectly. Excuse me, beloved, I must write back--" and she hurried away with a distracted air, clutching the letter tightly in her hand.
A half hour later Henry walked into the breakfast room, where Catherine sat at the writing table. She hastily pushed a sheet of paper into the almanac and slammed it shut, glancing sideways at Henry, and then guiltily away. After a long, astonished moment, he asked her, "What in the world are you doing?"
"Oh! I am writing to Mamma, to be sure."
"By your air, I thought you to be passing intelligence to Bonaparte, at least."
She smiled and said, "Such nonsense, Henry! You did startle me, however."
"Then I beg your pardon. Send Mrs. Morland my love."
"I will."
Henry stayed for a moment, watching her curiously, but she made no move to return to her task until he left the room.
Such secretive behaviour, so unlike the usual open, good-natured Catherine, was a puzzle. Henry felt he should understand it, should see the reason behind it, but the solution danced just out of his grasp, teasing him. It is probably something simple, he told himself. Something so obvious that you will berate yourself for missing it. He attributed the strangeness to her desire to be away from Longbourn, and he was longing to be home at Woodston himself, but they both wished to attend the weddings. Henry had arranged for them to leave Longbourn on the very day of the weddings, not long after the departure of the newlyweds, the Bingleys to Netherfield and the Darcys to Pemberley.
Henry had determined to speak to Darcy about repaying the expenses he had incurred on Lydia's behalf. Before he had the opportunity, however, Mr. Bennet leapt into the breach.
The three gentlemen were in the billiards room at Longbourn. Bingley had been detained at Netherfield, directing the fitting-up of what was to be Jane's sitting room. Henry and Darcy were shooting billiards, while Mr. Bennet watched; they were engaged in a rather idle discussion of fishing tackle when Mr. Bennet abruptly changed the subject.
"Darcy," he said with an unusually businesslike air, "Lizzy has told me that you were put to some expense in the arrangement of my youngest daughter's marriage after Henry had left town. Please accept my sincere gratitude for your pains, and I am sure that Henry joins me in this. If you will be so good as to present my agent with the total, I will arrange for repayment."
Darcy was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his face remained grave, and his voice was softer than usual. Henry knew that his friend was trying to control strong emotion. "Pray do not trouble yourself, sir," he said. "The amount paid was nothing, compared to the good that it did, and I remain at all times at the service of your family."
"It could not have been a negligible sum," Mr. Bennet persisted. "Such as Wickham are not easily bought."
"I had the advantage of long acquaintance with Wickham. I understand him, and knew what was required to persuade him to take the proper course."
"Nevertheless, you must indulge me," Mr. Bennet replied with a smile. "It is not as though my daughter brings a fortune with her."
Darcy's eyes flashed as he looked at the older man. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I must be permitted to disagree with you. In granting your permission to marry Elizabeth, you have given me that which I know is most precious to you. I can ask for nothing more, but only assure you that Elizabeth is equally precious to me, and that she will want for nothing that is within my power to provide. I acted on Lydia's behalf upon the same principle. The circumstances were distressful to Elizabeth, and I did what I could to make her comfortable. Pray do not speak to me of fortunes or repayment."
Henry had known that Darcy would refuse to accept repayment from Mr. Bennet, and that Mr. Bennet would gently press him, and would be politely rebuffed. It was all part of the social dance demanded by common civility. Henry had already decided that he would make private arrangements to repay Darcy--honour allowed nothing less--but Darcy's words stopped him cold. He is right, Henry admitted to himself. Money is nothing, when one has more than enough. What Darcy and Lizzy have together--the life they will build--is worth so much more; it is something that cannot be quantified. Darcy can no more place such a worldly value upon his marriage than I could upon my own. Henry understood at that moment why Darcy had refused repayment, and understood that he would no longer press his friend to accept it.
Lost in thought, he was startled to realize that Darcy had been calling his name. "What? What is it?" he asked in mild confusion.
"It is your shot," said Darcy with a smile.
"Of course," Henry muttered, trying to ignore the amused looks exchanged by his companions as he lined up his shot.
The day before the wedding, Mr. Bennet summoned Henry into his library. "Shut the door, please," he said. Henry obeyed, wondering what caused his father's grave appearance.
Mr. Bennet walked to a large canvas-wrapped object propped against a bookcase. He undid the wrappings to reveal a large portrait. "This is for you," he said to his son.
It was a portrait of Henry's mother. He had only seen the miniature, and the full-length portrait before him took his breath away.
Elizabeth Bennet gazed lovingly at her son, her dark eyes full of humour and intelligence. She wore an amber-coloured gown, cut very wide at the shoulders and low in the neckline, displaying the odd, slope-shouldered look of ladies' portraits of that time, as though her collarbones had been removed. In an age of elaborate hairstyles, hers was fairly simple: unpowdered, piled to a reasonable height on top, with a few curls hugging her neck. The resemblance to Henry's foster mother, her second cousin, was pronounced. There was a strong likeness to the portrait that had once hung in Eleanor's bedroom at Northanger Abbey, which Henry knew now graced her sitting room at Windlestrae.
"It is lovely," said Henry, much moved. "But I cannot take it. It should be with you, Father. Why have you not hung it at Longbourn?"
"That would hardly be politic in the presence of the current Mrs. Bennet," his father replied. "It hung in the drawing room until my second marriage. I had it put away then--for you, son. I always hoped, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, that I would find you someday. I now reunite you with your mother. Take the portrait, Henry. It has been kept for you."
"Thank you, sir. It will have a place of honour."
"That is well. It is a good portrait," he added thoughtfully. "It was a wedding gift from old Mr. Drummond, painted by a fellow called Gainsborough. His portraits were all the fashion at the time. I'll have it wrapped up well and put with your luggage."
Happy for all his fraternal feelings was the day on which Henry Tilney saw his two most deserving sisters married to the gentlemen of their choice. The brides were lovely in their new gowns and veils; Jane's paleness complemented her fair beauty, and her trembling was not visible to most present. Elizabeth's consciousness took the form of a glowing colour that brought a special lustre to her dark eyes.
Mr. Bennet led his daughters up the aisle, and Elizabeth and Darcy stood witness as Jane and Bingley exchanged vows, their mutual happiness clearly evident to all present. Even the most jaded and cynical observer would have to admit that Jane and Bingley were extremely well-suited, for she was beautiful and he rich; but their true friends knew that their mutual affection and equable natures would render their marriage one of great contentment.
Then it was time for the second ceremony, and Mr. Bennet took Elizabeth's hand and placed it into Darcy's. To those who knew him well, Darcy's face showed the depth of his emotion, and his love for Elizabeth. She lifted her eyes to her intended's, and the connection brought a smile to both their faces--smiles that spoke of a future of considerable happiness, and of a union that would grow stronger with time and an increase in intimacy. By her ease and liveliness, his mind would be softened and his manners improved; and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she would receive benefit of greater importance. It would be a union that would teach anyone who cared to notice what connubial felicity really was.
Seeing his favourite sister and his closest friend so happily disposed, and Jane and Bingley no less happily, Henry turned to the wellspring of his own connubial felicity--that is, Catherine--who favoured him with a wide smile of pure delight, and clasped his hand in hers.
For one who professed herself the happiest woman on earth, Mrs. Bennet wept loudly and copiously throughout the ceremony. Fortunately, Hill had tucked several extra handkerchiefs into her mistress's reticule, so Mrs. Bennet could shed all the tears of joy that she liked.
Her tears, however, had not prevented Mrs. Bennet from providing a lavish wedding breakfast, with several kinds of hot and cold rolls and bread and toast, cold meat, and two wedding cakes. It was a spread sure to be talked of extensively in the neighbourhood, much of which was in attendance.
An unexpected addition to the party was the cousin of the brides, Mr. Collins, and his wife. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's perturbation with the match between her nephew and Elizabeth was extreme, and Mrs. Collins had hastily suggested a visit to Lucas Lodge till the storm had blown over. They arrived in time for the wedding, and Mrs. Collins did not have to work very hard to persuade her husband to accompany her to the church, despite his patroness' disapproval. Mr. Collins mitigated the betrayal to Lady Catherine's sensibilities by taking full advantage of the excellent opportunity to lavish his attention upon Darcy. Not long before, Mr. Bennet had pointed out to his cousin that Darcy had more property, and more clerical livings, at his disposal than did his aunt. Mr. Collins had immediately perceived the wisdom of his cousin's advice and took pains to act upon it. Fortunately for Darcy, Mr. Bennet early perceived the mischief he had caused and rescued his newest son-in-law from the worst of Mr. Collins' depredations.
Charlotte rejoiced in the match, especially since she had recognized Mr. Darcy's attachment long before, and was glad that her friend Eliza had finally been made to understand the advantages of it. Not having married for affection herself, she did not think it important in marriage, but saw every advantage owned by the mistress of Pemberley.
Henry was pleased to see Charlotte, and more so to find her as seemingly contented with her situation as Elizabeth had claimed. She spoke with housewifely pride of her poultry and cow, and of her husband's garden, and she glowed with her pregnancy, which had reached the visible stage. When Henry spoke with her, she never showed the least symptom of having experienced an emotion toward him stronger than warm friendship. She was kind to Catherine, and the two ladies could often be found together in earnest conversation.
Henry was so busy speaking with the guests at the wedding breakfast that it was some time before he noticed that Catherine had gone missing. Thinking perhaps the noise and excitement had been too much for her, Henry looked for her in their bedchamber, but it was empty. The door to his father's library was open, and he looked inside. To his surprise, Mr. Bennet and Catherine were sitting in two of the wing chairs by the fireplace.
"Ah, Henry," said his father genially. "Catherine and I found ourselves in agreement that the breakfast was a terrible crush and came away for a little quiet. Will you join us?"
"I would, but it is nearly time for the brides and grooms to leave. You will not want to miss them."
"I am likely to miss my daughters in any event. You two will not be long behind them." He sighed. "This house will be entirely too quiet tonight."
"I have never before heard you complain about too much quiet, sir," said Henry with a grin.
"There is a difference between a well-ordered sort of quiet and the quiet that accompanies the absence of those you love best."
"Then you must visit us at Woodston," said Catherine.
"You may be sure that I shall."
They all went into the passage just as Elizabeth descended the stair, dressed in an elegant traveling costume.
"Oooh, Lizzy," said Catherine with a touch of envy. "That is a perfectly charming habit."
"Thanks to my mother's taste," Elizabeth replied with a smile. "She insisted that Jane and I have the most fashionable clothes for traveling. I dare say that at the end of my journey, they will be as stained and dusty as anything less elegant would be."
"I can never fault your mother's taste," said Mr. Bennet, taking Elizabeth's hand and smiling at her fondly.
"Thank you for your generosity, Papa," said Elizabeth. "I shall be the best-dressed lady in Derbyshire!"
"I am glad to do you this last service, my Lizzy. I will tell the others that you are preparing to leave," said Mr. Bennet. He went into the dining parlour, followed by Catherine, but Henry remained behind with his sister.
"Well, Mrs. Darcy," said Henry. "You look very fine, indeed! Mrs. Bennet was right to outfit you so well."
Elizabeth smiled up at her brother. "You are the first person to call me by my new name."
"Had I known you wished it, Mrs. Darcy, I would have used it all morning," said Darcy, also dressed for traveling, as he descended the stair. "I have waited long enough to do so."
"You have indeed, Mr. Darcy," said Elizabeth archly, giving him her hand. "But it is my experience that when the objects you most wish for are acquired, they are appreciated all the more. Therefore, I expect to be as well cherished and cared for as the most valuable family antique at Pemberley."
"You may depend upon that, madam." Darcy lifted her hand to his lips.
"We must not laugh too much at Fitzwilliam, Henry," said Elizabeth in a confiding manner. "He has not yet learnt to be laughed at. I aim to teach him, however."
"You could have no better tutor," Henry assured his new brother.
"Yet I already have had such fine tutelage from you, Tilney," Darcy rejoined. "I am astonished that my wife thinks I am in need of more."
"You are," cried Henry and Elizabeth simultaneously, and all three laughed.
"You must forgive me for indulging myself in a moment of gravity on such a joyous day," said Henry. "I have not had a moment alone with you today. I give you joy--I know you will have it; I give you whatever blessings are at the disposal of an obscure country priest; and I am very proud of you both. You have overcome pride and prejudice to be together. Your union will be the stronger for it, and your happiness the more deeply felt. God bless you."
Tears sparkled in Elizabeth's eyes as she embraced Henry. Darcy shook his hand. "Will you and Catherine come to Pemberley for Christmas?"
"Perhaps; though I know Catherine is looking forward to having our first Christmas at Woodston."
"Then come next summer," said Elizabeth. "For a nice long visit, mind."
"We will certainly come when we can. Whether the visit will be nice, however, is surely a matter of concern for the hosts, rather than the guests."
Before Elizabeth could retort, Joseph, Darcy's groom, came in. "The carriage is ready, sir," he said to his master.
With many embraces and tears, the newlyweds were packed into their respective vehicles and driven away. The guests went away soon after, and when they were gone, Henry and Catherine changed into their own traveling clothes and prepared to depart.
The remaining members of the family dutifully trooped out to see them off. Kitty embraced them, Mary suffered herself to be kissed, and Mrs. Bennet, still in a high state of amiability from the day's events, shook hands with great cordiality.
Henry expected no more from his father, who was not a demonstrative man. Mr. Bennet shook his son's hand, adding a pat on the shoulder, a show of great affection; and then to Henry's pleased surprise, he kissed Catherine and gave her a lengthy and warm embrace. "Be well, my dear," he said to her.
Then they were in the post-chaise, and the postilion was guiding the horses down the drive. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and Mr. Bennet held up his hand in farewell, until they were lost from sight.
As the chaise approached the outskirts of Woodston, Catherine leaned forward eagerly, taking in all the sights. Henry watched her indulgently; after all, it was only her second glimpse of what was to be her home.
The sun shone brightly on the village as they passed through it. Several men tipped their hats as they recognized the rector, and the ladies looked curiously at his wife, whom they had waited so long to see.
The chaise was through the village in a moment, past the neat houses and little chandler's shops, and then through the green gates and up the semi-circular sweep. Henry handed Catherine down as the door opened.
Mrs. Dove, the housekeeper, waited in the doorway. The dogs stood on no ceremony, but came running to greet them. Bear, the Newfoundland, no longer a puppy but grown to an enormous size, romped happily around Henry's feet. Catherine scooped up "her" terrier, little Ruby Begonia, and the creature writhed with delight as her fellows, Rags and Angus, demanded equal attention.
Eventually they were all in the house, and the chaise was being unloaded. Catherine set down Ruby and looked around her new domain with all the eagerness she had felt the first time she had been there but had been too conscious to show.
Henry whispered something to Mrs. Dove, and she replied, "Yes, Mr. Tilney, all is in readiness."
"Catherine," said Henry, turning to her with a smile, "pray step into the drawing room. There is something for you to see."
Mrs. Dove looked at Catherine expectantly, and she remembered, with a blush, that this was her house, and these her servants to command. "We will have tea in the dining parlour, Dove," she said. "Some cold meat, please, or sandwiches if possible. I am sure that Mr. Tilney is hungry after our long journey."
The housekeeper curtsied and said, "Yes, Mrs. Tilney."
Henry watched proudly as Catherine stepped surely into her place as the mistress of Woodston parsonage. When the housekeeper was gone, he led his wife into the drawing room.
Catherine gasped in surprise. The room was no longer cold and unfinished, but charmingly fitted up--indeed, fitted up precisely as she had imagined! The various shades of green in paper, upholstery, and hangings; the disposition of the furniture; it was exactly how she had pictured it!
She spun around, taking it all in, silent in her mingled delight and astonishment, until she noticed a framed picture hanging on one wall. Curiosity propelled her to it, and once again she gasped in surprise. "Henry! This is Kitty's drawing!" It was the drawing of the room once executed by Kitty Bennet to Catherine's specifications. Kitty had embellished it with watercolours, Henry had it framed, and it was a charming representation of the room in which they now stood.
In answer to the look of curiosity that Catherine turned upon him, Henry said, "Kitty showed me the picture, and I decided to have the room furnished accordingly as a surprise."
"It is perfect!" Catherine looked at the picture again and added, "We must invite Kitty to visit us."
"We will."
They walked to one of the windows that went all the way to the floor and looked out at the apple trees. They had lost all their leaves, and the little cottage was visible beyond.
"I am glad that it is still there," said Catherine. "It is such a very charming sight; very picturesque, do not you think?"
"Indeed. I am gratified that my lectures on the picturesque have done you so much good."
"Oh, they have."
"Well," he said, smiling down at her, "now that the drawing room is finished, what improvement shall we plan next? For no home should be without constant improvement, and the attendant noise, dirt, and disorder."
Catherine was silent for a moment; then, still looking out the window, she said, "I think we should fit up a nursery."
Her words, uttered so casually, struck Henry like a blow. He said as evenly as he could, "And why do you say that, my sweet?"
Catherine turned from the window and smiled. "Because if my calculations are correct, we shall have need of one come next May."
Henry stared at her wonderingly. As he had thought he would, he berated himself for his blindness. Catherine's news explained so much--her indisposition, her odd behaviour. Emotions swirled within him: happiness, apprehension, astonishment, and an overwhelming urge to ride back to Longbourn and tell his father. Slowly he became aware of Catherine, still standing by the window, watching him anxiously.
"Cat! My love! Here, sit down." He guided her to the sofa and pushed her down into it.
She laughed up at him. "Henry! I shall not break!"
"No, no, of course not." He regarded her thoughtfully. "How long have you known?"
"A few weeks--since just after Lizzy got engaged."
"Why did you not tell me then?"
"You were so busy with the weddings and everything, the time never seemed right. I decided to wait until we were home at Woodston."
"You have kept quite a secret! Have you told no one?"
"Well, I wrote to Mamma when I began to suspect, you know, and told her my symptoms. She agreed that I was expecting, and send me instructions on how to reckon the date of my confinement. That day, when you surprised me in the breakfast room at Longbourn, I was performing the calculations." She blushed. "I required the almanac, you see."
"I do see. But why did you not tell me then?"
"I am sorry, Henry! But I was a trifle overwhelmed, you know. Even though I suspected--I could not speak of it then, I was not ready to speak of it." She looked up at him pleadingly. "Do you understand? It was so much to think about--me! A mother! Mamma says I am a sad, shatter-brained young housekeeper as it is. How am I to be a mother?"
Henry squeezed her hand. "I have every confidence that you will be a fine mother, Cat. If our children inherit half your good nature and generous heart, I will consider myself blessed."
She smiled. "Thank you, Henry. I really am very happy about the baby. I alternate between moments of panic and moments where I feel quite confident. Mamma says that is natural."
"So your Mamma knows. Have you told anyone else?"
"I told your father, just before we left Longbourn. He seemed so unhappy about Lizzy and Jane leaving home that I felt sorry for him, and wished to cheer him up."
"Yet more evidence of my sweet Catherine's generosity! I dare say he was tolerably cheered?"
"Oh, yes! He was very kind, and promised to visit us after the birth." She paused a moment, blushed again, and added, "I also confided in Mrs. Collins. I hope you do not mind, Henry. Actually, I asked her so many questions about her own situation that she guessed. You cannot imagine how comfortable it is to talk things over with another woman--one who truly understands."
"I cannot imagine, no more than I can imagine why, in the midst of this confessional frenzy, you neglected to inform the person most intimately concerned in the business beside yourself--your own husband!"
Henry was teasing her, but Catherine answered him seriously. "I wanted to tell you, but--at first, as I have already explained, I was not quite ready; then I wanted to wait until we were home. I did not want to share the news with everyone--not yet."
"You cannot even be selfish when you work at it, Cat! Wishing to keep the news to yourself, you still shared it with my father--and for such generous reasons!--and Mrs. Collins. I suspect my cousin will be somewhat disconcerted by the news. If his wife has not yet told him, my father will take great pleasure in the office."
Catherine looked up at him gravely. "You have not said if the news makes you happy, Henry."
He smiled, sat next to her, and took her hand. "It makes me very happy. I only wish I'd known earlier so that I could have been more of a comfort to you."
She returned his smile, and said, "You are always a comfort to me. More than a comfort; you know that."
He kissed her hand. "My dear little Cat! How much our children shall love you! Though I suspect not nearly as much as their father does."
Mrs. Dove announced that the tea was laid out in the dining parlour. When they had refreshed themselves, Henry and Catherine went round their house hand-in-hand, planning and dreaming of a future together that would be as fine as any authoress ever provided for a hero and heroine.
Epilogue
Catherine's father had taught her accounts when she was a girl. Though Mr. Morland despaired of ever making his eldest daughter a proficient--for she was not particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, and shirked her lessons whenever she could--at last his tuition proved fruitful, for her latest, most important calculations were exact. In late May, she was safely delivered of a son, named Henry Bennet-Tilney, called Hal by all.
With the infant in tow, the Tilneys spent a month at Pemberley later that summer. The Darcys were delighted to receive their new nephew, and quite as delighted to receive his parents. Elizabeth was especially glad to see Catherine healthy and vibrant so soon after her confinement, as the mistress of Pemberley was only a few months away from her own.
Mr. Bennet had visited Woodston shortly after the birth of his first grandson. He knew the Tilneys' plan to visit Pemberley, and no one was terribly surprised when he turned up there as well. The Gardiners were there, and the Bingleys, and Kitty Bennet; Pemberley in August was a full, but very happy place.
The Bingleys had already determined to remove from Netherfield; so close a proximity to Jane's mother and Meryton relations soon imposed upon even Bingley's good humour and Jane's affectionate nature. The long visit in Derbyshire gave them the opportunity to view and eventually purchase an estate in a neighbouring county. The move was viewed with much approbation by both sides of the family: Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were gratified by the additional importance enjoyed by their brother as a landowner, and Elizabeth rejoiced in having Jane only thirty miles from Pemberley.
The first of the Bennet girls to marry had the least happiness in her marriage. As could be expected, Wickham's affection for Lydia soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer. She might complain to her mother of ill-usage, but to the world Lydia Wickham was a devoted and loyal wife, and she retained all the claims to reputation that her marriage had given her.
Henry could not receive Wickham at Woodston any more than Darcy could receive him at Pemberley, and Lydia scorned visiting the parsonage, preferring to stay with one of her two eldest sisters when Wickham was off enjoying the delights of London or Bath. Henry heard of her occasional financial distress through his sisters, and provided what relief he could through the same conduit.
Lydia invited Kitty to Newcastle, promising her balls and officers, but Mr. Bennet would not allow it. Kitty spent most of her time at the homes of her brother and her two eldest sisters, and the removal from her former influences was beneficial. She became less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid.
Kitty was so much at Pemberley, and her improvement was so great, that she soon attracted the notice of a young man in the neighbourhood. He was the rector of Kympton parish--the living meant for Wickham, which he had scorned to accept. Darcy had found a most worthy young man, known to Henry at Oxford, and had recommended him for the living. This gentleman developed a violent affection for the newly elegant Miss Kitty Bennet, who retained her joyous nature even as she put off her less desirable habits. Within a few months, they reached an understanding; Mr. Bennet gave them his blessing, and they were soon married and settled at Kympton. Only a few years before, Kitty would never have imagined herself married to a clergyman, but she found life in a parsonage suited her very well. How much the example of her sister Tilney worked upon her cannot be known, but there is no doubt that her marriage was happy.
With Kitty gone from Longbourn, Mary was no longer able to pursue accomplishments with the single-mindedness she had formerly enjoyed. Mrs. Bennet was quite unable to sit alone; thus, Mary was forced to mix more with the world. However, as she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her beauty and that of her sisters, she found it quite easy to be philosophical about the change.
Being so much more seen, it is not to be wondered at that Mary would find herself being courted by one of her uncle Philips' clerks. Indeed, it was the same young man who had once brought papers to Longbourn and been entranced by her performance on the pianoforte. At that time, Kitty and Lydia had made sport of the young man's spots and shabby suits; however, he had worked hard, and risen in the practice. He was marked out by the childless Mr. Philips to inherit the practice, and this very welcome circumstance persuaded Mary to entertain the young man's offer of marriage. It certainly helped the gentleman's case that he had passed the age of spots, and acquired a much better suit of clothes. Mary's happiness in her choice can be imagined, as her husband encouraged her to read and practice her instrument, and she was well content to be a star in Meryton society.
Though Mrs. Bennet had worked so hard to find husbands for her daughters, when the last one married, she protested against being left alone. Thus, Mary's husband moved into the great house at Longbourn, a situation that suited everyone except Mr. Bennet. He missed his son and his second daughter exceedingly, to the point that he was stirred from his natural indolence and drawn away from home much oftener than ever before. He took great pleasure in visiting in Woodston and Pemberley, and never waited for an invitation, or even wrote ahead of his intentions. Fortunately, he was always welcome in either house.
Henry's affection for Catherine did not abate, but grew stronger over the years, and young Hal was joined by several siblings. Catherine herself improved under Henry's influence, and after only a few years of marriage found nearly as much enjoyment in a book of history as in a horrid novel. She considered her husband as delightful a partner as she had found him the first night they met, in the Lower Rooms at Bath, and despite her apprehensions, she proved to be a competent mother. A house full of small children was nothing new to Catherine, and indeed very much her idea of a proper home.
Henry took great satisfaction not only in his personal contentment, but in that of his friends as well. His relationship with his father was strong, and to many observers highly irreverent, a state of affairs that suited them both perfectly. Henry's friendship with Bingley and Darcy--now, truly, his brothers--was as warm as ever, and there was a great deal of visiting back and forth, even as their respective families grew.
Henry Tilney's life had begun with a gothic melodrama, but in later years became too settled and ordinary for a hero; thus, I close my narrative with the hope that it has provided some diversion for the reader, and some edification for those who eschew literary works that are all story and no reflection.