It was impossible for either Kitty or Georgiana to think of anything else when they first awoke the next morning, than that it was the concluding day of William Price's visit. Twenty-four hours more, and he would be on the point of departure. Twenty-four short hours were all that was left for an event of such prodigious importance. Georgiana knew of her friend's half-formed hopes that the acting in the last scene of the charades might have afforded an opening for the reality, and Kitty had not been a little chagrined at William's pronouncement that he wished Mr. Bertram had taken the part, but a night's rest had dispersed these clouds, and in the happiest frame of mind, Miss Bennet went down early, ready to make the most of every instant of this precious day. A disappointment awaited her shortly after breakfast, for Mr. Darcy was so barbarous as to propose taking the gentlemen to see the farm and the horses, and to this they actually agreed, Bingley only stipulating that they should return in good time, as he had made an arrangement to ride with Georgiana. The damp and muddy state of the ground would not permit of the ladies accompanying them, even the most venturesome, and when they had all set out, Kitty found that there was nothing for her to do until their return but to hurry to the Rectory in search of the consolation which Mrs. Jennings was always ready to offer.
Mrs. Darcy found an opportunity during the morning for a little quiet talk with her sister. Jane so thoroughly liked and respected Mr. Price that she was delighted to find Elizabeth in agreement with her and related many instances of his sterling common sense, good taste, and amiable disposition, which she had had time, during her longer acquaintance, to meet with. Elizabeth hazarded the suggestion as to his presumed intentions towards Kitty, that however earnest they may be, it was possible that he did not mean to make her an offer at present, for his circumstances might not permit of it; he was still young, and his prospects might not be assured enough to warrant him in taking a wife. Jane was not inclined to think that any such obstacles stood in his way. His cousin had told her that he had saved a considerable sum of money, and that his brothers now being all out in the world, his family were no longer dependent on his help. Besides which, he knew he would be made a commander by the end of the year, and after that, it was only a matter of short time, to an officer of his experience, especially if a little interest could be exercised, before he obtained a ship of his own. Bingley had heard of him from several persons in London, and all agreed that there was not a more promising young lieutenant in the service. These were the days of quick promotion, and his career so far gave rise to no expectation that he would be left behind.
Elizabeth heard it all with pleasure, and would not give utterance to her solitary regret, that Kitty should have been fated to fall in love with a man who, in the event of their marriage, would be obliged to spend the greater part of the year away from her.
The gentlemen had returned from their walk by twelve o'clock, and Fitzwilliam and the two cousins waited near the front door to watch Bingley and Miss Darcy starting for their ride. Hardly had the horses moved off, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was considering what the guests might like to do next, when Tom Bertram seized William by the arm, and with a word of apology to the Colonel, carried him off to a distant patch.
"I want to speak to you, William," he began, with some abruptness, "and Miss Bennet will be popping out on us if I do not take this chance. I want to know—did you happen to hear what that gossiping old woman, Mrs. Jenkins, or what ever she is called, said to me last night, just as she was leaving?"
"I certainly did not hear anything particular, but I'm afraid one never does pay much attention to Mrs. Jennings," returned William.
"Then let me tell you, she had the impertinence to give me the broadest hint I ever had in my life—to giveme, if you please!—that I was paying court to Miss Darcy. I never was more astounded. I forget exactly what she said, but she made it quite clear, and—yes, one remark I do recollect, something about the 'charming future Lady Bertram.'"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed William, "what unpardonable insolence! I have never heard anything more outrageously offensive. Was she—I hope, I hope, Tom, that Miss Darcy did not hear any of this?"
"No, she was nowhere near at the time, but imagine my feelings, William, never having dreamed of such a thing, and then having it suddenly brandished in my face, as it were, by that odiously vulgar woman."
"It was disagreeable, certainly, but I am thinking more of Miss Darcy's feelings, as from what I know of her, I can conceive nothing which would be more repugnant to her, than to have such a subject bandied about in jest."
"Well, you may make your mind easy, for she was certainly not listening. But that was not what I wanted to say. Of course, it was a complete surprise to me, but once it had been put into my head, I could not help thinking of it, and, indeed, I have been pondering over it ever since, and have come to the conclusion that it would not be at all a bad thing."
"What is this?" exclaimed William. "Do you expect me to listen to you with patience, Tom, when not three weeks ago you were sighing over Miss Thorpe, and regretted your parents' objection to her, and declaring there was not such another girl in the world?"
"You need not be so hasty, William. You talk as if I were already on my knees to Miss Darcy, when I have no intentions whatever towards her; the idea has simply been put into my head by the circumstances, and naturally I must think it out."
"The idea has been put into your head by a foolish, chattering old woman, if you call her a circumstance, and, coming from that quarter, is not worth taking seriously for an instant."
"I do not know so much about that: it is true, she had no business to say it, but there was a reason in what she said; Miss Darcy would make an admirable Lady Bertram. Imagine my father's and mother's satisfaction, if I could present such a girl to them as their daughter."
"Good God, Tom!" exclaimed William, tearing his arm away, "the cold-blooded way in which you talk is more than one can bear. Weighing one girl against another, as if it were a question of relative merit, which you would throw the handkerchief to. It is not much of a compliment to Miss Darcy, to admit that you never thought whether she had attractions or not, until Mrs. Jennings suggested it to you."
"I am not considering paying compliments to Miss Darcy, and I do not see why you should get so hot," rejoined his cousin. "I merely wanted to talk it out with you quietly, and ask your opinion; but it is perfectly useless if you will fly into a passion at a word."
"Well, what do you want my opinion about?" demanded William, trying to speak in his ordinary tones.
Tom was easily placated, and really wanted to be talking, so he resumed: "My difficulty is that I am more or less involved with Isabella. Of course, we are both perfectly free; nothing has passed between us that she could construe into an engagement; I had to promise my parents that: but at the same time I practically promised myself that I wouldn't do anything until I had seen her again, which I expect to do in January. Now, for the sake of this connection, would it be better for me to break off entirely with the Thorpes by degrees? You know, I like Isabella very much, it is her family that one sticks at, while these Darcys are unexceptionable in every way; but she herself is a devilishly fine girl, with far more style about her than Miss Darcy, you must admit that."
"I think that the two ladies are not to be mentioned in the same breath with each other," said William, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
"You think not? that was what I wanted to arrive at; well, perhaps you are right, though I always thought you needlessly prejudiced against poor Isabella. I certainly feel more and more the advantages of such an alliance as this, on the worldly side, that is; for their dispositions, I fancy that of my old friend would suit me best."
"Tom," said William, turning to face his cousin fully, "I cannot think what possesses you to talk in this detestable way. Can you not feel how horrible it is? If you care for Miss Thorpe, you cannot think of marrying a girl you meet directly after leaving her, and have only known for a week. Whereas, if you think for one moment of Miss Darcy with the feelings a man ought to have, if marriage is in his mind, how can you possibly go on making comparisons between her and Miss Thorpe? Either way, it is abominable treatment of one of them."
"My dear William, you are going to the other extreme. Just now, you told me not to take anything Mrs. Jennings said seriously, yet you are assuming me to be in the most sober earnest all round, when all I want is to give the matter the consideration it deserves. Miss Darcy is very charming, but I am quite heart-whole where she is concerned at present, and so, no doubt, is she as regards me. But everything must have a beginning, and if such difficulties are to be put in way of my marrying Isabella, I could hardly do better than this; at any rate, it is worth thinking of. I shall go home and see how things develop in the course of the weeks. I can always come over again, you know; it is not the ends of the earth."
William broke from his cousin with an impatient gesture, and hurried away to another part of the grounds. Mr. Bertram looked after him in surprise, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to the house, to establish himself by the fireside with a newspaper. Many inquiries were made for Mr. Price throughout the afternoon, to which Mr. Bertram could only say that he had seen him last in the garden, and it was not until nearly dinner-time that he reappeared, with a heated, wearied look, and confessed to having walked too far and missed his way in the park.
Kitty had been on the verge of tears, as the hours of his absence went on, and even Georgiana had begun to look grave, but this explanation revived their drooping spirits to a great extent. Anyone might lose their way in such a large park—nearly ten miles round! And on a dark, foggy afternoon the paths looked all alike, and the stream had so many windings! It was quite evident that this unlucky circumstance alone had caused the delay. These considerations, and a most satisfactory glance at her mirror when she was dressed for the ball, renewed Kitty's bright hopes for the evening. She wished Lydia could see her now. How could regimental balls, however smart and gay, compare with the splendour, the importance, of this occasion at Pemberley. The house, as she had always foreseen, was exactly right for a ball; the arrangements, the space, and all details were superior to those at Mrs. Knightley's house: her dress had been given to her by Elizabeth, and was even prettier than the one she had worn in London, and there seemed to be numbers of pleasant partners, including several officers, though these gentlemen were not persons of such consideration to Kitty as formerly, she having now decided that the naval uniform was far handsomer than the military.
It only remained for Mr. Price to ask for her hand in the first two dances, and the gentlemen of the house were so long in appearing that she was in the utmost terror lest she should be obliged to give them away before he arrived, but at last, among a crowd of other men entering the room, she discerned him. He approached, passing close to Georgiana, who was just being led into the ball-room by a neighbour and old friend, and came straight to where Kitty stood by Mrs. Bingley's side. How delightful to hear the words, spoken in his own friendly way, and with his own charming smile: "Well, Miss Bennet, I hope I may have the honour of these two dances, if I am not too late?"
Kitty very joyously accompanied him to a place next to Georgiana and her partner in the set, and with equal joy made an engagement for other dances later in the evening.
The rooms filled and the ball proceeded, and many present who were frequent visitors to Pemberley nevertheless felt that those noble rooms had never before been the setting for a more brilliant scene. Mr. Darcy received innumerable congratulations upon having at last delighted the neighbourhood by permitting his house to be seen to such advantage, and not having altogether looked forward to the evening, he surprised himself by discovering how much, with Elizabeth at his side, he could enjoy both his own pleasure in entertaining guests, which he had not previously done on so large a scale, and also the pleasure of others who were important to him, Elizabeth, Georgiana, and the Bingleys. Georgiana in particular he watched with affectionate appreciation as she moved through the crowds, handsome and stately, generally grave, but occasionally lighting up into shy animation, and far more admired than she knew or cared about.
William Price had been dancing for a second time with Kitty, and they were sitting in a corridor, on some chairs placed below a cluster of candles in a sconce projecting from the wall, when one of the candles guttered, and a few drops of hot wax fell on the edge of Kitty's chair, narrowly escaping her gown. With an exclamation of annoyance, she sprang up, withdrawing quickly from the post of danger, and looking above them, both perceived that the mischief was caused by a candle having loosened in its socket, and fallen a little to one side.
William immediately proposed that they should move to other seats, and should summon a servant to replace the candle, but Kitty was in a wild and excitable mood, and would pay no heed. Laughing and calling out that she would put it right herself in a moment, she sprang upon the chair, reaching as high as she could, and to the dismay of the onlookers, thrust her hand into the midst of the candles in order to grasp the offending one.
"Do, pray, Miss Bennet, come down!" exclaimed William, and several other persons joined their entreaties to his. "Do not try to do it; you will set your dress on fire—your sleeve is so dangerously near. Do let me help you down, lest you fall and hurt yourself."
Mrs. Jennings, who had been observing the couple during the dance, and had followed them at a little distance, now arrived in time to hear Kitty say: "Thank you, Mr. Price, but I have already done it; and all is well; I and my gown are quite safe, you see." And looking down at him with a gay, triumphant smile, she gave him both her hands, and with this assistance jumped to the ground, adding: "Now, was that not skilful of me? and if we had waited to discuss it, you would never have let me attend to it, though it was by far the best."
"I would have tried to prevent your running such risks, certainly," replied William, but his quieter tones were lost in the noisy interposition of Mrs. Jennings. "Oh, my dear Miss Bennet, now how very naughty of you! You have given poor Mr. Price quite a fright. Ah, Mr. Price, she is a sad girl, I fear, but I am glad to see Petruchio is beginning early to learn to keep her in better order. All your rehearsing in the charades will come in useful now, won't it? but I'll warrant this Katherine will be just as apt a pupil as the other." The old lady laughed heartily at Kitty's blushes, and at William's blank, uncomfortable look. "There, my dears, I won't disturb you any longer; only I hope you will both come and talk to me whenever you feel inclined."
Kitty, who had resumed her seat, was the first to break the awkward silence which followed this speech. "Mrs. Jennings is a great talker, is she not?" she said, with a laugh. "She seems able to think of nothing but those charades, and would like to make one believe that the acting was something wonderful."
"Yes," said William, after a pause. He had not sat down, but remained standing with a disconcerted air, twisting Kitty's fan about in his hands. "It is very complimentary. I wonder if—whether all the spectators were equally impressed."
"Oh, I think they were," said Kitty eagerly. "Even Darcy said some words in favour of it, and, you know, it is very hard to get any sort of praise out of him. And Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were quite delighted. And my sister, too, Mrs. Darcy, said several times how much she liked it; she thought it so clever of Mr. Bertram to have arranged that scene."
She looked anxiously at William, and his face cleared somewhat, but he did not sit down again, and replied so absentmindedly to a few more remarks made by Kitty that when sounds of music reached them, she was quite ready to go, and walked beside him to the ball-room, thinking petulantly that Mrs. Jennings had spoilt everything by coming just then, and saying what she had; that no one liked to be hurried, or could be expected to declare himself in a crowd, and that perhaps he was vexed at having the words taken out of his mouth, as it were; altogether, the incident was thoroughly annoying.
For the next dance, she saw him invite Georgiana, but she was already engaged to Mr. Bertram, and he did not ask anyone else, but stood about watching various people, and occasionally exchanging a few words with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Bingley, who were sitting down together during the set. Kitty could see from where she was that they were trying to induce him to find another partner, but he laughingly resisted their persuasions, and continued to walk about the rooms until the dance was over, after which he stationed himself within a short distance of Miss Darcy's chair, and when a suitable interval had elapsed, he went up to her and again made his request.
Miss Darcy acceded readily, and Mr. Bertram left them with by no means as much readiness. He had scarcely moved away when William began: "Miss Darcy, should you mind not standing up for this one? I was wondering whether you would be so kind as to show me some of the pictures in the gallery upstairs, which Mr. Darcy was speaking of at dinner. You know my time is getting very short, and I should be sorry to go away without having seen them."
"With the greatest pleasure," returned Georgiana, "and indeed I shall be glad not to dance any more at present. But you should have made my brother show you the pictures, as he is a far better judge than I am. We may find him up there, as he sometimes takes his friends round on these occasions."
The picture gallery, however, proved to be empty of visitors, and they strolled through, Georgiana pointing out which were considered to be the best paintings. William passed by them rather hurriedly, looking chiefly at the family portraits, and Georgiana, observing this, conducted him to the end of the gallery, where her brother's likeness hung. William studied it for an instant, glancing at his companion as if trying to trace a resemblance, while Georgiana told him the date of the picture, and repeated that she wished they had come up before, as he would have seen it and all the others so much better in daylight.
She noticed that William hardly seemed to take in what she said, and was not altogether surprised when he turned suddenly to her and said, with scarcely concealed agitation: "Miss Darcy, you are very kind, but at this moment I cannot think of these pictures. Will you let me speak to you for a moment? I have something important to say."
"He is going to tell me he has proposed to Kitty!" flashed through Georgiana's mind, and for one instant a rush of feeling almost overwhelmed her, but controlling herself as well as she could, she said aloud: "Certainly, Mr. Price. Do say anything you wish. Will you not sit down? and I will do the same." She indicated two chairs opposite the portrait, and seated herself in one, but William remained standing, looking at her with such a deep, earnest gaze, while he tightly clasped his hands together, that he did not seem to have heard her words.
"Miss Darcy, you must forgive my presumption. It is a bad beginning to ask for forgiveness, but I know—no one better—that it is not for me to speak to you at present as I must speak. I would have waited, till my position—till I was justified—but circumstances have made it impossible to go away and wait in utter uncertainty, for an unknown future. I do not ask anything as yet, only a hearing—only that you will let me tell you how truly and devotedly I love you, and have loved you from the first moment of my seeing you."
A dreadful misgiving had passed over Georgiana at the beginning of this speech, and only consternation kept her silent till its close. She sprang up, in a horror and dismay that would scarcely find expression, and exclaimed: "Mr. Price! You to say such words to me! Whatcanyou mean? What can anything mean?You—no, no, it is all some horrible mistake."
"No, Miss Darcy, indeed, it is no mistake," broke in William eagerly and earnestly. "Do not be so distressed, I beg you. I do not ask you to give me any definite reply, though you can guess what perfect joy it would be to have one word of hope, however slight, from your lips—but I will wait and try to earn the right to ask for more. Next year my position will have improved, and your brother will not perhaps think it quite out of the question. Nay, I implore you, dearest Miss Darcy, to hear me only this once. I did not mean to trouble you so soon, but I could not bear to go, so far away, with no prospect of seeing you again, and knowing that others might be near you, others far more eligible and desirable than myself—you would understand, I am sure, if you only knew the tithe of what I felt."
"Mr. Price," said Georgiana, signing to him with her hand to stop, and standing erect before him, "I insist that you shall cease. I will hear no more of this. You cannot be in your right mind; at all events, you will not find me so destitute of sense of honour as you think." She paused, choked with emotion at the thought of Kitty.
"Destitute of honour! when you know, Miss Darcy, that I think you the purest, loveliest, best of creatures. Forgive me if I have offended you, only tell me how I may correct it. Do I wrong in speaking to you first? I will do whatever you wish; I would not grieve you for the world."
With great effort, Georgiana collected herself sufficiently to reply: "These professions of yours amaze and horrify me. I cannot tell you whether they are more painful to me if I have to regard them as true, than if, as at present, they seem hypocritical. In any case, it is absolutely inexplicable that you should use such language to me, you who for months past have been recognized by all her friends as the admirer of my friend Miss Bennet."
The words were out, and Georgiana felt hot with shame as she uttered them, conscious that even with the need for openness on this terrible occasion, the betraying of her friend's hopes to the object of them was a shocking thing. She was so overcome as to be unable to look at William Price's horror-struck face.
"Miss Bennet! It is possible that you thought I was paying attentions to Miss Bennet? Miss Darcy, you cannot be serious. This is too frightful. I never thought of doing so, never dreamed of her expecting them, if she did expect them. Miss Bennet was always gay and cheerful—she is a charming girl, as we were excellent companions; but as for anything more—surely you could not have been deceived, whoever else was, when you alone were the subject of all my desires and hopes?"
Georgiana shrank from the task of answering such an appeal, and took hold of another part of his sentence to reply to. "She did expect them, Mr. Price, and she received enough, at all events, to mislead her most cruelly. She has thought of no one but yourself, and of meeting again here, for months past, and everything that has happened in the last week had strengthened her in her belief in your attachment. You cannot deny," continued Georgiana, her indignation rising, "that your constant association, her delight in your society, have given rise to expectation in the minds of her friends, if you dispute its existence in her own."
"No," said William, "I cannot deny that, for I had a proof of it this evening in some remarks dropped by Mrs. Jennings; but though they disturbed me momentarily, I dismissed them from my mind, as I knew she was the kind of person whose chief delight lies in teasing young people about each other, and I thought Miss Bennet, and her other friends, were too sensible to be continually entertaining such fancies."
"Fancies!" repeated Georgiana warmly. "My poor friend is completely wrapped up, heart and soul, in what you designate as a fancy."
"Indeed, I am very sorry," said William, looking utterly downcast, "very grieved and ashamed, if I have caused Miss Bennet a moment's uneasiness, though I can hardly think that others, Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, in particular, have so completely failed to perceive—but it is useless to enter into the exact degrees of misunderstanding. I, at least, have been as thoroughly blind as a man could wish to be. What can I do, Miss Darcy, to prove to you my innocence? If I have occasioned this unfortunate error, it has been through ignorance, thoughtlessness, nothing more. Is there any one thing, any incident, you could tell me of, by which you may have been inadvertently misled?"
Georgiana's ideas were so confused, and she was altogether so agitated that at the moment she felt as if she would never be able to collect herself sufficiently to marshal her evidence, now it was required; but, luckily, as she tried to think, one episode darted into her memory, which had frequently been discussed between herself and Kitty, and had seemed to bear naturally but one interpretation. Painful though it was to bring such matters into dispute, she forced herself for Kitty's sake to say: "Did you not tell Mrs. Knightley, after the ball which took place at her house, that you had never enjoyed an evening more, and that there was one person whose presence there had been everything to you? Did you not give her to understand that you meant Miss Bennet?"
Distress and surprise were clearly shown on William's countenance. He began to speak, hesitated, and broke off, and then resumed: "I know what you mean, but it is all too bewildering. Surely Mrs. Knightley did not tell you that? I never spoke or thought of Miss Bennet in that connection. Except that I had some pleasant dances with her, she might not have existed for me that evening. I recollect telling Mrs. Knightley what a delightful evening I had had, and it was she who suggested that one person's presence had contributed more to it than any other. I could do nothing but agree with her, as I thought she had noticed my instant and intense admiration of you. It was so evident to me, that I supposed it was to others. I thought of no one else but you. When Mr. Bingley invited me to stay with him, I was doubtful if I could accept, but directly he said that you lived in the same neighbourhood, I determined that nothing should prevent my coming. Do you recollect anything else, Miss Darcy, our meeting at the Hursts', and Captain Wentworth saying that you believed sailors to be fickle, which made me so uneasy until I persuaded myself that you did not mean it? Oh, do not shake your head, continue to misbelieve it, I entreat you. And in these last few days, if events have happened to throw me more with Miss Bennet than with yourself, it has not been my doing, or my wish. I implore you to be convinced of this, and to accept my assurances of my unswerving loyalty and devotion towards you."
It was impossible for Georgiana not to be moved by these words, though she had tried to check their passionate flow, and had remained where she was, leaning on a chair, solely because her trembling limbs would hardly support her. Now, however, summoning all her courage, and strengthening herself with thoughts of Kitty, she spoke in a tolerably firm voice. "Mr. Price, I must believe that this unhappy mistake has been made unintentionally, since you say so, but the wretchedness it has caused will not be so easily cleared away. The assurances of your loyalty should not be made to me, you owe them to Miss Bennet and her only."
She could get no further, for she was interrupted by William with a vehemence exceeding any that he had shown before. "Miss Bennet! Except as your friend, and as a lady for whom I have a great liking and respect, Miss Bennet is nothing to me, and never could be. Oh, Miss Darcy, you do not yet understand me. Can you forget Miss Bennet for one moment, and tell me if, apart from all that, there would be the slightest hope for me at some future time? the least chance of your having some faith in me, to enable me to strive to win you as I long to do?"
He had made an error, and saw it before he had finished his sentence. "Forget Miss Bennet?" repeated Georgiana, with a flash of angry pride, as she walked away from him. "I do not think you understandme, Mr. Price. When I have desired a friend's happiness so long, I cannot lightly see it thrown away, and never, never would I seek it for my own if it was to be at the expense of hers."
William, on hearing this, made a quick pace forward to intercept her, and, turning, so that they stood face to face, he asked in quieter, but not less ardent tones: "Only one word more, Miss Darcy. Forgive me for what I said, but tell me this. You spoke of happiness. Did you mean that it might be happiness to you, if all this were cleared up? Did you mean that I might be able to make you happy, and that there was any possibility of your ever coming to feel for me even the smallest part of what I feel for you?"
Georgiana, trembling, almost weeping, her anger not subsided, but other sensations surging strongly up, brought herself to look for one moment into the eyes of glowing entreaty bent upon hers. With almost a sob, she broke away from him, exclaiming: "No, no; it is of no use to ask me. Do not talk to me in such a way—I must not—I will not listen—I cannot bear it," and fairly ran out of the gallery.
William stood stunned and motionless for some minutes. At last he roused himself, with a deep sigh, from the contemplation of his ruined hopes, and strove to think of what he ought to do next. While desiring nothing so much as solitude and quiet, he remembered that Georgiana would not have gone straight back to the ball-room, and for the two of them to be absent would give rise to remark. To protect Georgiana was an instinct, and it gave him a ray of satisfaction in the midst of his perplexity and misery to remind himself that though she had refused his love, she now knew of its existence, and whatever misapprehension there might be as to the past, she would perceive what influence guided his actions in the future. He slowly descended the stairs, so bewildered still as scarcely to be conscious of what was going on around him; rehearsing their conversation and thinking too late of things he might have said, which would perhaps have been of some service to his cause. A crowd of persons were streaming into the hall from the ball-room, the second dance since he and Georgiana went upstairs having just ended, and supper being now talked of. He mingled with the rest, and presently manoeuvred himself into a place near Mrs. Bingley, who was now sitting with Mr. Ferrars, and greeted him with a pleasant smile.
Beyond a casual inquiry as to whether he had seen Kitty, she asked him no questions, and before long he found himself introduced to a young lady, and directed to find a place for her at one of the supper tables. What he talked of he did not know, and the rest of the evening passed in the same dreamlike manner. In his desire to attract no special attention, he chatted and laughed and danced, and was persuaded that he did so as gaily as before, but he could not keep his thoughts from wandering to Georgiana, whom he had seen returning, looking very pale, about a quarter of an hour after they had parted, or to Kitty, whose eyes continually and anxiously sought his. It was far more painful for him to see her than Georgiana, whom of course he held blameless, even for her hard words; Kitty he vaguely felt to be in part responsible for the whole trouble, and though bitterly reproaching himself for folly and blindness, he could not bring himself to go near her, to speak to her, or dance with her again, when such a construction had been put upon all their previous intercourse.
Angry at the pain he was giving her, and driven to despair at the sight of Georgiana's pale cheeks, he found the length of the evening almost unendurable, and the only relief he obtained was in going to Mr. Bingley, and asking him to fix as early as possible an hour for their start on the following morning, for it would be necessary for him and his cousin to be well on their long journey towards Mansfield by the afternoon. It had been already arranged that the three gentlemen should return to Desborough independently of Mrs. and Miss Bingley, who were to remain at Pemberley for another day or two to recover from the fatigues of the ball. Mr. Bingley good-naturedly agreed, judging that the young people had decided that it would be better to make their adieux the night before, rather than come down early to a painful scene of parting at the prosaic breakfast-table, so he went away to consult Darcy, and send out orders to the stables. This done, William felt more comfortable; inaction was intolerable to him, and he would have removed himself from the house at once if he could have done so, since to relieve her of a presence which had become embarrassing and distasteful to her was the only thing he could now do for Georgiana.
She had, as he anticipated, sought the refuge of her own room when she fled from the gallery; but even there the old habits of self-command and consideration for others prevailed over the longing to give way to her grief and distress of the mind. She knew she must not allow herself the luxury of a burst of tears, nor even a little quiet thought, in order to realize what had occurred, and decide what, if anything, she should say to Kitty. No, there was no time for that, there would be plenty of opportunity soon, to readjust their view of recent events, and all that they meant to Kitty and herself. Shaken and unnerved by the shock of William Price's declaration, Georgiana shrank from immediately facing its consequences. She could only take a few moments in which to compose herself and endeavour to smooth away the traces of emotion. That she must see him again was a dreadful thought, but it would be a far worse ordeal to have to encounter Kitty's inquiries and lamentations on the following day, and the surprise of Elizabeth and Jane. Georgiana dared not let herself think of all this, when this horrible evening was not yet over. She hastily bathed her face, and opening the windows wide, leaned out for a few minutes, for the night air to cool her throbbing temples, and went down at last, feeling as if her countenance must betray to every observer the secret of what had happened.
She took refuge at once by the side of Elizabeth, who made room for her with a smile, and did not fail to notice her aspect. As soon as she was at liberty, she asked Georgiana if she was very tired, and took care that she was provided with some refreshment. Georgiana owned to a good deal of fatigue, but declared that she should sleep it off, and Elizabeth, who thought her lassitude partly attributable to some worry about Kitty, told her that she might slip away to bed as soon as she chose, and that Kitty must not come into her room for one of their long conversations; they must wait till to-morrow to talk over the ball. Poor Georgiana assented with a grateful glance, but had difficulty in restraining her tears, as she thought how little Elizabeth dreamt that interview with Kitty could be a thing to be dreaded, not welcomed.
After supper, she could not, for fear of making herself conspicuous, avoid one or two invitations to dance; but she was truly glad when Colonel Fitzwilliam, on a hint from Elizabeth, approached her, and said: "Let me take you to a seat in the library, Georgiana. I fear you are tired, and you will be able to rest quietly there, and not say one word to me unless you please—we are old enough friends for that, I should think."
There were but few persons in the large library, at one end of which a table had been set out, where servants dispensed tea and coffee during the evening, and the cousins placed themselves on a leather-covered couch near the fire at the opposite end. True to his undertaking, Colonel Fitzwilliam remained silent after he had established his cousin in comfort, and screened the blaze from her face; but after a few minutes, Georgiana roused herself, thinking anything better than being left to her own reflections, and suddenly recollecting a thing that she had intended to tell Elizabeth, had she been able to see her alone during the day, and deciding that there could be no harm in communicating it to Colonel Fitzwilliam herself, she mentioned having learnt the fact of Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with Miss Crawford, and asked if her cousin happened to know it.
He admitted himself informed, but expressed interest, as he himself had not discussed it with Mr. Bertram.
Georgiana therefore ventured to give him Mr. Bertram's description of her, and pointed out rather timidly that it seemed to agree entirely with what they already knew and had heard.
"Yes," said Colonel Fitzwilliam thoughtfully; and after a pause, he added: "I am glad he spoke so well of her—glad she had an advocate in him, for, as you may have gathered from what he dropped with regard to her brother, it would not be surprising if the Bertram family were a little prejudiced against all the Crawfords. I am glad that he, at least, has the manliness to award blame only where blame is due."
Georgiana listened attentively, half expecting that her cousin would go on to explain the nature of the prejudice against the Crawfords, which had clearly done Miss Crawford so much harm; but he did not, so after a little she hazarded the remark: "He did not seem to know anything about her of late years, so I thought it useless to ask about her marriage."
"You were right; it would have been useless," said the Colonel. "Elizabeth, I know, troubles herself a good deal about not having heard any particulars, but doubtless the world will be informed all in good time, and when there is any news, one may expect it will penetrate even to Derbyshire." He smiled as he spoke, but it was not a cheerful smile, and his voice had the ring of something very like bitterness. Georgiana's heart ached for him; she felt that never before had she known what a disappointment could be.
Colonel Fitzwilliam talked of other things, until they were interrupted by Tom Bertram, who came hurrying in search of them to ask Miss Darcy to dance with him again. "Miss Darcy—so sorry you are tired, but you positively must allow me just these two. People are beginning to go, actually! and, you know, when that happens, a ball always begins to lose some of its spirit. Besides, who knows when we shall have another such a delightful evening as this again? I have been telling Mr. and Mrs. Bingley I can never sufficiently thank them for having brought me here." Georgiana suffered him to lead her to the dance, and to go on talking, for she was quite unequal to arguing with him. At the conclusion of the two dances, Elizabeth, who had been watching her, came up and asked her if she would not like to retire at once, and fortified by this permission, Georgiana turned to say good-night to her partner, whose protests against her disappearance were as strong as the polite Tom Bertram could make them.
"Why, Miss Darcy, if you remove yourself, the ball may as well break up; and it is really cruel to make me say good-night, when it is good-bye as well."
"Is it? Do you start so early to-morrow? I am very sorry," said Georgiana, with an effort at the cordiality which seemed expected of her.
"We do, indeed; some wild idea of my cousin's, I fancy, that it will take us all day to get to Mansfield, even going round Desborough to meet the curricle. It will not; but Mr. Bingley has just informed me that William wishes to start not a moment later than eight, and you ladies, I fear, are not likely to be on the scene at such an unearthly hour?"
"No, indeed," said Elizabeth, "after such dissipations as charades and a ball, it will be remarkable if any of us are able to leave our rooms for a week. You do not realize what quiet people we are here ordinarily, Mr. Bertram." She chatted on, and under cover of it, Georgiana managed to say a brief adieu and glide away. Could she avoid seeing Mr. Price again? No! he was standing by the foot of the stairs; he seemed to be watching for her; there was no escape. Her head was averted, and her foot placed on the lowest step, when he started forward, and not offering to shake hands, but in a low voice and a look of intense earnestness, he said: "May I say good-bye to you, Miss Darcy?"
Georgiana hardly knew if her "Good-bye, Mr. Price," was audible; but he bowed, and stepped back, his eyes following her as she went up the stairs.
In the gloom of the following morning, at an hour which seemed exceptionally cheerless by reason of the mist and fine rain which prevailed, Mr. Bingley's chaise drove round to the front entrance of Pemberley. Kitty, who, after a night of weeping and wretchedness, had fallen into a doze, was aroused by the sound of movements and voices, but when she peeped through her curtains, she was too late for anything but a heartrending glimpse of the skirts of William Price's great-coat, as he stepped into the carriage. The door was shut, Darcy and Fitzwilliam waved their farewells, and the horses moved off at a brisk trot. Kitty watched and listened to them as long as she could, and then flung herself on her bed in a paroxysm of grief. Though William's avoidance of her during the latter part of the previous evening, his strange altered looks, and his embarrassed way of saying good-night, had undermined her hopes to such an extent that she had been all night facing the terrible desolation caused by the thought, "If he does not care for me after all," yet she had not actually given all up in despair until the moment of hearing him leave the house. Some note, some message, might have arrived—might still arrive; but since parting from him, Kitty had not been able to quell the horrible fear that all was over. The indications, which had been so favourable, had completely changed since Mrs. Jennings had uttered her foolish remark; in vain had she tried to reinstate her old relations with William Price. What could it all mean? Each time she put this question to herself she gave way afresh to unrestrained tears, and, weakened by fatigue and emotion, was totally incapable of following out any train of thought or conjecture. She had longed to hasten to Georgiana the night before, to pour out her heart in an appeal for the support which Georgiana had never failed to give; but Elizabeth had checked her in this intention; and, poor Kitty, unable to bear pain alone with any degree of courage, had worked herself into a deplorable condition by the time her sister arrived at her door in the morning.
Elizabeth and Jane had naturally both surmised something of the state of things as regarded Kitty. It was not difficult for anyone acquainted with the previous development of the affair, to perceive that William Price had not fulfilled the expectations which had been formed of him, and Elizabeth accounted for Georgiana's evident unhappiness by concluding that she had become aware that this would be the case. William Price had looked much as usual, up to the last, but Elizabeth suspected that there had been some elucidation either between him and Georgiana, or through Mrs. Jennings, and she hardly knew how much to blame him. There was no time to talk matters over with Jane, for she felt, as soon as she was up, that her immediate visit must be to the chief sufferer, to comfort and sustain her and, if possible, to shield her from the consequences of her own error.
Kitty would not admit her at first, and when at length Elizabeth persuaded her to do so, she was distressed to see what ravages the shock of disappointment and the hours of weeping had wrought. Kitty's tears broke out anew, but the sense of Elizabeth's affection and companionship somewhat soothed her, and when she could speak more coherently, she begged to see Georgiana, who could perhaps tell her things—who would be able to explain. This Elizabeth could not permit, for she saw that Kitty was in no fit state to talk over her troubles, but she promised her an early opportunity of doing so, and having induced her to swallow some food and a cordial, she soon had the satisfaction of seeing her fall asleep. These precautionary measures were fully justified in the course of the next forty-eight hours, during which time Kitty remained really ill, attacks of strong hysteria alternating with weakness of extreme exhaustion. Every care was lavished on her by her two sisters, by Georgiana, and by Elizabeth's maid; but naturally anything like rational discussion of the cause of her illness was out of the question, and, indeed, Kitty herself, after once asking if Mr. Price had left any message for her, or spoken of returning at some future time, and receiving a negative answer, seemed, after giving way to a torrent of tears, unable or unwilling to puzzle matters out any further.
Georgiana did not escape the inquiries and speculations of Elizabeth and Jane. When she descended from her room the morning after the ball, at an hour little later than her usual one, to take her place in the family circle, she had regained complete control of herself, and declared herself entirely refreshed, and beyond a little heaviness of the eyes and paleness of cheeks, naturally attributable to the fatigues of the last two days, there was nothing in her aspect to cause remark. No one guessed at the sense of guilt which filled her heart when she saw what grief and disappointment had done for Kitty, or at the deep compunction and almost unendurable self-reproach which assailed her when the others discussed his strange defection, and professed themselves unable to account for the curious change in his attitude towards Kitty—a change which several people had noticed the last hour of the ball. Elizabeth and Jane asked her if she was at all prepared for it, whether anything had occurred to make her suspect that Mr. Price would not propose marriage to Kitty after all. These questions were a hard trial to Georgiana, for she could not bear to be other than straightforward, and for a multitude of reasons she could not divulge the true explanation; she could only say in a low, troubled voice, and with as few words as possible, that she had learnt, in the course of the evening, that their expectations were mistaken ones, and that she feared Kitty would take it very much to heart.
Seeing her unhappiness on her friend's behalf, the two ladies forbore to tease her with further inquiries, though Jane still felt that Georgiana could have thrown more light on the mystery had she cared, and in her hearing continually lamented the failure of everything for poor Kitty, who had fallen, as it were, between two stools, the regrettable ending to all this pleasant time, and the fickleness of young men, or, rather, the unfortunate complications that arose through their not knowing their own minds. Georgiana had to listen to this in silence, though conscious that the last was not an accusation that could fairly be brought against William Price, and Elizabeth's more rational way of accounting for things was not much better, when she said that she did not think Mr. Price guilty of more than thoughtlessness, but it was certainly a pity that he had not been able to perceive earlier the extent of Kitty's feeling for him, as no doubt, when he had at last become aware of it, he realized what Elizabeth had already surmised to be in his mind, namely, that his roving life did not warrant him in thinking about matrimony at present. Georgiana thought she might venture to say here that William Price had indeed expressed great sorrow to her on finding that he had been the cause of disappointment to Kitty, and she even went so far into the dangerous fields of explanation as to add that he had had no suspicion of it until surprised by a chance word of raillery from Mrs. Jennings. She was pleased to see that this news partly rehabilitated him in the mind of Elizabeth, if not of Jane; and for fear of betraying more than she ought, she went away, wondering why she should be glad for him not to be misjudged, when she really ought to be only thinking of how wrongly he had behaved.
The hour of enlightenment for Kitty could not be long postponed. By the third day she was well enough to sit up in a large chair in her own room, and on being visited by Georgiana, begged her to stay for a time, and to fasten the door. When assured of their freedom from interruption, she seized her friend's hand, made her sit close beside her, and implored her to relate everything she could that would throw light on Mr. Price's changed conduct and hasty departure. Georgiana nerved herself to reply, but for the first few minutes, Kitty was talking and crying incessantly, pouring out the pent-up grief of the last few days, so that Georgiana had great difficulty in calming her, and dreaded the effect of the revelation about to be made.
"Dear Kitty," remonstrated Georgiana, "you must not cry; you must be more composed, or Elizabeth will not let me stay with you. Do try to be brave; think whether it is right to give way so much; you will make yourself ill again, you know."
"Anyone would be ill after what I have been through," lamented Kitty; "I shall never be happy again. Why does he not care for me? Did he tell you why not, Georgiana? What have I done, or what has Mrs. Jennings done? Something must have happened to offend him, for he changed all in one minute."
"I do not believe anything happened to offend him, Kitty," returned Georgiana. "As he has gone away now and did not do what he all thought he would do, is it not best to assume that he does not care in the way we hoped for, and try to forget about it, and not mind too much? Dear Kitty, I am deeply grieved for you: it has been my fault, more than anyone's, and you are right to reproach me; I can never forgive myself for having led you into the mistake."
"But you are not answering me, Georgiana," cried Kitty, with the petulance of an invalid; "of course, I know he does not care, and has gone away, but I want to know why he has gone. If it is not for anything I have done, he might come back."
Georgiana was silent, and held her down; she shrank still from telling Kitty that he would not come back. Kitty began again impatiently. "It is foolish of you to talk about reproaching yourself. It is not more your fault than anyone else's; not so much as Mrs. Jennings's, but if he spoke to you about it at all, he must have said something, have given some hint. Did he talk to you, Georgiana? You have not told me that yet."
Georgiana gave up what hopes she had had of concealing from Kitty what would make the disappointment far more thorough, and crushing, and as gently as possible managed to convey the fact of William's confession of attachment to herself. She was obliged to say it several times, and in language of unmistakable clearness, before Kitty could grasp her meaning; and even then, as she sat crouched on the ground, her face averted and her cheeks burning with shame, Kitty, who had drawn her hand away, gazed at her in mingled horror and incredulity. In the course of these three days, the notion that Miss Kitty Bennet wasnotthe object of William Price's preference had at length penetrated the mind of that young lady, but that her friend should be the chosen one was a thing altogether past comprehension, and the first idea that occurred to her was that there must have been treachery to herself somewhere. Kitty's changes of mood lately had been punctuated by bursts of tears, and this was no exception to the rule, though they were now tears of mortification. Her first angry impulse was to pour out words of blame, accusing Georgiana of not being satisfied with the attentions of Mr. Bertram, but requiring those of his cousin too. Georgiana disdained to reply to such a taunt, but it needed all her patience, all her tenderness, to persuade Kitty out of her bitter frame of mind, and to endeavour to heal the wound to the poor girl's vanity, which had indeed all through been more deeply involved than her affections, little though she realized it. Combined with a love of importance, and the encouragement given by her friends, it had carried her on a wave of excitement through the past months, and had helped to fix her hopes more firmly on William Price than any knowledge of his character, any real congeniality in their natures could have done. But she could not be aware of all this, and there was no immediate comprehension to make the disappointment less acute.
It certainly was consoling to feel that everyone else must have been to blame, that everybody had been equally deceived; that even Georgiana herself had been taken by surprise, and was now heaping upon herself the severest reproaches, while she implored Kitty's forgiveness—not, Kitty discerned in a puzzled way, for having received Mr. Price's proposals, but for having helped to foster the deception which had reacted so cruelly upon her friend. Above all, it would have been a relief, having discovered that Mr. Price must have acted atrociously, to say so, and the more Kitty thought of it, the more she resented his conduct. But Georgiana would not admit this; she would only allow that it was all utterly inexplicable, but that they could not judge fairly of Mr. Price, not being able to see his point of view, and that if that was clear to them, she was sure that he would be found to have acted honestly all the way through.
Kitty immediately suspected that Georgiana had been won round to the said point of view, and began to question her closely as to what had passed between them; but Georgiana indignantly repudiated the suggestion, and assured Kitty, in a manner that forbade further discussion, that she had decidedly refused Mr. Price, refused even to listen to him, and had not the slightest expectation of ever seeing or hearing from him again. She added, that she had refrained from telling Elizabeth, or any of the others, about Mr. Price's offer, and thought it would be best if Kitty decided to do the same, to which, as she had expected, Kitty willingly agreed.
Nothing, in fact, could have suited Kitty better, in the circumstances, than a compact of silence. At the end of their long conversation, when Georgiana left her, by far the more exhausted in spirits of the two, she had begun to have some of the sensations of an injured heroine, and it was much more satisfactory to consider herself badly treated—to have been jilted, to all intents and purposes, than if it came to be known that she had been all the time in love with the wrong man, in which case her position would be shorn of much of its dignity. Her sisters' sympathy was very acceptable to her, and when Jane invited her to return with her to Desborough for a time, she gladly promised to do so, knowing that it would not at first be at all comfortable to remain with Georgiana, the one person who knew the whole story. It was therefore arranged that Jane and Miss Bingley should defer their journey for two days more, when it was hoped she would be quite equal to travelling with them.
The only drawback to the plan, as far as she was concerned, was Miss Bingley's presence for another fortnight at Desborough. That lady had not troubled herself to make any conjectures with regard to William Price's departure, but frankly told Jane and Georgiana that it was exactly what she had expected. She at least had never been misled; she had never supposed Mr. Price to be in love with Miss Bennet or anyone else. She could not imagine why they had all persuaded themselves of it. Nothing was clearer than that he was a young man quite heart-whole. Jane protested, but Georgiana made no comment, only begging her friend privately not to refer to the subject in Kitty's hearing.
The day arrived, Mr. Bingley's carriage again drove to the door, and the three ladies took their seats in it, Kitty's farewell glance being given towards the spot where she had last seen William Price. With their going, the whole episode seemed to be finally closed, and Georgiana turned to re-enter the house, and to take up the duties of a life which, in one short week, seemed to have been robbed of almost all its brightness. She had been making an unsuccessful struggle against low spirits, ever since the ill-omened day of the ball, and being unable to dismiss, had tried hard to account for, the strange sense of depression, of loneliness, and loss, which assailed her continually. It was not only sorrow for Kitty's disappointment, or regret for her own share in it, nor was it the estrangement that had arisen between them; no, it was not a vision of Kitty that so constantly obtruded itself upon her thoughts, but of a very different person, one whose ardent looks and words insisted on being remembered, whose voice she seemed to hear again pleading for what she dared not give. Every detail of their conversation in the gallery crowded upon Georgiana's memory, once she had made her confession to Kitty, and would admit these thoughts; they would not be denied, as she had denied him a hearing, but came back to her with a vivid clearness and an irresistible appeal.
She remembered how he had described the beginnings and the growth of his attachment to her, and looking back over the course of their acquaintance, countless incidents stood out, to verify all he had said. When no longer viewed through Kitty's illusions, every one of their meetings and conversations was seen in its true light, consolidating their friendship, giving each an insight into the other's character. Why was it such a joy, though an indescribably painful one, to recall these things, to live again through the moments spent in the gallery? Georgiana's heart answered her, and she felt that the answer must always have been there, though she had only just awakened to it. It was a joy because everything connected with William Price must be a joy to her, himself, his nobleness, his true worth, and the knowledge that he cared for her, but it was pain, because, sweet though it was to hear what he had to tell her, it was a disloyalty to her friend to listen, the friend whose life had perhaps been spoilt by their mistake. How could she ever think of being happy as long as that friend suffered? For despite her grief at the thought that she had lost him for ever, that she had refused his love and he would never know now that she loved him in return, yet Georgiana felt that she could not have acted differently. Even had she known at the moment he spoke, what he was to her, she could not have been so traitorous as to take what Kitty longed for, from under her very eyes; and she was glad that Kitty did not guess at the extent of the sacrifice.
The departure of the ladies for Desborough left a small party at Pemberley, for several days previously Colonel Fitzwilliam had gone with his horses to Leicestershire, and good accounts of the hunting prospects had been received from him. The Darcys were not, however, to remain for long alone, for the arrival of Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford had been fixed for a date early in the following week. Elizabeth delayed no further in preparing Georgiana for their visit, and at same time communicated to her the fact which she had learnt from Mrs. Wentworth, of Miss Crawford's not being engaged to Sir Walter Elliot. Georgiana listened with the greatest interest, and joined warmly in the expression of Elizabeth's hopes that Colonel Fitzwilliam might yet be made happy, although for the present there was nothing to be done but to try to make Miss Crawford feel at home and comfortable among them all.
"I shall confine my efforts solely to that," said Elizabeth laughingly. "It would be useless as well as dangerous to attempt any further matchmaking until we know the extent of feeling onbothsides, for that want of that knowledge has made us singularly unsuccessful lately, has it not, Georgiana?"
Georgiana assented but could not smile; for just then only the tragical side of unrequited love was turned towards her. A brief letter of thanks had been received by his hostess from William Price, saying all that was necessary in a matter simple and sincere, and closing with a message of "greetings and remembrance to all your family." Georgiana's cheeks burned as she handed it back, and she was glad to turn away, and take her little niece upon her lap, while Darcy, glancing over the letter, said: "He seems an agreeable, manly young fellow, from what I saw of him; I should be sorry to think he would treat a girl ill."
"A girl's fancy does not always keep pace with common-sense, in such a case as the one you speak of," said his wife. "And as I told you, I do not think Kitty was very wisely counselled from the first."
"Probably not," said Darcy, "a young man at his age and in his profession is likely to flutter the dovecotes quite unconsciously. But there was something so frank and pleasing about him that one would wish to believe him thoroughly estimable."
Georgiana, through the little one's chatter, heard these words with delight; that William Price should have gained her brother's good opinion was a source of rejoicing, even though that advantage might now avail him nothing.
Miss Crawford looked very thin and ill when she arrived, and the first part of her visit passed very quietly. She spent the chief of her time in her own rooms, descending only to join the family at dinner and during the evening, and when not talking to Elizabeth, seemed to find her greatest pleasure in listening to Georgiana's music. Mrs. Grant watched over her with unremitting solicitude, but by no means treated her as a sick person, evidently desiring that she should rouse herself, take an interest in things around her, and make whatever exertion she felt equal to. The tranquility of the life exactly suited her, and before many days an improvement in her health and spirits became noticeable. She was able to take drives in the mildest part of the day, or go for short walks through the pleasure grounds when the frosts of December came in, and the mornings were bright and invigorating. The beauty of the country around, the healthiness of the air, and the quiet kindness of her host and hostess, gradually had their effect upon a troubled mind and a weakened body; and Colonel Fitzwilliam's name was barely mentioned, Lady Catherine de Bourgh's never.
One morning, when Georgiana and Mrs. Grant had walked down to the Rectory, Elizabeth was sitting with her guest, and with the view of entertaining her, gave her a description of the charades, not omitting the energetic part played by Mr. Bertram in organizing them. Mary's colour changed a little on first hearing his name, but she gave all her attention to the recital, and it was not until some minutes later, when silence had fallen between them, that she said suddenly: "I wonder if Mr. Bertram or Mr. Price spoke of me to you, Mrs. Darcy. Were you aware that I knew them both?"
Elizabeth replied that she had heard from Georgiana of Mr. Price's acquaintance with Miss Crawford, but of Mr. Bertram's she had not known, the subject never having been approached while the young men were there.
"I thought not," said Miss Crawford, and after a moment's pause she added, colouring slightly: "I have had too much experience of your kindness to think that you would treat me differently if you did know the whole circumstances; nevertheless, I felt sure that you did not, and I made up my mind before I came here, that I would not be any further indebted to you while you remained in ignorance. Each day I have been expecting you to ask me some question about the reason for Lady Catherine's hostility to us, for you were fully entitled to an explanation after the kind and generous way in which you wrote to me, and which I fear I acknowledged so inadequately." She stopped, emotion and weakness depriving her momentarily of speech, and Elizabeth, who had been endeavouring to check her, took hold of her hand, and with the utmost gentleness begged her not to continue and not to agitate herself.
"Dear Miss Crawford, I am entitled to no explanation, and I do not wish for one. It is you who ought to receive the fullest apologies of the whole family for my aunt's conduct to you. My cousin told us all that happened that evening after we left, and, as I told you in my letter, I can never be sufficiently ashamed and grieved on account of what you were subjected to. If you can forgive us, do not let us revive the subject; it is painful to us both."
Miss Crawford indicated that she wished to be allowed to speak, and after a few moments spent in recovering herself, she went on in a low voice, and looking away from Elizabeth: "I did not mean to refer to that part of it, and least of all with you, whose goodness has almost obliterated it from my mind. I mean the reason for Lady Catherine's attack. You must have surmised that there was some cause for it; she must have told you that she had heard something to my detriment, or, at all events, you have gathered that something of the kind exists? It is that that I wish to make clear; I feel that I owe it to you to tell you exactly, as far as they concern myself, what things are said about me, in order that when you hear them from others, you may be able to separate the true from the false. For some of them are true, you know; that is the unfortunate part of it." As she concluded, she glanced at Elizabeth with an attempt at a smile, though her hands were trembling.
Elizabeth attempted to calm and reassure her. "There is no need for you to tell me anything if you do not feel equal to the effort," she said. "I think I do already know the greater part of the story, and I can assure you that we have never believed the smallest thing disadvantageous to yourself. I had heard enough of it before Mr. Yates appeared to be convinced that you were the person injured and misjudged, and that a maliciously distorted version of events was poured down my aunt's ears. I shall be very happy if some day you will give me your confidence, but I fear it might do you harm to talk of it just now, and recall things in which persons you cared for were involved?"
Elizabeth's manner was so kind, that Mary was glad to allow herself to be persuaded, and lay back on her sofa murmuring: "Yes, you are right," looking at the same time tired and relieved. She presently added, with a little more brightness: "I am glad you know, and that you do not think me such a monster as Lady Catherine described."
"I never thought you were a monster, my dear Miss Crawford," assured Elizabeth, smiling and studying her guest's countenance while her own mind was busy. Miss Crawford's definitely, if laughingly expressed desire to be reinstated in the good opinion of Mrs. Darcy, probably included in its object the rest of the family; and, if so, then in spite of their abrupt separation at Bath, in spite of all that had happened since in London, Colonel Fitzwilliam must be among the number. Elizabeth felt as if she were groping in the dark, for she had no clue to Miss Crawford's present feelings towards him; but though she had not intended to speak of him yet, this was at least an opportunity of discovering whether they were feelings of goodwill. She accordingly said, as if continuing the same train of thought: "My cousin was so glad that he had happened to remain behind us, and could therefore attempt to do something, even though it was but little, to remedy the evil caused by those objectionable Ferrars."
Mary started and changed her position, and Elizabeth, though not looking directly at her, could perceive a variety of expressions pass across her face. She did not answer immediately, and her reply, when uttered: "It was very kind of Colonel Fitzwilliam," sounded cold and reserved.
"I do not regard it as kindness," said Elizabeth; "his regard for you and his indignation on your behalf made him anxious to do far more. He told me that he bitterly regretted having left you that evening, after we had gone away. If he had stayed near you, he could have prevented much that followed."
Again Mary took some time to reply, and when she did, to Elizabeth's surprise, it was with more than a touch of scornfulness. "Colonel Fitzwilliam has a great power of self-effacement, has he not? He must have practiced the art of disappearing unexpectedly, with as little warning as the magician in the fairy stories."
"But does he so?" asked Elizabeth, whose astonishment increased. "I had not noticed it. We think him generally a staid and sober person, who does things with even more than the usual amount of consideration. Did he not return—did you not see him that evening at my aunt's?"
"Oh, yes, that evening," said Mary. "I believe he did see us to the carriage; I was not thinking so much of that occasion. But in London—I saw him once or twice, and he talked as if he were going to remain, and then he vanished as if the earth had swallowed him. Of course, it did not matter; he had only himself to please; but I heard several people remark on it."
Elizabeth pondered, and to gain time inquired: "Did he speak as though he hoped to see you again while he was there?"
"Yes—at least we thought so; my sister and I may have misunderstood, or he may have meant nothing; people can hardly be expected to account for all their sudden freaks, can they?" replied Mary, speaking with an indifference so marked that her companion could not help fancying it was assumed. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, and was about to speak, with the intention of telling Miss Crawford why Colonel Fitzwilliam had left town so suddenly, when the door opened to admit Mrs. Grant and Georgiana, so that she was obliged to postpone the communication till some future time, and to leave matters in a state which more than ever seemed to need elucidation.
The opportunity, however, was long in coming. After their half-finished talk, Mary Crawford appeared to avoid being alone with her hostess. She came downstairs more, and gradually began to live almost entirely with the rest of the family, but constantly kept close to her sister and Georgiana on various pretexts. The latter did not venture to speak to her of Colonel Fitzwilliam, but Mary was not long in discovering that the name of William Price was a welcome one to her young friend, and seeing that Georgiana wished tohear, without having toask, Mary told all she knew of his youth, his family and his past career, descanting on his charm and his fine qualities of character, while Georgiana sat in silence, her downcast eyes and glowing cheeks alone betraying the interest which the subject had for her. Mary guessed at the meaning of it all, but considerately said no word to arouse Georgiana's self-consciousness, and their friendship grew almost unawares, neither knowing how much each thought of, and would have liked to help, the other.
It was not until nearly a week after the subject had first been broached that Elizabeth found it possible to renew it, and then only by deliberately engaging the attention of Miss Crawford, in inviting her to walk with her one morning along the high road. Darcy had driven with Mrs. Grant and Georgiana to a distant part of the estate, and it had been proposed that the other two ladies should come to meet them on their return, so that Miss Crawford could take a seat in the barouche should she feel tired. It was such a beautiful morning, crisp, cold and bright, that Mrs. Grant over-ruled the objections which her sister was beginning to make, and assured her that a brisk walk in such weather could do her nothing but good. Elizabeth half suspected that she would still find some way of avoiding the expedition, but when twelve o'clock arrived, Miss Crawford descended into the hall, saying smilingly: "All ready, you see, Mrs. Darcy. Don't you think I am the most obedient patient you ever saw? At this rate, you will soon be able to send me away a complete cure."
"I hardly think of you as a patient now, and still less do I think of sending you away," returned Elizabeth, as they emerged from the house. "Mr. Darcy and I should be sadly disappointed if you left us directly you were well enough to do so."
"You are always so kind," said Miss Crawford. "But I fear our visit must come to an end soon, as it is less than a fortnight to Christmas, and you will probably be having a large family party for the occasion."
Such a remark could only be interpreted in one way, and Elizabeth, after reiterating her hope that Miss Crawford and Mrs. Grant would make a long stay, and assuring her guest that their numbers at Christmas would be the same as at present, went on almost immediately: "The other day we were speaking of Colonel Fitzwilliam's sudden departure from London, and I wanted to tell you, if it is not tiresome to you to hear, what I believe to have been the reason for it. I am so anxious he should not be misunderstood, or thought capricious."
"Oh, Mrs. Darcy, I did not seem to imply he was. I am sure he has the best of reasons for what he does, and anyhow, they are no business of mine."
Elizabeth would not let the subject be dismissed, and continued very gently: "He had good reasons in this case, and I hope very much you will not dislike my mentioning them, as they concern you. He left London because he cared for you, and had just heard, on what he believed to be unimpeachable authority, that you were engaged to another man. The news was such a blow to him that he could not endure to stay where he might possibly meet you again."
There was a short pause; Mary grew crimson, uttered an exclamation, and then, controlling herself with an effort, said in tones of suppressed anger: "If Colonel Fitzwilliam told you that, Mrs. Darcy, he is deceiving you and himself. It would be much better to admit candidly that when he saw me again in London he did not care for me as much as he had thought, instead of making my supposed engagement an excuse for his disappearance."
Elizabeth stood still for a moment, completely taken aback by this version of affairs, and could only exclaim: "Miss Crawford!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I know I ought not to speak to you, who are his relative," said Mary, walking on with quick impetuous steps. "Pray forgive me, Mrs. Darcy; I knowyouare true, who ever else is not. But you cannot guess how hard it is to be accused of sending a person away before they have even approached one; to be blamed for causing trouble when one has never been a free agent, and when the trouble has all reacted upon one's self."