Page 21 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma
Elizabeth was not convinced. “If she has other lovers,” she said firmly, “it is because of what he has made her. The immoral life she led with him has lowered her. Whatever her prior experiences, her reputation was intact until Fitzwilliam meddled with it, and who can judge a woman in such a situation, exposed to public censure as she has been? Heaven forbid me from doing it! No, no, I can only pity her; and I do not know how I will countenance him and his sporting friends, here at Pemberley in future.”
“I know,” said Mr. Darcy in a pained manner, “it is very ill-done in him, to bring friends at such a time. In justice, we cannot say which of the young people is more in fault but must treat them equally, whatever the world thinks. It is a pity that their sin is so widely known. It will be a perpetual disgrace. Nothing can be done to wipe it off.”
“Where is she now?”
“I speak of it with reluctance. With her newest lover. You will have to know who it is,” he said.
“Must I? Surely there can be no occasion for my knowing his name. There can hardly be more shock and grief in the matter. It is not Henry at any rate.”
“Almost as bad,” he replied. “It is our nephew, Bingley’s boy. You know he is in London.”
Elizabeth could scarcely credit what she was hearing. “Jeremy! Good God! How can that be? I am bewildered,” said she, putting her hands to her face. “Poor Sister Jane, and Bingley! It may be good to have company in trouble—but not them. Their only son, too! Oh, how could it happen?”
“It happened because he was there. Being the cousin of both Bettina and Fitzwilliam, he mixed with them and was a frequent visitor of the ménage.”
“I see,” said Elizabeth slowly.
“So, when matters fell out between the young couple, Jeremy took the part of the lady, in a spirit of misguided gallantry. Now he is fully sunk in the business.”
“Do not think,” said Elizabeth, “that your own gallantry is unnoticed and unappreciated by me, in not fixing the blame entirely upon my niece, for seducing her two cousins. Indeed, that is the only satisfaction I have, since I cannot even relieve my feelings by ascribing the entire system by which Bingley and Jane have indulged and spoilt their boy, as resulting in his bad behaviour—for our own far more enlightened and sensible system has only brought about the same end.”
“You must not be distressed,” said Darcy, coming over to her and looking into her eyes earnestly.
“Parents do what they must and what they can; there are so many forces acting in the world that it is not fair to predict results as if people grew to a pattern. Why Henry should be of a superior morality to Fitzwilliam, and as it seems, to his cousin Jeremy also, we cannot guess, but if we do not ascribe it to the winds of chance, we may conclude that it may have something to do with Fitzwilliam’s being our first son and consequently somewhat more indulged than Henry, as Jeremy certainly was.
It may be so, or it may be the disposition of nature.
We shall never know, and we can only rest in the knowledge that we have tried to do our best—you have, certainly, Elizabeth.
We brought them into the world, nourished them, taught them, but their adult actions must be their own.
Now, I beg you, torment yourself no more upon this subject. You have not done wrong.”
“You are always so rational,” cried Elizabeth warmly, “but in all this, my comfort must not be the first object. There is that wretched girl, and what is to become of her I do not know. Fitzwilliam seems to have got himself away, but what of my poor nephew? Is he to live in continuance of this shocking crime? Surely, indulgent as the Bingleys are, they will never tolerate such a thing.”
“I suppose Bingley must go to town and take his son away,” said Darcy with a sigh, “and he may like me to go with him. It is a thing I would particularly wish to avoid. I shall, however, go if asked; Jeremy will in all probability be more tractable than our son.”
“Yes, I am sure he will do what his father wishes in the end. But Bettina,—there should be some woman with her. My sister or myself—or her own mother—Nothing seems precisely right, or proper, and the question is worrisome. I cannot remonstrate with Bettina, she would never listen, still less to Jane, and Lydia would be worse than nobody. She would only congratulate her, I do believe.”
“Suppose, Elizabeth, I write to Bingley by this day’s post and tell him what we have learned.
We can go to town together, and if you would have no objection, we can try to persuade the girl to return here with us, until we can find a suitable situation—a cottage perhaps—I do not know—but her father can by no means support her in an independent situation, and we have some responsibility in the matter since it was Fitzwilliam’s imprudent flight with her that brought it all about.
We can make the offer to her and entreat her to take it.
If she does not, there will be no more we can do. ”
“You are very right, and I should be praising you for ever, if only there were not the alloy that you are Fitzwilliam’s father,” said Elizabeth.
Feeling somewhat cheered, as we always do when we see our course plainly before us, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy repaired to the drawing-room and ordered tea.
It had been drunk, and the letter to Bingley comfortably talked over and even written, when the Darcys and Mrs. Clarke began to notice the emptiness of the tea urn, the darkening of the sky outside the window, and the lateness of the hour—and to wonder why Fitzwilliam did not come in.
“It is late—he cannot be riding at this hour,” said Elizabeth, somewhat anxiously, “but I have not heard his horse.”
“Do not be concerned,” said Darcy, “Fitzwilliam knows what he is about when it comes to horses, if nothing else; and if Exigency has thrown a shoe or anything of that sort, depend on it Fitzwilliam will come trudging home before long, if he does not dine in whatever cottage is nearest. It is not a wet night; and a three-quarter moon will be up presently.”
“I cannot be so tranquil as you are,” said Elizabeth, “for the world. He does ride so fast—I know his skill, but every horseman does take a fall, and Fitzwilliam may be unguarded because he is in an anxious state. I wish I had not spoken so severely to him.”
“You did not, at all, my dear,” said Darcy.
“Shall I make inquiries—perhaps some of the men may be sent out to search,” suggested Mrs. Clarke. “My sister is concerned; shall not I just send to inquire of Thomas?”
Mr. Darcy was just beginning to say that it was not necessary, when the footman who had brought the tea opened the door rapidly, and that same Thomas precipitated himself into the room, his face white, his hair and coat disarrayed.
The gentleman and ladies had only half-risen, when the servant burst out, in an agitated manner, “Sir—please excuse me for coming in so hurried, but it is Mr. Fitzwilliam—his horse has thrown him, sir, and been lamed—a workman, going home through the fields, found him.”
“Where is he now?” said Mr. Darcy, in a calm, businesslike tone, as Mrs. Clarke fell back in a flutter and Elizabeth stood silently by his side.
“In the ha-ha, sir—by the park gate. That’s where he fell; the horse tripped and went over into the ditch. In the ha-ha.”
“Call some of the men, get a lantern, and Mrs. Clarke—no, Thomas, you run and get some of the housemaids to ready some linen and a litter. We will go there at once. Elizabeth: you are not hysterical—you are calm, thank God—Will you have some brandy?”
“No, but perhaps we had better have some for Kitty,” as she supported her sister to the couch, “she is not fainting, but you are light-headed, are you not, my dear?”
“Yes—yes—but I will be all right, never mind me—my nephew—”
“Yes, Thomas, only one moment, tell me: is he badly hurt? What is to be done?”
“Nothing, ma’am, and sir, I am afraid the linen and things aren’t likely to do him much good. He was quite insensible when Cotler found him; and it looks like his neck’s broke.”