Page 22 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

For some time, the life of Fitzwilliam hung so gravely in the balance that the doctors despaired of him, and the Darcys’ anxiety was extreme.

Faced with the possible loss of his son, Mr. Darcy regretted his good nature, his love of the country, and what he was willing to think would have grown into better principles than had yet been evident.

Elizabeth, as was only natural, shed tears for her firstborn, for the merry child he had once been, and she was sorry they had not parted without some affectionate words.

But neither she nor her husband were so blinded by their anguish that they could forget Fitzwilliam’s faults, a weak head that seemed to have precluded the acquisition of the moral sense they had so carefully tried to instil.

They acknowledged that his failings, if not corrected, were likely to bring unhappiness upon him and his family, again and again, probably, but in spite of all Dr. Clarke could say about branches being cut down, and Mrs. Clarke’s philosophizing about Bettina’s wickedness receiving its reward, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy did not leave off wishing and longing for their son’s recovery with all their hearts.

It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to lament excessively, out of proportion for the cause, or to involve others in her misery, and she found, at length, that with so many to support her, she might maintain a tolerable composure and calm.

Jane, her sister, and Bingley were at Pemberley very soon after receiving the news.

Swanfield was but half a day’s ride away, and Jane, though placid in general and even more so in middle age than she had been in youth, was strong in her feelings and deeply anxious to be with her sister.

Being the mother of only one son herself, and that a doted-upon one, and having lost another child, a little girl, many years before, Jane felt great sorrow at what she imagined her sister’s feelings to be.

Added to this was her concern over the tidings about Jeremy that had only reached Swanfield the day before the sadder news; it was, then, no wonder Mrs. Bingley’s servants could not work fast enough to pack her things for the journey.

Charles Bingley, always rapid in action and concerned for his friend and his sister-in-law, was ready to depart even before his wife, and their Christmas party was effectively broken up.

The Gardiners, a pleasant elderly couple much beloved by both the Bingleys and the Darcys, after tendering all possible offers of help, saw what was really wanted and considerately took themselves home, but Bingley’s sister, Mrs. Babcock, had a spirit of activity and interference that would not let her long remain absent from the scene of a tragedy.

To her, the news brought mixed feelings, in which shock over a tragic mishap to so young a man and one connected with herself, however distantly, was mingled with a curious sort of pleasure.

This sprung from her lively jealousy of Elizabeth, which originated in her old desire to have Elizabeth’s husband for her own.

These feelings she had suppressed but never entirely overcome, not seeing the justice of making such an effort.

As a young woman, elegant, well-born, and well-educated, Miss Bingley, as she then was, had been convinced that nothing but the appearance of the upstart interloper Elizabeth could have prevented the match between her and Darcy.

Her disappointment was severe and did nothing to render a sharp temper any softer.

It was long before a man as eligible as Mr. Darcy had placed himself in her way again, in fact none ever had; her temper had faded with her beauty, and she was further aggravated by making her home with Bingley and his wife in full and vexatious view of their warm married happiness.

Her sister, Mrs. Hurst, had died of dropsy, and Mr. Hurst of apoplexy; and the sinking of these relations made Miss Bingley feel still more acutely aware of the passing of time.

Where there was trouble, as now was at Pemberley, the Babcocks could not but be there; the hospitality of the house might be uppermost in their minds, but perhaps there was also the possibility, however slight, that if the young man died, he might leave some legacy to old family connections, and then there would be funeral meats.

Added to much scope for needless bustle and interference, there were also the poor Darcys to comfort, and an opportunity to work themselves into their favour, despite all Mrs. Babcock’s spiteful feelings.

“What a shock for poor Mrs. Darcy!” she exclaimed. “She will be prostrated, I am sure. Her whole house of cards, quite fallen down.”

Mrs. Bingley had not cried over the news of her nephew’s accident, but she was very pale, and her lips were held tightly pressed together as she rapidly went over her husband’s linens, with her own hands, for the journey.

She looked up in horror. “What do you mean, Caroline—there is something more? What have you heard?”

“Oh, nothing, to be sure, Sister. I could not, you know; there has only been the one messenger. I only meant—so proud has Mrs. Darcy always been, with her house and her fine friends and her airs—to find her son no better than he should be and now perhaps killed into the bargain is very, very sad.”

“Caroline!” exclaimed Mr. Bingley hastily, “do not say such horrible things. Fitzwilliam may not be so badly hurt, after all, and as for his behaviour—please to remember, that our own son has not acted in any way his superior. We must not waste time in such reflections anyway but be off at once.”

“That is right, Charles, and I am quite ready. Your things are in this case, and mine are going downstairs directly,” Mrs. Bingley said firmly. “We must go to Elizabeth and to Darcy as soon as ever we can. So Caroline, goodbye, and we will send you word when we know for ourselves.”

“It won’t be necessary, Jane; you don’t think I would let you go on such a dreadful mission, in such perturbation of mind, without the help and support of those nearest to you? Robert and I are coming, of course.”

Bingley, however displeased, would not gainsay his sister, and Mrs. Bingley, as was her wont, gave her credit for better feelings than she really had, so no argument was made. Bingley’s only stipulation was that Mr. and Mrs. Babcock should be ready in time.

“The carriage is to come around in half an hour—we have not an instant to lose,” was all he said.

“I quite understand. What if the poor sufferer has already departed? Think of his bereaved parents, tormented by their knowledge that their pride has had such results! They will need me to arrange the funeral, I know. I have experience, with the poor Hursts, that will be invaluable. I know just how such things ought to be done. Fitzwilliam’s own horse must walk backwards in the procession—but I forgot; I suppose it has been killed. ”

“Don’t speak of it, I pray,” said Mrs. Bingley, shuddering.

“Yes, for God’s sake, Caroline. Only hurry.”

“One hour, Bingley, that is all I beg, and positively no more; it won’t take that for Robert to choose his waistcoats and I my gowns,” she cried, running away.

For a wonder, she and her husband were actually waiting in the hall when the carriage was brought before the door; in truth, there was no force in the world, not being hurried nor her husband’s being preoccupied with his wardrobe, that would prevent Mrs. Babcock from seeing the spectacle she figured to herself and which she had longed to witness for the last five and twenty years: that of Mrs. Darcy, humbled and miserable.

Mrs. Babcock found herself disappointed in her expectations.

On reaching Pemberley, the visitors were not greeted by a weeping Mrs. Darcy, falling into their arms with her back hair down.

The lady was sitting with her son, and it was left for others of the party to give the newcomers a kind welcome.

Darcy was really glad to see the Bingleys and quietly gave them an account of Fitzwilliam’s condition.

Mrs. Babcock scarcely listened, so busy was she observing the changes in the best Pemberley drawing-room.

“Only think! That is the ormolu clock that Darcy brought back from his tour of the Continent,” she exclaimed. “How old-fashioned it appears now. Yet I remember when you first showed it to me, Darcy,” she said sentimentally.

Darcy did not attend, being turned away, and she, displeased, vented her ill feelings by observations upon the furniture.

“I declare—this room is not at all improved. It has a positively provincial air, beside what one sees in London, in the best circles. The satin upon that sofa—it appears not to have been replenished this ten years. That kind of pale yellow looks worse than anything, dirty. You would think that Mrs. Darcy would have noticed, but of course that cannot be expected now.”

Her brother looked at her expressively. “My dear Sister—I wish you would not speak of such things—while the son of the house lies so ill.”

“Oh, certainly!” she said, and subsided to sit in an ill-natured silence.

Fitzwilliam continued in a most perilous state.

He still lived, but he did not seem able to move, although there was no injury to any part of the body but his neck.

It was very singular, but the medical men assured the Darcys that the paralysis, which seemed profound, might lift at any moment.

Such cases were not unheard-of, though the longer the passage of time, the less likely would be a complete recovery, and the chance of the young man’s dying at any moment was by far the greater likelihood.