Page 27 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

Misfortunes, it is said, come in threes, and Mrs. Darcy had no wish for a third, when a second broke upon her in an express message from Mrs. Smith in Hertfordshire—Elizabeth’s sister Mary.

Their father, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn House, was dying.

Past seventy, of feeble health in recent years, too frail to stir from home, he had lived a retired life since the loss of his wife ten years before, indulging in almost no society but shutting himself up with his books, waited on only by the dutiful Mrs. Smith, herself a widow.

Both Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley had made the journey south as frequently as the claims of their own families would allow, to be certain of Mr. Bennet’s comfort and to cheer his spirits; and he had continued tolerably the same, until one night after retiring, he was taken with a seizure in the head, from which he was not expected to recover.

It was fortunate that the Bingleys were actually at Pemberley, so that the families might confer as to what was to be done.

Elizabeth felt herself torn between her concern about remaining near Fitzwilliam, and her exceeding desire to see her dear father one last time; and after much deliberation it was decided that Mr. Darcy should accompany his wife to Longbourn, leaving Fitzwilliam in Henry’s charge, thus freeing the elder Darcys to pay their respects and to assist Mrs. Smith.

The Bingleys, with Jeremy and the Babcocks, were to return to Swanfield.

So large a party at Longbourn was not what Mr. Bennet could want, even when in the best of health, and to find such surrounding his deathbed would alarm him extremely.

It was not felt necessary or grateful to Elizabeth’s feelings, which were all on the side of privacy, to attempt to travel by train, and Mr. Darcy’s excellent coach and fast animals brought him and his wife to Longbourn with such expeditiousness that they reached its gates in the afternoon of the second day from setting out from Pemberley, only spending one night at an inn, at Oxford.

They were not too late; Mr. Bennet was awake and aware, and inexpressibly relieved to see his favourite child.

“I am glad you are here, my Lizzy,” he said, “it was all that was wanting.” Unable to speak, she pressed his hand, and he continued, “I confess I have been in terror of joining your mother, and hence I have kept off the eventuality as far as was possible, but I think I have reached some sort of peace and can accept anything now. You are happy, Lizzy, yourself?”

“Oh, yes,” she managed to say, thankful that he had never been told about Fitzwilliam. “You know I am, Papa; Mr. Darcy is the best husband I could ever have wanted, and I have been so very fortunate—” She could not finish.

“That is right,” he said, pleased, “better than Wickham. Well, Lizzy, I shall sleep a little now, I think.”

Elizabeth sat with him and did all that she could for his comfort, and a little more than a week from her arrival, with only a few more opportunities for conversation, he died peacefully, in his sleep.

Elizabeth, and Darcy, and Mary, sat solemnly in their grief and awe, but they were not left to relish this period of quiet and privacy for long, for almost as soon as was possible, after the news’ being received and digested by the Collinses, did the entire family descend upon Longbourn, with admirable promptness in taking up their new residence.

“Please do not think, my dear Cousin Elizabeth,” said Mr. Collins formally, establishing himself firmly upon the fire-mat and leaning on the mantelpiece with a proprietary air, “that I seek to turn you out untimely. Indeed I am aware that there is no turning out about it, as Longbourn has not been your home for many, many years. There is no one here, indeed, that I displace, but my Cousin Mary, and I am sure that we will find room for her somewhere, as long as she should care to stay, within reason, so long as she knows that she is not mistress in the house any more.”

Mr. Collins’ four youngest children, two schoolboys on holiday and the two little girls who were in Cloe’s charge, were already established in the nursery rooms that had once belonged to Elizabeth and her sisters, and Mrs. Collins was engaged in trying to find rooms for all her multifarious relations who cared to stay, to feast on the sight of their own Charlotte in her inheritance.

The Darcys scarcely knew where they were to sleep themselves and had already had quiet thoughts of repairing to an inn, until their horses, servants, and belongings could be made ready for the trip home.

Mary, much oppressed by her father’s death, had cried so much that her countenance was much affected; but she heard Mr. Collins’ remarks with indignation and put down her pocket-handkerchief long enough to say, “Indeed, Mr. Collins, I would never think of staying: I have been mistress of this house—it contains many memories of my dear parents, memories which, you know, are to be respected, as things of that sort should be, and I passed the whole of my marriage with Mr. Smith here.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Collins formally, with a small bow, “far be it from me to ever denigrate such sacred memories. They are as safe with me, the new master of Longbourn, as they could be with any one else, and I assure you, I shall never step into my library without thinking of your lamented father, and of Mr. Smith, though I never had the honour of meeting that gentleman.”

“That is kind,” said Mary, somewhat mollified.

“But I assure you that I am very well aware what your rights are, according to the entail, and I would not deprive you of them for an instant. Indeed, it would pain me to stay here, for it is your domicile and not mine, and I do not wish to inconvenience you for even a moment but shall depart at once.”

“Why, where shall you go?” he asked, rather in surprise.

“I assure you, we have no wish to dispossess you untimely, so near a relation as you are, and so good a neighbour to my wife’s family for many years, a recommendation that I will never overlook, you may be very sure.

You cannot be thanked enough, in my opinion.

Shall you make your home at Pemberley now? ”

Exasperated as well as diverted as she was by Mr. Collins, for bringing the matter to the point, Elizabeth thought it might as well be settled now as at any other time, and since she and Mr. Darcy had already had sufficient leisure to consider the matter, she joined him in a very gracious and prompt invitation to Mary to make her home with them, where she would have the further comfort and advantage of being with her sister Kitty.

Mrs. Smith was not averse, for upon her few visits to Pemberley she had never yet got to the bottom of Mr. Darcy’s very fine collection of books, and she looked brighter at once.

“It will be strange to live in the county of Derbyshire, after living in Hampshire all my life,” she observed.

“I hope I shall like it. It is above the fifty-third number in latitude I believe and consequently has somewhat less light in the winter, than our more southerly regions. The air around Pemberley is healthy, I know, and I must own that the change will be to my liking. Change, I believe, is an important part of life. If we do not change at times, we cannot expect to grow wiser, and in a new county I expect there will be much to learn and to observe.”

“You must have a good rest after your labours,” put in Elizabeth kindly, “no duties; just enough for happiness—that is, if you want solid activity, there are Mr. Darcy’s books that have not been arranged this long time.

Books are all over the house, I confess; he is always ordering more, and no one ever puts them back in their right places. We need a grand re-arrangement.”

“I would not have believed such a thing,” said Mary, shocked.

“Any disorder in books is what always should be prevented. But your fine collection of natural history—the botanical books—I hope those are not out of place? And your music books, I suppose Jane has had them out, to play the pieces, and not returned them.”

“No; you need not be afraid. I do not think any one has disturbed those since your last visit, and Jane does not play very much. But you will enjoy yourself putting all to rights, will you not, Mary? And I confess, now that our dear father is no more, it will be pleasant to have three of us sisters together.”

“And Jane will be near at hand. Only Lydia will not be with us. How far is Newcastle from Derbyshire, sister? More than one hundred twenty miles I believe. We shall have to look it up. Mr. Darcy has an excellent atlas, I recollect. Will you have Lydia for a visit? She must want a change more than I do. So many children as she has—I confess it makes me thankful I have not any. My excellent husband, being only an attorney’s clerk, could not have afforded them, and with children, I should not have had time to read very much.

Children, I believe, are a grave responsibility.

To have a human soul to form, with such consequences if not properly directed, is so serious an undertaking that I do not understand how anybody can attempt it.

Children must look up to their parents, but the parents must be above reproach themselves.

It is sad that Mr. Wickham is so deplorable a man.

Shall you have any of their children to stay, Sister? ”

“Not, perhaps, immediately,” said Elizabeth, recollecting with what difficulty Lydia had been got rid of, and what had been the results of the last visit of some of this selfsame sister’s children.

Here Cloe entered with her two little charges, followed by Mrs. Collins and that lady’s mother, old Lady Lucas, carrying materials for the cutting-out of dresses for the little girls.