“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”
“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”
The gossip displeased Elizabeth, but, unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “What is it you mean?”
“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”
“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”
“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”
Elizabeth’s heart nearly halted at the inference. How many men could Mr Darcy possibly pry away from imprudent marriages? If he had interfered with Mr Bingley, that would be bad enough; if he did it often, it would be even worse.
Curious to get more details, or at least confirmation, she asked, “Did Mr Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”
“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”
It would be just like the man to object to the lady’s family but blame the lady herself! Nobody could possibly object to Jane, but as to the rest of the Bennet family, with emphasis on Mr and Mrs Bennet, or even her three younger sisters before the ball—well, anybody objecting to them would only be showing good sense.
Jane herself had supplied the argument, and if Mr Darcy’s arts in separating the couple amounted to repeating what Jane said a week later, Elizabeth could not necessarilyfault him for it—but it still made her frightfully angry, because for all he knew, he could have condemned Jane to genteel poverty.
“And what arts did he use to separate them?” she asked.
“He did not talk to me of his own arts. He only told me what I have now told you.”
Elizabeth made no answer and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful.
“I am thinking of what you have been telling me. Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”
“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”
Elizabeth slowed her walk, trying to calm her temper before she answered.
“I do not see what right Mr Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But, as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.”
“That is not an unnatural surmise—but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”
There was the phrase that told her all she needed to know.‘My cousin’s triumph’.Was that how Mr Darcy saw it, or how the colonel—clearly not the cleverest of men—embellished the story? The man beside her did not even properly know any of that sad play’s actors, nor any details, so he must be inventing those to fill the gaps and make the story more interesting. The phrase smacked of condescension, and Elizabeth was having none of it.
She stopped abruptly, fuming.
The colonel stopped beside her. “Are you well?”
Her anger boiling over, Elizabeth remembered Mary’s advice thatangry people are not always wise. Her sister had advised her to do some arithmetic—any arithmetic—to calm down, so she occupied herself with the first dozen entries of the Fibonacci Sequence[xvii]. That almost did the trick; she added the first dozen prime numbers until her ire reduced to a manageable level.
Finally, she said, “I apologise, Colonel. I am not enjoying this conversation very much. Mrs Collins gave me some much-needed advice about how to refrain from reacting angrily, but it takes time.”
The colonel appeared to finally perceive his misstep. “Did my disclosures offend you? If so, I apologise for bringing up such a subject.”
Elizabeth lost her thin hold on her temper. “I see! You have no objection to gossip; you just object to being caught at it.”
“I do not understand.”
She stared down at her right boot peeking out from her dress, and growled, “I am using all my thin reserves of patience to keep myself from kicking you in the shins, so an explanation might prove painful.”
Looking increasingly contrite, he stammered, “If that would make you feel better, I suggest you let fly. I have clearly earned your displeasure. Now that I think on it, that isnota story I should have told, to you or anyone. You are correct. Such things are best left unsaid or unheard. However, your anger seems… ah… disproportionate to the offence.”
