When I planned out the remaining chapters for this series of posts, I knew there was one experience that I had to share with my readers; a side-by-side reading of a chapter from Pride and Prejudice with the companion passage from Stan Hurd’s three-volume series, Darcy’s Tale.
I had the pleasure of reading Stan’s series in the summer of 2015, and ever since that time, I consider it the perfect companion story to Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Just as Pride and Prejudice is really Elizabeth’s story, Darcy’s Tales spans the same period of time and tells the events within this timeframe from Fitzwilliam Darcy’s point of view.
It is said that Jane Austen never wrote about two men alone because she wouldn’t write about an experience that was unknown to her. Stan’s work allows readers to imagine the many scenes that Austen never wrote, all from Darcy’s point-of-view. His work is so beautifully crafted and meticulously researched; it remains one of my absolute favorite JAFF reads of all time!
I must thank Stan for not only hosting an additional chapter here at Just Jane 1813, but for also sharing with us an excerpt from his book. We also have some great giveaways to share with my readers.
There will be four fun ways to enter these giveaways, as well as four giveaway prizes for our winners. To enter our giveaways, please do one or more of the following:
- Have your share in the conversation! Tell us what you thought about our reading this week of Jane Austen’s chapter and Stan Hurd’s chapter alongside her chapter in the comments below.
- Do you have a song that you think sums up this chapter? Post the title of the song or a link to the song in the comments section. (I’ll even share a Spotify playlist of your selections with the list of giveaway winners, like the one I made a few months ago, Spotify playlist, “The Netherfield Ball,” based on Chapter 14.)
- Want to share a review with us? Post a link to a review you have written for a book that Stan Hurd has written. If you’re unable to share the link, post the name of the book you reviewed, with the name of the site and your name on the review.
- Share this post on Facebook or Twitter (include@justjane1813 in your tweet.)
Each social media/ comment/post and Just Jane 1813 comment/post will enter you for these giveaway prizes. So, if you post and/or comment three times, that’s three chances to win. The deadline for entry comments/posts is midnight ET on Wednesday, November 2nd, and the winners will be announced on this blog on November 3, 2016.
Our prizes are as follows:
- An autographed copy of the paperback set of Darcy’s Tale: Deluxe Edition, which includes all three books in this trilogy (You must have a U.S. mailing address to claim this prize)
- Three ebooks of any JAFF book written by Stan Hurd, readers’ choices,which will go to three separate Just Jane 1813 readers, and which is open to international readers
You may enjoy this selection from the 1995 BBC soundtrack as you read this chapter:
First, let me thank Claudine, and in fact, all of you, for providing and promoting such a safe harbor as this blog, where gentility and civility prevail, and all that is Austen can be discussed, celebrated, and emulated. It is always a joy to visit here and immerse oneself in Austen’s works, and in the ideas of like-minded people. Thank you all!
I was very flattered when Claudine suggested a possible side-by-side reading of a chapter from Pride and Prejudice and Darcy’s Tale. Truth be told, when I began Darcy’s Tale, it was actually with the goal in mind of being able to have a companion work to read alongside P & P, just for my own enjoyment; to my knowledge, this is the first time anyone has done so in a public forum, so I am very excited, and a little apprehensive, to see what everyone thinks!
In thinking about this chapter, the first thing to strike me was just how heavily Elizabeth’s despair would strike Darcy; while Austen has us focus on Elizabeth, I could see Darcy standing there, aghast at the destruction Wickham has caused (again), and how great a price Elizabeth and her family must pay because she has kept faith with him and told no one what he has revealed concerning Wickham and Georgiana. That, and the depth of his own family’s responsibility in loosing Wickham on the world.
And there is one other aspect to the situation that Miss Austen could never address, or perhaps even realize: the strength of male attachment, and the desire to protect the object of that attachment from any and all harm. Nor could she portray the anger a man feels when his love is being threatened. In the scene, we are given the outward signs of his emotions, but her description is (intentionally?) vague: “…fixed in astonishment”; “… earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air gloomy”; “compassion” and “restraint”—these are the outward indications she vouchsafes us concerning his feelings. These are expressions capable of interpretation, though, and I present mine in our read-along chapter. I hope you will enjoy it.
If you’d like to print out the following chapters for your own reading pleasure, click Stan Hurd Invites Us to Share Darcy’s POV:”We Still Need Her”/ Week 36, Chapter 46.
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence.
It was to this effect:
“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.”
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”
“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”
“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”
“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now.”
“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?”
“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all settled.”
“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
Darcy’s Tale, Volume III: The Way Home
The morning following, Darcy was up early; breaking his fast lightly, he took to horse well before mid-morning and rode to Lambton. His purpose in going, or so he told himself, was that it was absolutely necessary to express his thanks to Elizabeth for her very collected defence of Georgiana during Miss Bingley’s baiting. When he entered the inn, the proprietor, smiling and bowing, began to come towards him; Darcy shook his head and pointed enquiringly up to the floor above; the proprietor, nodding, called for his daughter to fetch the Gardiner’s manservant, who escorted Darcy to the Gardiner’s apartments.
On his opening the door, however, Darcy was brought up short, and his intention of once more demonstrating his improved civility dashed, by the sight of Elizabeth standing immediately before him, just in the act of reaching for the latch, her face bearing witness to great distress and a desperate urgency. Said she in accents breathless and exigent: “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.” As she spoke she had to support herself on the doorway, her body weakened and her face so pale as to be almost bloodless.
Darcy, alarmed by her frantic expression and frail appearance, cried: “Good God! what is the matter?” But taking himself in hand, determining that he must be more help than hindrance, he said more collectedly, “I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; —you cannot go yourself.”
Elizabeth tried to command herself forward, but her legs began to fail under her weight, and she clung to the door-frame for support. She called to the servant: “John! John, you must fetch Mr. Gardiner immediately—make haste; oh, make haste!” Darcy, though standing nearly at her side, could scarcely make out what she said, so quick and feeble were her words. With this, all strength left her and she sank speechless into a chair, her face pallid, her eyes wandering, focused on objects far away. Under the circumstances Darcy could not leave her, whether she wished for his presence or not; in truth, however, she hardly seemed to realise he was still there. After a moment’s concerned observation, he gently urged, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you present relief? —A glass of wine; —shall I get you one? —You are very ill.”
Elizabeth strove to be more in control of herself, saying, “No, I thank you. There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”
At this she dissolved into tears completely; Darcy, shocked and apprehensive, hating to imagine what might have brought on such affliction, and fearing he hardly knew what, wished he could do anything rather than sit by in ineffectual solicitude, waiting until she should be able to speak again; but he could bring to mind nothing profitable to the situation. He endeavoured to speak comfort, but his words tripped over themselves, and he felt the perfect uselessness of all stale, worn, trifling words, to moderate such overwhelming sorrow as this.
After giving way to her emotions for some moments, Elizabeth spoke, her voice low and despairing, “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped; —has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connexions, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost forever.”
At the sound of Wickham’s name, Darcy’s world heaved beneath him; that devil! —still he would reach out and work ruin on every thing he touched! He stared at Elizabeth, unable to speak; he knew not whether his most exigent object should be to hunt Wickham down and prove his anger on his person, or to cast aside all personal concerns that he might marshal every relief at his command to Elizabeth’s aid and comfort.
“When I consider,” she said in a piteous voice that quite pierced him through, “that I might have prevented it! —I who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt—to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.”
Darcy was transfixed with horror and guilt when he realised what she was saying: her words made it obvious that she had, in fact, given full credence to his letter, and, as he had requested, had not shared his secret, had not revealed Georgiana’s disgrace, even to her own sisters; her whole family was now to pay a terrible price for her most faithful defence of his family’s honour. Nor could he disregard the fact that her words might very well have been his own—had he but taken it upon himself to make Wickham’s character known in Meryton, and even before, this ruinous misfortune could never have overtaken her family.
“I am grieved, indeed,” he cried, his sense of guilt growing by the moment, “grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?” He vainly hoped that, somehow, some propitious error might befriend him, however hidden or improbable, and save him from the burden of guilt he presently laboured under.
“Oh yes!” replied Elizabeth. “They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
In the time it took for her to speak this, Darcy let go his weakness, his foolish hopes and useless self-reproach, and became resolute: he would not suffer this to stand. What he wanted first was information: “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”
Shaking his head silently, Darcy realised how true this was; in his whole life he had never found the means of curbing Wickham and bringing him to heel to face his misdeeds; short of bribery or violence, how did one check an unprincipled man? No, not even bribery, for had not Wickham reneged on their agreement regarding the living? Once the money was gone, so would be the understanding between them.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character,” Elizabeth went on. “Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched, mistake!”
Her words lashed Darcy with an acute consciousness of his accountability in the business, and of his obligation. Elizabeth, who had the least reason of any one to protect him, had sacrificed her family for the sake of his—not with this outcome in mind, doubtless, but that was of no comfort to Darcy: he was responsible for this state of affairs, as surely as though he had delivered her sister into Wickham’s hands directly. Her pain was his doing, and while accusation was far from her intention, Darcy could not have felt more at fault had she levelled a finger at his breast and proclaimed him villain.
This was the end, he swore to himself; he would finish this: Wickham would pay, and Elizabeth and her family would be released from his influence. This, he promptly realised, could not be done by means of the law without exposure and disgrace for the Bennets; but by any means—fair or foul—he meant to undo Wickham. The pair were in London: that would mean Mrs. Younge would likely know their whereabouts, for he knew from his dealings with her the year before that she and Wickham were close; as close as the deceitful may be, at any rate.
At this point he stopped in his deliberations and looked over at Elizabeth; she had covered her face with her handkerchief and given herself over entirely to grief. To say that she was in distress, and that he felt for her, would do justice to neither: he would gladly have lifted this burden from her at any cost to himself, even unto his utter dissolution; and she, seeing no future but misery and disgrace for all her family, felt every thing that the worst sinner might, when facing the infernal Abyss. Darcy ached to hold her, to offer her his strength, to comfort her with the warmth of his arms when words could not avail; but he had no right, no warrant to do so—nor would she welcome the attempt, he was well assured. He therefore had to rely on words alone, no matter how insufficient they must be: “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence,” said he with gentle compassion, “nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress! —But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”
Elizabeth, her emotions having been momentarily slaked by her tears, now struggled to respond with propriety: “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible.” Casting down her eyes, she finished hopelessly: “I know it cannot be long.”
He instantly assured her: “I beg you will not distress yourself on that account—you may be certain I will honour your confidence.” Conscious of his resolve, he offered her what little solace he dared: “I am so very sorry; I only wish there were anything I might offer in support of you and your family; but allow me to express my hope for a happier conclusion than we might reasonably foresee at present.” So saying, he took up his hat and gloves and prepared to take leave: he had a great deal to do, if he were to be in time to stave off this latest of Wickham’s outrages against decency, and certainly Elizabeth could have no wish for him to stand by, watching her suffer without having anything to offer that might comfort her pain. He turned at the door to look a last time into her eyes, to charge his resolution with the pain he saw there, and to offer her his silent oath that he would preserve her family as she had his. Many thoughts vied for expression within him at such a moment, but, with all propriety, all he could offer was: “Please, extend my compliments and regrets to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” With that, he left her.
Well, dear readers, now we’d love to hear your POV! What did you think of this reading experience? Did you enjoy this side-by-side companion piece for Chapter 46? Did Stan’s chapter illuminate or bring forth any new insights for you regarding this chapter? What did you think about reading this scene from Darcy’s POV? Please feel free to share all of your thoughts, insights, and comments with us.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, I highly recommend Stan’s entire series; actually, I highly recommend reading anything that’s been written by Stan Hurd!