Now Darcy looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and Jane at his own fireside.
“Jane,” said Bingley, turning to his wife with a smile, “I thought I saw an old friend this afternoon.”
“Who was it?”
“Guess!”
“How can I? You know I fare poorly at such games. I do not know.” Then she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Darcy it was. I passed his window; and, as it was not shut up and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. There he sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe. I hesitated to called upon him, as my efforts would have been rebuffed as they have been so many times in the past.”
“Poor Mr. Darcy,” said Jane.
Bingley was pensive for a moment, the loss of friendship still keenly felt even after many years. “He saw me, he looked out the window and saw me, and there was an expression on his face and in his eyes for a few seconds, and I saw the friend that I had lost. I made a step towards the door, but he turned away.”
“The death of their child affected both him and Caroline greatly,” Jane comforted.
“Caroline has found contentment in Bath. She derives much satisfaction from being a big fish in a small pond. Darcy has never been consolable.”
Bingley’s nature was such that soon he was cheerful again and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table and praised the industry and speed of Jane and his daughters.
Bingley told them of the meeting General Fitzwilliam in the street that day.
“‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Bingley,’ he said, ‘and the same for your good wife.’ By-the-by, how he ever knew that, I do not know.”
“Knew what, my dear?”
“Why, that you are a good wife,” replied Bingley.
“Everybody knows that,” said Peter.
“Very well observed, my boy,” cried Bingley. “I hope they do. The General was off to invite Darcy for Christmas, though with little expectation of his invitation being accepted.”
“He is such a good soul!” said Jane.
“You can be sure of that, my dear,” returned Bingley. Changing the subject, Bingley remarked casually that Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner would be joining them for Christmas.
“Only hear that, Peter,” said Jane.
“Peter,” cried one of the girls, “Peter will try to keep Alice’s attention on himself.”
“Get along with you!” retorted Peter, grinning.
“It’s just as likely as not,” said Bingley, “one of these days; though there’s plenty of time for that, my boy. Come, it is time for bed. You would not want to sleep through Christmas tomorrow, would you?”
“Never, Father!” cried they all.
“And I know,” said Bingley, “I know, my dears, that you will be patient and kind and shall not quarrel easily among yourselves tomorrow.”
“Of course, Father!” they all cried again.
“I am very happy,” said Bingley. “I am very happy!”
The children kissed their parents and retired for the evening.
“Specter,” said Darcy, “something informs me that our parting moment is drawing close at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me who was the woman that we saw lying dead?”
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him out of London and into the countryside.
Darcy wondered where they were going as he accompanied the Spirit until they reached a rusted iron gate. He paused to look round before entering. A churchyard. Here, then, the woman whose name he just had to learn lay underneath the ground.
The ghostly Lady Catherine stood among the graves. She was exactly as she had been all evening, but he feared that he saw new meaning in her solemn shape as she pointed down to one particular grave. He advanced towards it trembling.
“Before I draw nearer to the stone to which you point,” said Darcy, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be only?”
She only pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.
“The paths men take will foreshadow certain ends, and if the path is never deviated from, they must lead to that outcome,” said Darcy. “But if they departed from one path and chose another, then the ends must change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
The Spirit was immovable as ever.
Darcy crept towards the tombstone, trembling as he went and, following the finger, read what was carved into the gravestone. The inscription read:
Elizabeth Bennet
25th August 1791–22nd December 1815
Beloved daughter
She will make the angels laugh
“She was the woman who lay upon the bed?” he cried, falling upon his knees. It was the vision he dreaded almost from the start of this visitation
The finger pointed from the grave to him and back again, and then laughed. Darcy was shocked by the sound, for it chilled him to his bones.
“’Tis your own fault, Darcy. Your pride would not let you ask Elizabeth again. Fear of rejection would not let you ask her again. She never gave up on you, but then she caught a fever from her younger sister’s sniveling brat and had not the strength to go on. I believe she asked for you a time or two, but you could not be found until it was too late.” Lady Catherine smiled in malicious delight.
“No, Spirit! Oh no, no!”
“But it is the truth, Darcy. You are always so keen on the truth, are you not?” The Spirit continued in what could only be described as a cheerful voice. “What did your pride and fear get you in the end? Loneliness, for you have lost all your friends and turned your back upon your remaining family.”
The finger still pointed accusingly at Darcy. “And the name you were so proud of is the subject of many course and scurrilous jests. You have become a laughingstock.”
“Spirit!” he cried, tightly clutching at her dress. “Hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not become the man I might have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this if I am past all hope?”
For the first time the hand appeared to shake.
“Good Spirit,” he pursued, “your good nature intercedes for me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by living an altered life!”
The hand trembled.
“I will honor my love in my heart and keep it in all the years yet to come. I will remember the Past, live in the Present, and look to the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may remove away the writing on this stone!”
In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. She sought to free herself, but he was strong in his entreaty and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him and laughed.
“Bravo,” the Spirit called out, while clapping with the polite and insincere applause usually bestowed upon amateurs. “Such melodramatic drivel,” she sneered. “Such maudlin sentimentality. I find it highly entertaining.”
In defeat, Darcy leaned back against the gravestone, his arms resting upon his bended knees. He did not feel that he was defiling the grave; in fact, he felt comforted sitting there. He looked up at that grinning face. “Just go,” he said wearily, “and leave me in peace. The future you showed is not worth living. I will just sit here until winter overtakes me.”
“Are you giving up so easily? No more dramatic entreaties? No sobs, no weeping? Is your love so ready to accept failure? Not thirty seconds ago you were crying out how much you had changed. You have learned nothing,” came the Spirit’s unkind reply.