Mr. Darcy's Christmas Carol (7 page)

Mrs. Launders picked up the bundle and shook it out. “Ah, you may look through this dress till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a threadbare place. It's the best she had, and a fine one too.”

“So it is,” said old Joe.

“She is to be buried in it, to be sure,” replied the woman with a sob.

Recovering, Mrs. Launders spoke again. “This is not the end of it, you'll see! He will frighten everyone away from him and then he will end up all alone. Serves him right, I say. I just wish I knew what is to become of young Freddy.”

“Spirit!” said Darcy, shuddering from head to foot. “Merciful Heaven, what is this about?” For Darcy was again in the drawing room of his London mansion. But now the room was made horrible by obvious neglect. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture was undusted, the windows grimy, the curtains torn and tattered.

Darcy gasped as he saw the owner of the house sitting by a meager fire. It was himself; he knew it was himself, though he aged at least thirty years!

A young man came into the room. “A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Darcy's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Darcy. “Humbug!”

This nephew-to-be of Darcy had a face that was ruddy and handsome. He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost that his eyes sparkled from the exercise. He reminded Darcy of his cousin Fitzwilliam.

“Christmas a humbug, Uncle!” said Darcy's nephew. “You do not mean that, I am sure.”

“I do mean it,” said Darcy. “Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason do you have to be merry? You're poor enough.”

“Come now, I am not a pauper by any means. My mother saw that I was provided for; if not rich, I am certainly comfortable,” returned the nephew gaily. “I might ask what right have you to be so dismal and morose? You're rich enough.”

Darcy, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, “Bah!” again and followed it up with “Humbug.”

“Do not be cross, Uncle,” said the nephew.

“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools who believe in a Merry Christmas? And I suppose you believe in Father Christmas too.”

“Oh, without a doubt, Uncle, I believe.”

“I say, out upon Merry Christmas. What is Christmas time to you but a time for frittering away money on needless things; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour wiser? If I could work my will,” said Darcy indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”

“Uncle!” returned the nephew. “What a singularly unpleasant thought.”

“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly. “Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”

“Keep it!” repeated Darcy's nephew. “But you do not keep it.”

“Let me leave it alone then,” said Darcy. “Much good may it do you. Much good it has ever done you!”

“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,” returned the nephew, “Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought that, apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, Christmas Time is a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. The only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, Uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

A servant in the hall involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he entered the room with a wine decanter and one glass.

“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Darcy addressing the servant, “and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation.” Turning to his nephew, he said, “You're quite a powerful speaker, sir. I wonder you do not go into Parliament.”

“Politicians certainly put believing to the test. Please do not be angry, Uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.”

“Why did you get married?” said Darcy.

“Because I fell in love.”

“Because you fell in love!” growled the elder Darcy. “There is only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas and it is love. And you are fool if you believe otherwise. Why should I subject myself and ruin my digestion to view the mockery that is a love match.”

Darcy was astonished to hear these words come from his mouth. In fact, every word he heard spoken from the time he entered the room with the Spirit shocked him greatly. He could not believe the sentiments he was expressing as they were so far from those he felt now, as to be totally alien.

“But, Uncle, you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? I can assure the meals are much better than when I was a bachelor, so there really is no need to worry about your tender stomach,” his nephew offered cheekily.

“Good afternoon,” said Darcy, creakily getting up from his chair.

“I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?”

“Good afternoon,” repeated Darcy, as he walked over to the door.

“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which I have been a party. But I have made the offer in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So a Merry Christmas, Uncle!”

“Good afternoon!” said Darcy, opening the door.

“And a Happy New Year!”

“Good afternoon, Frederick!” said Darcy as he left the room.

The young man waited behind in the cold room. “I tried, Mother,” he said looking up at the ceiling. “I will try again next year and the next until that foolish old man accepts my invitation, just as I promised so long ago. Why you were so concerned for him, when he showed no care for you, I will never know.” Placing his hat on head, he left so his uncle could leave Christmas alone.

Frederick!
Darcy thought. He turned to the Spirit. “This is my future? This is my fate? I turn into a man so heartless that I would leave my sister alone to die?” The Spirit looked at him but gave no answer.

“So far the future you have shown is bleak and awful. Let me see some happiness connected to the future,” demanded Darcy.

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet. They entered the Bingleys' house and found Jane and her children seated round the fire.

The room was very large and handsome, and full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like Jane that Darcy believed it was the same, until he saw her, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were children all about and they were failing to conduct themselves in a civilized manner. But no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily.

A knocking at the door was heard and a rush towards it immediately ensued. Jane made her way toward the center of the boisterous group just in time to greet Bingley, who came home attended by a footman laden with Christmas toys and presents. The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received!

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!”