I know that it's been nearly forever since I've updated; and I have no excuse, except that I was on vacation for a while, and have been supremely lazy. No promises as to how regular my updates will be; but I don't mean to abandon this story.

Chapter Ten: Separation, and its Sentiments

Yet thou, of sighs and silly tears regardless,
Suff'rest my feeble heart to pine with anguish,
Whilst all my barren hopes return rewardless,
My bitter days do waste, and I do languish.

—J. Wilbye, "Oft have I vowed…"

The two days which remained of Catherine's stay in Derbyshire came and went quickly; the latter day spent mainly in packing and contemplating plans for the return journey to Longbourn. By the time that the carriage had pulled up the gravel drive, and she was standing on the veranda with her bonnet and cloak securely fastened about her, she was feeling already exhausted; and with a fond embrace for her sisters Jane and Elizabeth, she joined the rest of her family (the 'rest of her family' being her father, mother and Mary), alighted into the carriage, and within a few moments was off.

Elizabeth was, despite her natural feelings of sisterly solicitude, rather glad to have the large party which had been assembled at Pemberley dissipating. She very much wanted to have the house left only to herself, her husband, and her sister-in-law; for her intimacy with the latter was difficult to build upon with all of the guests standing in the way, and her marriage had been recent enough that she may still be considered a newlywed. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were to leave on the morrow, with especial arrangements made for Jane's comfort due to her condition. Miss Bingley and the Hursts had set off for Town the previous day, as had the Gardiners and their children; and the carriage now pulled up to convey Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Margaret and her husband back to the latter's country estate in Leicestershire: so all who would remain at Pemberley after the next day's end was Lady Rosaline, who was to go to her eldest brother's house in town a few days following the described period.

After the Bennets, Gibsons and Colonel Fitzwilliam were gone, what of the Christmas party remained re-entered the house. The two married couples naturally went off in their way for privacy and lovers' banter, which left Georgiana and Rosaline left together in the ground-floor guest parlor.

Georgiana had seated herself by the fire and taken up her needle-work, bashfully averting her eyes from that of her cousin's. Her childhood memories of Lady Rosaline were few and far between, therefore she was as good as a stranger to her; though the remembrances on her ladyship's side were much fonder, as she recalled nursing little Georgy when poor Lady Anne was too ill to, and when that lady's death had eventually occurred, making such an endeavor impossible. So while Georgiana was nervous and self-conscious around Rosaline, Rosaline looked upon her with tender eyes, and wished very much to form an intimacy of a different kind than that of nurse and infant; though their mutual reserve made this a much more difficult task than it ought to have been, for they were not so much unlike as they thought themselves to be.

They sat for some minutes in silence, with the consciousness of being the object of Rosaline's glances making Georgiana all the more nervous; the subsequent reaction to this was that she managed to drop her sewing-needle altogether. It had only fallen a little away from her, and she was fully prepared to fetch it herself; but Rosaline was too quick for her, and was in a few moments handing her the dropt needle.

"Thank you," said Georgiana quietly, her eyes still fixed on her work, and her head turned down so that her eyes were hardly visible through the dark curls that hung loosely in front of them. Rosaline smiled warmly; and, her courage mounting from the two simple words spoken by her companion, replied:

"You are quite welcome. Should you allow me to look at your work? I could make much better use of myself in assisting you, than by being idle."

Georgiana, though not with the expectation of composure of mind from this strange cousin's assistance, was nonetheless too polite and gentle-mannered to refuse her; and so was the beginning of familiarity between the cousins. Working together had the natural effect of producing some conversation pertaining to it, which eventually broadened itself into other subjects; and by the end of the period in which the two ladies spent in that room, each felt much more at ease around the other than she had expected.

While these acquaintances were being strengthened, Edith had weighing on her mind a very different topic; that is, there was the temptation of a re-trimmed bonnet and a new pearl-grey silk dress that Mrs. Edwin offered as a reward for her to divulge the details of Miss Hawkins' visit. She was deliberating on this point, in fact, and shamelessly neglecting her studies, when Mrs. Edwin herself entered the room, under the pretense of offering her young mistress another cup of tea; but her ulterior motive became easily known when, after a brief pause in their discourse, the housekeeper thus accosted Edith:

"My dear Edith, have you at last decided to be a good girl, in exchange for my labor?"

Edith smiled prettily, perfectly comprehending what Mrs. Edwin's meaning was, for it had been the subject she had been likewise contemplating.

"Indeed, Mrs. Edwin, I hope I am always good. But it has been a source of endless vexation to me, that your labors should entail only a re-trimmed bonnet and that grey silk frock; for dear Miss Bennet recommended to me the other day, that I buy the gold ribbon for sale in Reynolds' shop, for it would become me very well. I should have purchased it directly, only Simon had already bought me a trinket, and it would be very shameful for me to ask for anything more."

Here Edith paused in her speech, to study her recipient's reaction; and finding that Mrs. Edwin's features had not hardened to the stony indifference which suggested an unbreakable obstinacy on that lady's part, continued on with her satisfaction reflecting in her good-humored tone.

"Of course, Mrs. Edwin, you cannot suppose that I buy everything that my friends suggest; but Miss Bennet is all the more dear to me now, for she has so sadly uprooted herself from Derbyshire, for nobody knows how long; and so how does one pay tribute to an absent friend, but by taking their advice to heart?"

Edith had not expected to move the old housekeeper by this speech; for it was rather to the purpose of allowing the curious servant time to reflect; this reflection hopefully causing her to warm to the idea of buying some pretty ribbon for Edith; and it also gave Edith the satisfaction of knowing she could have words flow from her tongue so rapidly, and form such eloquent sentences and persuasive speeches as to be quite impressive for a girl of her age. And Mrs. Edwin was duly persuaded, thinking how little trouble it would be to procure some ribbon, and how much she wished to learn what secrets Edith was so reluctant to divulge.

"Dear Edith! How could I possibly say nay to you, when you have shown such proofs of possessing the sensibility which I had previously despaired you of ever being mistress of? I am so pleased you wish to honor your friend who has gone away—this Miss Bennet—and I am sure the gold ribbon can be obtained for you very expeditiously, and all of my other promises fulfilled, if you endeavor to do what is right: and with such proofs of your goodness, dear little Edith, I doubt not that you will do just that."

Though the insinuation of Edith's lack of proper feeling and sensibility would usually have chagrined her, she was so well pleased with Mrs. Edwin's bribe, that no indignation escaped her in her expression or words, and hardly even in her thoughts; and though taking a few moments to recollect the conversation which Mrs. Edwin so much wanted to know of, did not otherwise hesitate to give the following explanation:

"I am so glad that we are of a similar mind, Mrs. Edwin. Now I shall not be sorry to tell you of Miss Hawkins' visit. You will recollect you sent her into the drawing-room; and that is where I met her. When I first walked into the room, I sat down in my favorite chair; and Miss Hawkins looked very pleased indeed. I asked her who she was; and she identified herself as Miss Samantha Hawkins; then asked how she knew me—for I was quite confused. Rather than give a direct answer, she instead asked who my mother is."

"How indelicate!" cried Mrs. Edwin, whose interest was wholly absorbed by this recounting, and who did not think to check herself before interrupting; but with only a slight glare in her direction on Edith's part, the latter continued on with her tale.

"Indeed, I thought it a very strange question; and I told her that I do not know who my mother is at all; and I was more than a little mortified at saying such to an absolute stranger. But Miss Hawkins did not seem surprised; indeed, if anything, she seemed rather disappointed; and then said a very many vague things which I did not even pretend to understand. I demanded that she explain herself, but instead she seemed suddenly eager to go; and only gave me some very queer smiles and winks, and then she left."

Mrs. Edwin thought this a very intriguing encounter; and though it provoked more questions than it answered, was nonetheless happy that she had at last extracted this information from Edith. There were few conjectures that could be made, that were not totally wild or improbable; and since Mrs. Edwin was very conscious of what was ridiculous, did not allow any of these ideas to escape her lips; and instead said, with more gravity than she felt:

"This is very suspicious! I hope that Miss Hawkins was only impertinently curious, and intends no real harm; and I think that is the most likely circumstance; but even so, it would be wise, Miss Edith, if you were to keep away from her at all costs, if you should ever happen to see her again accidentally. At any rate, she is not worth trifling with."

Edith could raise no objection to this, since she had received no favorable impression from the mysterious Miss Hawkins in her only meeting with her; and as her curiosity was not near so much as active or voracious as Mrs. Edwin's, she could have no desire in wanting to further question that lady as to her motives.

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Catherine's feelings, upon her return to familiar Longbourn after an appropriate days' travel, were mostly those of boredom and disappointment. She could not be satisfied in being secluded from her new acquaintances she had formed in Derbyshire, and found her father's modest estate nothing in comparison to Pemberley. How was she to be content, knowing that while her sister resided in one of the finest homes in England, she was to be bored in Longbourn! Of course, she was at leisure to visit her eldest sister at Netherfield, as Catherine could accompany her mother at any time; for Mrs. Bennet thought it prudent to visit poor Jane nearly every day; but even the grandeur of Netherfield, the good humor of Mr. Bingley, and the never-abating sweetness of Jane, could not satisfy Catherine's appetite for variety, grandeur, and all of the pretensions and graces surrounding it.

"O Mary, how I wish for anything to do!" sighed Catherine when the Bennets were still lately returned from their Christmas visit to Elizabeth. She then proceeded to drape herself on the sofa, fatigued from an empty mind.

"I would never want for anything to do," observed Mary curtly, as she had been interrupted while reading a most interesting passage, "with the knowledge that my papa has a library full of books, and that I have hardly read any of them."

"Books! Nobody can live through books. They are only fantasies of the writer; they can be nothing to experiencing the events portrayed in them; and then when one finishes a particularly thrilling one, all that is left is the consciousness of a day spent in solitude; and in contrast of the adventures of a heroine in comparison with one's dull or non-existent ones, it only proves to make things feel blander."

"Nay, Kitty," snapped Mary, upset with her sister's ignorance; "you speak of novels, whereas I speak of books. Novels are indeed only flights of fancy, and cannot strengthen anybody's mind any more than listening to gossip can; but books can teach you that which the most polished minds have discovered, and recount things which indeed truly happened; and I can derive infinite satisfaction from that."

Catherine, though acknowledging to herself that she had thought of novels rather than books in general, nevertheless felt that her point had been lost; but, feeling too tired to quarrel with her sister, instead yawned violently and declared her intention of going to bed early. This was also to the equal satisfaction of Mary, who watched her sister rise and leave the room with a triumphant feeling in her bosom.

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It was with regret that Rosaline parted from the house which she had grown more re-attached to than she had realized, what with every scene of Pemberley recalling some tender recollection to her mind; and though there were some things which she would be glad to not be in daily observance of, she still found the harder memories worth enduring in order to be in company of the warmer ones. But still she must go; and her consolation for it was the assurance of her being as welcome as ever come Eastertide; and that visit, her cousin told her, he hoped would be of greater duration.

So the inhabitants at Pemberley, servants aside, had once again dwindled to three. Georgiana, though feeling some friendliness towards Rosaline, was not sorry to have time to get better acquainted with her new sister; and neither Elizabeth nor Darcy could complain, for each was certain to be content as long as they were in the company of the other.

It had been a few weeks since the departure of the final Christmas guest; and Elizabeth had just sealed a letter to her sister Jane, which was filled with many solicitous applications as to her health, and a summary of the succession of busy nothings with which her life was principally filled. With that happy task completed, she moved on to reading a letter of her mother's, which was long and rambling, and truly in Mrs. Bennet's style.

Elizabeth had just begun the last paragraph, when the sound of an opening door interrupted her concentration; and looking over the sheets of paper she held in her hand, saw that her husband had just entered the room, and was in the process of taking the chair next to her.

"Indeed, sir; what could possibly be so pressing so as to make it necessary to interrupt my own pressing matters?" said Elizabeth with affected gravity.

"And what are these 'pressing matters'?"

"A letter from my mamma," answered she, setting the sheets which consisted of the described letter on her writing-desk. "I will have you know that the Lucases had an especially inferior dinner party three days ago; and that is no trifle. I am sure mamma expects me to reprimand them most harshly."

"At least, that is all she wishes you to do," returned Darcy, bearing in mind the thousand little instructions that Mrs. Bennet usually included in her letters.

"Oh no; I hope she has more sense than to write a letter if only to say that. She wants my sister Kitty to stay with us in the spring."

"Mrs. Bennet's manners never fail to amaze me."

Elizabeth gently hit her husband on the arm with the letter she had now re-collected in her hand, but smiled at his remark nonetheless.

"You do not do her justice; or, rather, I do not. She did not expressly request it; but it was hinted so very strongly, that I know that if we do not extend an invitation to Kitty, mamma will be sorely disappointed."

"I confess, that I am not as well-acquainted with your mother's ways and habits as you are."

"Then it is a lucky thing you have me to decipher them for you. Though I should have thought you more apt at the art, considering that you must have at least one relation who is similar in that respect."

Darcy did not need to confirm his wife's insinuation, so instead said:

"But if I did not have you, I should not need to dissect Mrs. Bennet's mind in the first place. But with such a point in mind, I wonder how you can abuse my relations so cruelly!"

"Do I? I hope I don't abuse anybody, unless that abuse is deserved."

"Of all of the qualities of your character, my dear, I never knew that 'abusive' was one of them. How ever could I have made such a mistake as to marry one of your lot?"

"Oh; the answer to that is very simple. It is alluded to in the old lines:

"Love me not for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye and face;
No, nor for my constant heart, -
For these may change, and turn to ill,
And thus true love may sever.
But love me on, and know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still
To dote upon me ever." (1.)

Darcy laughed at Elizabeth's poetry recital, and promised her that he would bear in mind those lines, if she should ever doubt as to why he ought to continue loving her.

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1.) This poem is by John Wilbye (1574-1638), but it's more of an homage to "Wives and Daughters" (by Elizabeth Gaskell, 1866), since the poem is quoted there in almost exactly the same way.