As he read and re-read those lines, envious even of the pen she held in her hand, the poor Colonel could little know that, for fear of sounding ungrateful, Georgiana dared not write of her ardent longing for home—that even the barest, most forsaken foot-hold of rock in England would seem an Eden. She had, instead, substituted Paris as the object of her desire, imputing that any praise of that city would be unexceptional, yet still remain within the strictest compass of the truth—Paris was indubitably closer to England than was Venice. The probable presence of the Comte in Paris had not entered her thoughts at all; she simply saw the city as the final delay before her return to England, and imagined herself there engaged in the happy pursuits of readying everything for their final departure homewards. In the eyes of the tormented Colonel, however, Georgiana’s eagerness to return to the “diversions and comforts” offered by France’s capital was tantamount to a declaration of love for its chief gallant—the Comte d’Estrouville—and, thus, the letter intensified, rather than alleviated, his growing apprehensions of the distance and the days that yet divided himself from Georgiana.

CHAP. 16.

INSTEAD OF A LETTER, as expected, about a week after Mr. Darcy was returned to London, a dishevelled and distracted Lady Catherine made her own appearance at an extraordinarily late hour, just as Darcy was finishing some letters of business and preparing to retire. Looking up as she was announced, he immediately noticed her pallor and unkempt appearance. She had all of the outward aspects of having dressed hurriedly and, extraordinarily for Lady Catherine, with no concern whatsoever for her manner of dress.

“Good God, Madam!” cried Darcy as he stood. “What is the matter?”

Her story was as breathlessly delivered as it was impossible to immediately credit.

“My daughter…” was all she could get out; sinking into a chair, she covered her face in her hands and sobbed.

Allowing Lady Catherine a minute to compose herself, Darcy rang for the servant to bring a glass of strong wine. At length, after taking the better share of the wine, she was recovered enough to speak. Darcy, by now convinced that a dreadful accident had befallen her daughter, had moved a chair near to hers and waited.

“My…my daughter,” began Lady Catherine trying to speak between the choking of tears, “…Anne…has left me…gone off…Sir William”; and having succeeded in finishing the entire thought, she resumed weeping without seeming to notice him further.

After some time, she again became mistress enough of herself to continue, and related to him the events of the previous day: