“Eliza, dear Eliza,” he said, dropping to one knee. “Oh, Eliza, I don’t know how to say this—but I love you so very much. Will you—please will you—honor me with your hand in marriage?”
“Yes, Henry,” said Eliza, without hesitation.
“Sweetest, funniest Eliza,” said Henry, as he raised her small hand to his lips. She thought them the most beautiful words she had ever heard.
It was such a blissful moment that at first neither of them noticed an intruder, a cloaked figure struggling down the center pathway, pushing between the bushes, hampered by a bandbox and a bonnet. The intruder was trying to be quiet, but her bonnet strings caught in a passion fruit vine, and in trying to untangle them she dropped the bandbox. “Oh, oh, oh,” said an agitated voice, a familiar voice.
Returning to earth, Eliza and Henry drew back and stared at the newcomer. “It’s Juliet,” whispered Eliza. “Wherever can she be going?”
Hand in hand, they moved after her. Juliet was so absorbed in her own activities that she did not see or hear them, and when Eliza touched her on her shoulder, she gave a small shriek, and dropped the bandbox once more. This time it came unfastened, and her nightgown uncurled itself on the mossy path before them all.
“Juliet!” said Henry. “What are you doing? Where are you going? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Oh, Henry, do be quiet! And go away. How tiresome you are! And Eliza. It is not your concern. You are not wanted! I know exactly what I am doing.”
She opened the outside door of the conservatory and peered into the semi-darkness. In the distance a fox barked. An owl, ghostly in the moonlight, swooped across the lawn, barely veering to snatch up a moth that fluttered, white and silent, and was gone. Where was Walter? Why didn’t he come? Henry was going to spoil everything.
Eliza had noticed Juliet on and off throughout the evening, looking so beautiful and so cross. And then, dancing with that—that fox-man, the fox’s bark nudging her imagination. Walter Elliot. Juliet had sat with him at supper, tucked away in a corner, as if they wanted to be private. Eliza was suddenly certain:
“Juliet, are you eloping? With Mr. Elliot?”
“N-no, of course not. Not eloping exactly. Oh, do go away. You are spoiling everything.”
Eliza saw a movement in the shadows, across the lawn where the brick wall hid the peach orchard, and the path led to the stables. Someone was approaching.
“Juliet, you can’t! Think what father would say. I won’t let you.” Henry spoke in a harsh whisper.
“What do I care what people will say? Go away, Henry. You are only a boy. What do you know about life? Don’t you dare try to stop me.” Juliet was whispering too, but her voice began to rise. She had been getting steadily more nervous since leaving her bedroom. The vines and branches of the conservatory seemed to impede her, to clutch at her, green fingers stretched out to hold her back. But Henry’s opposition reinforced her determination. Henry was only her brother. It was no concern of his what she did. And Eliza was a poor relation!
(In the far corner of the conservatory the tall male figure put out its cheroot and moved forward.)
The fox barked again.
Walter Elliot was plainly visible now, padding silently over the grass from the direction of the stables. Henry’s hand was on Juliet’s arm, but she tugged herself free. Her cloak was tossed back over her shoulders; a lock of dark hair, pulled loose by her battle with the vine, fell over her cheek. Her breast rose and fell, showing the deep décolletage of her dress.
As she pulled away from Henry toward the door, Eliza’s hand shot out. From the corner of its web, she scooped up the ginger-spotted, fat-bodied spider she had admired the day before and, before it had finished uncurling its legs inside her palm, she dropped it into the bodice of Juliet’s pale yellow gown.
Juliet screamed. Her bonnet went flying, she dropped her bandbox, and she leaped into the air, screaming and screaming and making flapping movements with her hands against her chest. Her face was scarlet. Her cloak slid from her shoulders.
Out in the garden, Walter Elliot stopped short. He was quite close and could plainly make out the identity of the lady in distress.What had happened, he had no idea. He could see that there were several people on the scene. It was the worst possible situation for the delicate task he had set himself. He turned on his heels, and strode off back towards the stables. It was a blow to his ambitions, but perhaps it would be best if he returned to town without delay.
Juliet was a strong and healthy young woman. When she screamed, she screamed. The band was between dances, and the screams were plainly to be heard.
Footmen came running, and guests arrived from the ballroom.
“What is it, what is it? What has happened? Is it a riot?” people called.
A crowd was collecting. Eliza nudged Henry. She picked up Juliet’s bonnet and he reached for the cloak and bandbox. Together they retreated backwards through the growing crowd. Juliet still screamed and beat at her bodice.
“Juliet!” Mr. Darcy reached the group. He seldom raised his voice. On this occasion he did so. And Juliet was shocked into closing her mouth. She still panted. Elizabeth Darcy came hurrying from the far end of the ballroom, but it was Charlotte Collins who was the first adult woman to arrive.
“My dear,” she said, taking Juliet in her calm and comforting arms. “Tell me what is the matter?”
Now somewhat under control, Juliet was able to examine the neckline of her dress. The spider, limp, half squashed, its legs faintly squirming, was revealed, plastered against her skin. Juliet let out a last agonized wail, and Charlotte deftly removed the spider from her dress and dropped it on the ground.
“It was a spider. The biggest thing! Oh, father, it jumped on me!” said Juliet. Despite her near hysteria, she had seen Walter Elliot’s retreat. She looked down hastily, and realized her cloak and bonnet were gone. So were Eliza and Henry. “I... I was so warm. I was just going outside for some air. And then the spider... oh, Father,” said Juliet, and threw herself on her father’s chest.
Calm was soon restored. As the story spread, a thrill of horror, followed by a flood of eagerly expressed sympathy, engulfed the feminine half of the dancers. Ravishment was forgotten; footpads dismissed. More and more young ladies exclaimed and fluttered their fans; more and more young gentlemen wished they had been there to assist Mr. Darcy’s lovely daughter. Nothing depicted in The Monk or Udolpho could compare.
“In her bodice? Oh, horror! A wonder she did not run mad!”
“I should have fainted, I am quite sure!”
“Indeed, yes. Poor, poor Juliet!”
It was felt a thoroughly reasonable explanation. Only Elizabeth, joining her husband and her daughter, as they reentered the ballroom, looked at him and then at Charlotte with her eyebrows raised.
Charlotte pressed Juliet’s hand, and Mr. Darcy handed over his semi-restored daughter to the eager attentions of Colin Knightley. Juliet clung to Colin’s arm in a manner very pleasing to him. He felt strong and protective. Excitement had taken its toll and his quiet voice and deferential manner were exactly what Juliet needed. Colin led her to the refreshment table and plied her with fruit cup. Juliet, still somewhat dizzy with the concentration of events, was yet able to notice that the cup tasted quite different from that urged upon her by Walter Elliot. She was spoiled, but not a fool when not ruled by her vanity. She began to understand that she had been artfully encouraged in a certain line of conduct. The cure had been drastic indeed, but the need had been dire. And there was a brighter side. Though in a rather different way than she had hoped, she was indeed ending the ball as a heroine.
Some fifteen minutes later, whirling demurely in Colin Knightley’s arms, Juliet came face to face with Henry and Eliza. Her eyes met Eliza’s, and she smiled. It was a small smile; when she thought of what Eliza had done, she still felt an icy finger stirring the hairs on the back of her neck. But she was beginning to be grateful. It was a new sensation for Juliet Darcy.