‘I will say whatever you wish me to say,’ I returned.
‘Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.’
‘Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.’
‘Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?’
‘Both,’ she replied archly.
I could not help smiling. It is that archness that draws me. It is provocative without being impertinent, and I have never come across it in any woman before. She lifts her face in just such a way when she makes one of her playful comments that I am seized with an overwhelming urge to kiss her. Not that I would give in to such an impulse, but it is there all the same.
‘I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds,’ she went on. ‘We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.’
I was uneasy, not sure whether to laugh or feel concerned. If it was part of her playfulness, then I found it amusing, but if she thought it was the truth? Had I been so taciturn when I had been with her? I thought back to the Meryton assembly, and the early days at Netherfield. I had perhaps not set out to charm her, but then I never did. I had, perhaps, been abrupt to begin with, but I thought I had repaired matters towards the end of her stay at Netherfield. Until the last day. I remembered my silence, and my determination not to speak to her. I remembered congratulating myself on not saying more than ten words to her, and remaining determinedly silent when I was left alone with her for half an hour, pretending to be absorbed in my book.
I had been right to remain silent, I thought. Then immediately afterwards I thought I had been wrong. I had been both right and wrong: right if I wished to crush any expectations that might have arisen during the course of her visit, but wrong if I wished to win her favour, or to be polite. I am not used to being so confused. I never was, before I met Elizabeth.
I became aware of the fact that again I was silent, and I knew I must say something if I was not to confirm her in the suspicion that I was deliberately taciturn.
‘This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,’ I said, my uneasiness reflected in my tone of voice, for I did not know whether to be amused or hurt. ‘How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.’
‘I must not decide on my own performance.’
We lapsed into an uneasy silence. Did she judge me? Did she despise me? Or was she playing with me? I could not decide.
At length, I spoke to her about her trip to Meryton, and she replied that she and her sisters had made a new acquaintance there.
I froze. I knew whom she meant. Wickham! And the way she spoke of him! Not with contempt, but with liking. I feared she meant to go on, but something in my manner must have kept her silent.
I knew I should ignore the matter. I did not have to explain myself to her. And yet I found myself saying: ‘Mr Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends. Whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.’
‘He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.’
What has he said to her? What has he told her? I longed to tell her the truth of the matter, but I could not do so for fear of hurting Georgiana.
Once more a silence fell. We were rescued from it by Sir William Lucas who let slip a remark that drove Wickham out of my mind. For that, at least, I must thank him. He complimented us on our dancing, and then, glancing at Miss Bennet and Bingley, he said he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing it often repeated when a certain desirable event took place.
I was startled. But there could be no mistaking his meaning. He thought it possible, nay certain, that Miss Bennet and Bingley would wed. I watched them dancing, but I could see nothing in the demeanour of either to lead to this conclusion. Yet if it was being talked of then I knew the matter was serious. I could not let Bingley jeopardize a woman’s reputation, no matter how agreeable his flirtation. Recovering myself, I asked Elizabeth what we had been talking about.
She replied, ‘Nothing at all.’
I began to talk to her of books. She would not admit that we might share the same tastes, so I declared that then, at least, we would have something to talk about. She claimed she could not talk of books in a ballroom, but I thought that was not what was troubling her. The trouble was that her mind was elsewhere.
Suddenly she said to me, ‘I remember hearing you once say, Mr Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose as to its being created?’
Was she thinking of Wickham? Had he told her of the coldness between us? She seemed genuinely anxious to hear my answer, and I reassured her.
‘I am,’ I said firmly.
More questions followed, until I asked where these questions tended.
‘Merely to the illustration of your character,’ said she, trying to shake off her gravity. ‘I am trying to make it out.’
Then she was not thinking of Wickham. I was grateful.
‘And what is your success?’ I could not help asking.
She shook her head. ‘I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.’
‘I can readily believe it,’ I said, thinking with a sinking feeling of Wickham. I added on impulse, ‘I could wish that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.’
‘But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.’
I had begged for clemency. I would not beg again. I replied coldly, stiffly: ‘I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.’
We finished the dance as we had begun it, in silence. But I could not be angry with her for long. She had been told something by George Wickham, that much was clear, and as he was incapable of telling the truth, she had no doubt been subjected to a host of lies. As we left the floor, I had forgiven Elizabeth, and turned my anger towards Wickham instead.
What had he told her? I wondered. And how far had it damaged me in her esteem?
I was saved from these unsettling reflections by the sight of a heavy young man bowing in front of me and begging me to forgive him for introducing himself. I was about to turn away when I remembered having seen him with Elizabeth, and I found myself curious as to what he might have to say.
‘It is not amongst the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity to introduce themselves, I am well aware, but I flatter myself that the rules governing the clergy are quite different, indeed I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom, and so I have come to introduce myself to you, an introduction which, I am persuaded, will not be deemed impertinent when you learn that my noble benefactor, the lady who has graciously bestowed on me a munificent living, is none other than your estimable aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. It was she who preferred me to the valuable rectory of Hunsford, where it is my duty, nay my pleasure, to perform the ceremonies that must, by their very nature, devolve upon the incumbent,’ he assured me with an obsequious smile.
I looked at him in astonishment, wondering if he could be quite sane. It seemed that he did indeed believe a clergyman to be the equal of the King of England, though not of my aunt, for his speech was littered with effusions of gratitude and praise of her nobility and condescension. I found him an oddity; but my aunt, however, had evidently found him worthy of the li
ving, and as she knew him far better than I did I could only suppose he had virtues I knew nothing of.
‘I am certain my aunt could never bestow a favour unworthily,’ I said politely, but with enough coldness to prevent him saying anything further. He was not deterred, however, and began a second speech which was even lengthier and more involved than the first. As he opened his mouth to draw breath, I made him a bow and walked away. Absurdity has its place, but I was not in the mood to be diverted by it, so soon after quitting Elizabeth.
‘I see you have met the estimable Mr Collins,’ said Caroline to me as we went into supper. ‘He is another of the Bennet relatives. Really, they seem to have the most extraordinary collection. I think this one surpasses even the uncle in Cheapside. What do you think, Mr Darcy?’
‘We may all have relatives we are not proud of,’ I said.
It gave Caroline pause. She likes to forget that her father made his fortune in trade.
‘Very true,’ she answered. I thought she had acquired some sense, but a moment later she said, ‘I have just been speaking to Eliza Bennet. She seems to have developed the most extraordinary liking for George Wickham. I do not know if you realized, but he is to attach himself to the militia here. It is of all things the most vexing, that you should be plagued with a man like George Wickham. My brother did not wish to invite him, I know, but he felt he could not make an exception of him when inviting the other officers.’
‘It would have looked particular,’ I conceded.
Bingley could not be blamed for the situation.
‘I know that Charles was very pleased when Wickham took himself out of the way. Charles would not wish to disconcert you in any way. Knowing Wickham was not a man to be trusted, I warned Eliza Bennet against him, telling her that I knew he had behaved infamously to you, though I did not have all the particulars …’
She paused, but if she was expecting me to enlighten her, she was to be disappointed. My dealings with Wickham will never be made public, nor told to anyone who does not already know of them.
‘… but she ignored my warning and leapt to his defence in the wildest way.’
I was about to put an end to her conversation, as it was causing me no small degree of pain, when another voice penetrated the chatter. I recognized the strident tones at once. They were those of Mrs Bennet. I had no wish to listen to her conversation, but it was impossible not to hear what she was saying.
‘Ah! She is so beautiful I knew she could not be so beautiful for nothing. My lovely Jane. And Mr Bingley! What a handsome man. What an air of fashion. And such pleasing manners. And then, of course, there is Netherfield. It is just the right distance from us, for she will not like to be too close, not with her own establishment to see to, and yet it will take no time at all for her to come and visit us in the carriage. I dare say she will have a very fine carriage. Probably two fine carriages. Or perhaps three. The cost of a carriage is nothing to a man with five thousand pounds a year.’
I found myself growing rigid as I listened to her running on.
‘And then his sisters are so fond of her.’
I was glad that Caroline’s attention had been claimed by a young man to her left, and that she did not hear. Her fondness for Jane would evaporate in a moment if she knew where Mrs Bennet’s thoughts were tending. But it was not just Mrs Bennet’s thoughts. Sir William’s thoughts had been running in the same direction.
I looked along the table, and saw Bingley talking to Miss Bennet. His manner was as open as ever, but I thought I detected something of more than usual regard. In fact, the longer I watched him, the more I became sure that his feelings were engaged. I watched Miss Bennet, and although I could tell that she was pleased to talk to him, she gave no signs that her feelings were in any way attached. I breathed more easily. If I could but remove Bingley from the neighbourhood, I felt sure that he would soon forget her, and she would forget him.
If it had only been a matter of Miss Bennet, I might not have been so concerned at the thought of Bingley marrying her, but it was not only a matter of Miss Bennet, it was a matter of her mother, who was an unbridled gossip, and her indolent father, and her three younger sisters who were either fools or common flirts, and her uncle in Cheapside, and her uncle the attorney, and on top of all this, her strange connection, the obsequious clergyman….
As I listened to Mrs Bennet, I felt the time was fast approaching when I must take a hand. I could not abandon my friend to such a fate, when a little effort on my part would extricate him from his predicament.
I was sure that with a few weeks in London, he would soon find a new flirt.
‘I only hope you may be so fortunate, Lady Lucas,’ Mrs Bennet continued, though evidently believing there was no chance of her neighbour sharing her fortune. ‘To have a daughter so well settled – what a wonderful thing!’
Supper was over. It was followed by a display from Mary Bennet, whose singing was as bad as her playing. To make matters worse, when her father finally removed her from the pianoforte, he did so in such a way as to make any decent person blush.
‘That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.’
Was there ever a more ill-judged speech?
The evening could not be over too soon, but by some coincidence or contrivance, I know not which, the Bennet carriage was the last to arrive.
‘Lord, how tired I am!’ exclaimed Lydia Bennet, giving a violent yawn that set Caroline and Louisa exchanging satirical glances.
Mrs Bennet would not be quiet, and talked incessantly. Mr Bennet made no effort to check her, and it was one of the most uncomfortable quarter-hours of my life. To save Bingley from such company became uppermost in my mind.
‘You will come to a family dinner with us, I hope, Mr Bingley?’ said Mrs Bennet.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ he said. ‘I have some business to attend to in London, but I will wait upon you as soon as I return.’
The knowledge delighted me. It means I will not have to think of a way of removing him from the neighbourhood, for if he happens to remain in London, then the contact with Miss Bennet will be broken and he will not think of her any more.
I intend to speak to Caroline, to make sure that Jane’s affections are not engaged, and if I find, as I suspect, that they are not, then I shall suggest that we remove to London with Bingley and persuade him to remain there. A winter in town will cure him of his affections, and leave him free to bestow them on a more deserving object.
Wednesday 27th November
Bingley left for London today.
‘Caroline, I wish to speak to you,’ I said, when he had departed.
Caroline looked up from her book and smiled.
‘I am at your disposal.’
‘It is about Miss Bennet that I wish to speak.’
Her smile dropped, and I felt I was right in thinking that her affection for her friend was on the wane.
‘There were several allusions made at the ball, suggesting that some of Bingley’s new neighbours were expecting a marriage to take place between him and Miss Bennet.’
‘What!’ cried Caroline.
‘I thought it would distress you. I can see nothing in Miss Bennet’s manner that makes me think she is in love, but I want your advice. You know her better than I do. You have been in her confidence. Does she entertain tender feelings for your brother? Because, if so, those feelings must not be trifled with.’
‘She has none at all,’ said Caroline, setting my mind at rest.
‘You are sure of this?’
‘I am indeed. She has talked of my brother a number of times, but only in the terms she uses for every other young man of her acquaintance. Why, I am sure she has never thought of Charles in that light. She knows he does not mean to settle at Netherfield, and she is simply amusing herself whilst he is here.’
‘It is as I thought. But Bingley’s feelings are in a fair way to being engaged.’ r />
‘I have had the same fear. If he should be foolish enough to ally himself with that family, he will regret it for ever.’
‘He will. I think we must separate them, before their behaviour gives rise to even more expectations. If it does, there will come a time when those expectations must be fulfilled, or the lady’s reputation will suffer irreparable harm.’
‘You are quite right. We must not damage dear Jane’s reputation. She is such a sweet girl. Louisa and I quite dote on her. She must not be harmed.’
Mr Hurst interrupted us at that moment.
‘Coming to dine with the officers?’ he asked. ‘They invited me to go along. Sure you’d be welcome.’
‘No,’ I said. I wanted to finish my conversation with Caroline.
Hurst managed an idle shrug and called for the carriage.
‘I propose we follow Bingley to London. If we stay with him there, he will have no reason to return,’ I said.
‘An excellent plan. I will write to Jane tomorrow. I will say nothing out of the ordinary, but I will let her know that Charles will not be returning this winter, and I will wish her enjoyment of her many beaux this Christmas.’
Thursday 28th November
Caroline’s letter was written and sent this morning, shortly before we departed for London.
‘Heard the damnedest thing in Meryton last night,’ said Mr Hurst as the coach rattled along on its way to London.
I did not pay much attention, but on his continuing I found myself attending to him.
‘The Bennet girl – what was her name?’
‘Jane,’ supplied Louisa.
‘No, not her, the other one. The one with the petticoat.’
‘Ah, you mean Elizabeth’
‘That’s the one. Had an offer from the clergyman.’
‘An offer? From the clergyman? What do you mean?’ asked Caroline and Louisa together.
‘An offer of marriage. Collins. That was his name.’
‘Mr Collins! How delicious!’ said Louisa.
‘It seems that Mr Collins is another admirer of fine eyes,’ said Caroline, looking at me satirically. ‘I think they will deal well together. One is all impertinence, and the other is all imbecility.’