Chapter Thirteen
Dinner was late that afternoon as Miss Bennet was to come down after dinner for the first time since her illness began, and Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley wished to give her ample time to prepare herself. When Darcy and the other gentlemen left the dining-room and repaired to the drawing-room, they found her warmly wrapt, with her sister and the other ladies in attendance on her. On his entering the room, Miss Bingley made an immediate play for his attention, greeting him with all the warmth at her command; he glanced her way in acknowledgement, but addressed himself instead to Miss Bennet with a bow, wanting to show Elizabeth the depth of his respect for her by honouring her sister with his best manners: “Miss Bennet, it is a great pleasure to see you well again. My sincere congratulations on your recovery.” His eye glanced also upon Elizabeth to observe what her response might be to this bit of civility, but she had eyes only for her sister. He felt a tug inside at the tenderness and care that glowed in Elizabeth’s eyes as she attended the invalid. Hurst, with his usual sensibility, merely bowed in passing to Miss Bennet as he sought the sideboard and a bit of honey-cake. Bingley, however, could scarcely contain his joy.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” cried he, “thank the Lord you are better! You gave us all quite a turn, you know; we were so very worried! And here you are, recovered at last. But come, you must move over by the fire. I am afraid you are too close to the door; the draughts are not good for you.” Miss Bennet obligingly rose, and, with the help of her sister, and many cautions and words of concern from Bingley, sat in a chair on the other side of the room next to the hearth. Darcy followed them with his eyes.
Catching Miss Bingley’s eyes upon him, he turned from the group by the fire and fetched himself a measured amount of port wine. From behind him he heard Bingley observe to Miss Bennet: “Do you know, it has been nine days since I have seen you? Not since Sir William’s party. It seems such a frightfully long time!” Bingley had always had a curiously exact memory for dates, a trait Darcy had sometimes wondered at, for, in general, his friend’s memory was not such a paragon of reliability.
Taking his glass, he sat down unobtrusively in a corner. His mood was still upon him, and he asked nothing better than a deep chair in a quiet corner with his book. Hurst sat down at the card table and called out to Miss Bingley, “Well now, my dear sister, shall we have a go? Name your pleasure; I feel in luck this evening.” However, Miss Bingley, knowing that Darcy had no thought of playing at cards this evening, declined this invitation. “My dear Mr. Hurst, I fear you will find no one to test your luck this evening; and as you always manage to best me, no matter what your luck might be, I shall not be sorry for it.” Hurst then enquired of the company at large, and was met with a disappointingly uniform silence. His philosophy was sufficient to meet this exigence, however: he, with great fortitude in the face of misfortune, fetched a generous glass of wine and arrayed himself on a sofa in preparation for a communion with Morpheus.
Darcy, having been thus released from all companionable duties, took up his book for the evening: a learned work by Mr. Adam Smith on the source of a nation’s wealth, very much discussed among those concerned with such matters, as it presented novel thinking on how capital might be increased. Darcy had been introduced to the work at Oxford, but had not thought seriously on it until he had assumed the responsibilities of managing the family’s affairs on his father’s death; then it had taken on a more important claim on his attention. Darcy took his duties as landlord very seriously and constantly sought for ways to improve the condition of his tenants and his lands. He was attempting, once again, to reconcile Smith’s postulate that labour, not land, was the driving force of a nation’s economy, with his own circumstances. If Smith’s postulate was correct, how did one maximise return on a landed estate? Was the land raw material for the labour, and would the principle of division of labour function as Smith proposed? And how, then, was the labour to be properly divided? Darcy made a point to spend time on such questions every term, as he believed that Smith’s “invisible hand,” by which individuals were guided to increase society’s wealth and health through the pursuit of their own interests, should and must be felt more keenly and consciously by those possessed of wealth. His ancestors, he supposed, would have called this noblesse oblige, but in Darcy’s estimation the rational self-interest expounded by Smith seemed a sturdier reed than a disinterested wish to do good for others.
Miss Bingley, seeking to find interest in his studies, had picked up the second volume of the book, which had given Darcy a good deal of amusement at first; but when she began asking question after question he found his amusement waning. Some questions, however, had their own unintentional humour, as when she asked: “By ‘domestic industry,’ I assume he means needlework and the like—or does he refer to servants’ duties?” As was often the case during an evening with Miss Bingley, Darcy’s tongue was well-bitten before it was over.
Fortunately, her interest in the subject was exhausted early, and she contrived to abandon that activity with the observation: “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” Having thus gracefully excused herself from the activity, she discarded the book carelessly onto the sideboard while selecting a cake; Darcy winced at this abuse of a book, for he held a scholar’s reverence for the written word, but he bit still more deeply into his already scourged tongue and was silent. Indeed, recognising the signs that she was now moving on to another pastime, he sunk lower in his armchair in the hopes that her new diversion, whatever it might be, would not involve him.
He was left in peace, however, for at that moment Miss Bingley overheard something of her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet, and entered into it by saying, “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy,” said he with a good-natured gibe at his friend, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.” Bingley arched a challenging brow at Darcy, but he disdained to reply. Raising his book a little higher, he scowled at the page in a most convincing show of studiousness.
“I should like balls infinitely better,” Miss Bingley observed, “if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation, instead of dancing, were made the order of the day.” She looked towards Darcy with a secretive little nod, to show him how closely their thoughts coincided on the importance of matters of intellect over mere social forms. He turned a page, unimpressed by this parade of what he knew to be a very lately developed devotion to the pleasures of the mind.
After casting about some minutes for another means of engaging Darcy’s attention, Miss Bingley began to walk about the room, in hopes that he, like other men before him, might not be insensitive to her figure, and elegance in movement. To Darcy, though he might not be insensible to such charms, this inducement was stale through custom; and further, he had absolutely no intention of attending to Miss Bingley’s personal charms in the presence of Elizabeth. His eyes staid fixed on his book.
Miss Bingley completed one languid turn about the room, gracing various objects by allowing her fingers to drape and caress them as she passed by, but still she failed to arouse Darcy’s attention. Finally, she essayed one last, impulsive stratagem: “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”
Darcy was surprised at heari
ng this, and Elizabeth appeared no less so, but politely acceded to the request. This, at last, caught Darcy’s attention, and he watched the two of them while puzzling over this sudden rapprochement. Had Miss Bingley given over her jealousy and contention with Elizabeth? But as soon as she perceived that his attention had lifted from his studies, Miss Bingley immediately invited him to join them; this explained it: she merely wished to draw him out of his book, using Elizabeth to bait the snare. If he were to join them, she would instantly abandon her. On the point of declining, he was struck by a sudden, mischievous impulse: “I can imagine, Miss Bingley,” said he in answer to her invitation, “only two motives for your choosing to walk about the room in this manner, and with either of which my joining you would interfere.”
The two ladies stopped their amble to regard Darcy. “What could he mean, Miss Eliza?” demanded Miss Bingley. “I am dying to know his meaning! Can you understand him at all?”
“Not at all,” answered she; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”
Darcy had hoped Elizabeth would rise to the bait, but he was unconcerned by her answer, knowing that Miss Bingley surely would not be able to let it lie. He favoured them with an assured and mildly provoking smile. As he had known she would, Miss Bingley insisted on receiving an explanation of the two motives he ascribed to them. When her entreaties at length subsided, he replied, “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them. You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I should be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”
“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley, with a delighted smile. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
Darcy had noticed Elizabeth’s eyes widen in surprise at his words, and felt his ploy to be a success. But she soon found the upper hand: “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” she replied to Miss Bingley. “We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed and he brought his mind fully alert, for he sensed battle in the offing. To be the butt of humour was what Darcy always sought to avoid: as master of Pemberley, he felt it his duty to hold himself beyond the reach of such impertinence, and, as he was proud to be who he was, he felt such mockery to be a personal affront; he had no wish to expose himself to such in front of Elizabeth, and even less desire to receive it from her.
Miss Bingley was, of course, disinclined to take the field against him. “But upon my honour I do not,” said she. “I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no—I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”
“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” Elizabeth protested. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.”
Darcy, for the moment believing himself to be on safe ground, and interested, as always, in Elizabeth’s thoughts, made this cautious reply: “Miss Bingley has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”
“Certainly,” agreed Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”
Darcy smiled slightly at such a trap. Human frailties are universal, and only a man wonderfully ignorant of his own nature could claim otherwise. Did she think him so foolish as to fall for such an obvious trick? Springes to catch woodcocks! “Perhaps that is not possible for any one,” he disavowed gently. “But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”
“Such as vanity and pride,” suggested Elizabeth archly.
Though her air was light-hearted, Darcy gave her words serious consideration. Vanity? No, he was not vain. But he was proud, there was no denying it: proud of his accomplishments; proud of his natural abilities; and even, a little, proud of being Darcy of Pemberley—it had cost him no little effort to become that individual, after all. He was aware that he appeared to some to be too proud, but he did not feel himself to be guilty of an arrogant conceit; it was merely that he was, in his own mind, justifiably particular in choosing his intimates, and that he made a very clear distinction between his behaviour with his intimates and his behaviour among the rest of society. Further, his philosophy held that only the opinions of oneself held by those with whom one was intimate could be worthy of acknowledgement, as the rest of the world formed their opinions from ignorance; therefore, the uninformed opinions of the world at large held no more sway with him than his did with them—this was not arrogance, just human nature. That people in general thought him arrogant troubled him not at all, since he knew this was just a mistaken impression. And where an arrogant man sees no faults in himself, Darcy was perfectly aware that his nature harboured a reasonably complete catalogue of them. Understanding begins with oneself, after all. “Yes,” he replied at length, “vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”
At this Elizabeth turned away from him, but whether from vexation, or amusement, or even just to gain time to prepare her next attack, he could not tell.
“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over,” said Miss Bingley, “and pray what is the result?”
“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”
To this point Darcy had enjoyed their game, but he now felt he owed Elizabeth—no; he wished to give her—not mere wit, but something of greater depth. Watching her carefully for any sign of misunderstanding, he demurred: “No, I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”
“That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
Darcy was less interested in being safe from Elizabeth than in being understood by her. Her playful astonishment gave Darcy to know that she had not recognised that he had left their teazing game of wits behind, so he tried again: “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”
“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody,” she accused with mock severity.
Not at all, thought Darcy to himself; only a propensity to love very few. But now, let us have a little truth about you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. “And yours,” he retorted, although he smiled as he spoke, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”
Miss Bingley, who had been listening to their exchange with growing alarm—recognising the fact that Darcy had never addressed her with such candour—decided that a diversion was necessary, instantly. “Do let us have a little music!” she cried. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?” The pianoforte was opened hurriedly and a rather l
oud piece begun with spirit. Elizabeth curtseyed to Darcy with an enigmatic smile and returned to her seat.
Darcy watched her receding back regretfully. Elizabeth had not appreciated his honesty for what it was, and this disappointed him. He was certain it was simply a lack of recognition of his change of purpose, and not a deliberate snub; notwithstanding, he wished it had turned out better. He looked with resentment at Miss Bingley, for it was her intrusion into their discussion that had cut off his attempt to reach an improved understanding between Elizabeth and himself.
When his thoughts arrived at this point, however, he brought himself up short. What, exactly, did he mean by such an endeavour? He never spoke in this unguarded fashion with any one other than his sister. When, precisely, had Elizabeth—that is, Miss Elizabeth Bennet—reached such an elevated status?
The more he considered, the more he came to realise how seriously he had over-stepped himself with regard to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Upon reviewing his relations with her, it was evident that each time he spoke with her he became more sensible of the attraction of her wit and her person; unless he wished to give himself over to her powers altogether, it must end. Indeed, he must not do to Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet—the very thing he had reprimanded Bingley for doing to Miss Grantley, and since an alliance with the Bennet family was not faintly possible, he must cease his attentions to this member of it, no matter how charming he might find her. He sat for some time facing this realization, and its inescapable conclusion. Bingley’s plaintive, “But I liked her!” echoed in his mind, but he firmly pushed the thought away. In this instance his likes and dislikes did not enter into the matter. Clearly, his superior position made it incumbent upon him to protect Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet! —and to do so he must not allow her to feel that she might be able to influence his felicity. Regretfully, but with a strong conviction of rectitude, he returned to his book with a deep sense of purpose. If his eyes did wander from time to time in her direction, it could be for no other reason than to reassure himself of the correctness and necessity of his decision.
Into Hertfordshire Page 12