Chapter Fifteen
Novelty
That evening, when the dinner-gong sounded, Elizabeth was sensible of the novelty of her situation.
To descend a staircase not her own, to enter a dining-parlour at Mr. Darcy’s right hand, to see bustling Mrs. Hill replaced by the grave civility of Mrs. Reynolds, were changes so material that she wondered what claim she had to such distinction.
Every arrangement seemed designed to leave her at ease, if any stranger in such a house could be.
The party was small. Georgiana, placed across from Mary and Elizabeth, exerted herself with a timid earnestness that struck Elizabeth’s heart.
She faltered once, in asking the footman to serve the fish course, and coloured so deeply that Elizabeth was obliged to exclaim over the dinner to save her from retreating altogether into silence.
Mrs. Reynolds whispered something to Mr. Darcy about the second joint and the Cook. Elizabeth saw his brow contract, but after one moment's thought, he spoke a few quiet words to the and resumed his seat with an air more composed than before.
“It is nothing of consequence, I hope?” Elizabeth ventured, when the servants had withdrawn.
“My people are, I fear, too apt to over-exert themselves when there are guests in the house. I must teach them that such zeal is not required.”
There was in his tone such mingled kindness and decision that Elizabeth, who had seen more than one household thrown into confusion by less, admired the temper which, composed it.
At Longbourn, a scorched pudding or an absent joint had produced lamentations far louder than the mischief deserved.
The recollection brought a smile, and with it a blush, for Mr. Darcy’s own memory might supply a similar contrast.
Later, in the music-room, Georgiana begged Elizabeth, to favour them with an air she had sung at Longbourn.
Mary was easily persuaded to accompany her.
Mr. Darcy, standing a little apart, seemed to forget to be on his guard.
Elizabeth was sensible that she was performing for one whose approbation she had come to value more than she cared to acknowledge.
When she retired that night, she was both pleased and alarmed at finding how natural it had become to wish for his good opinion.
Very Particular Attention
After three days at Pemberley Mary began to suspect that silence, however prudent, might be carried to excess.
On a mild afternoon, too damp for a long walk yet too fair to confine themselves wholly within doors.
Mary and Georgiana sat together in the little sitting-room that looked towards the shrubbery.
Mrs. Annesley had settled near the window without intruding upon their conversation.
Books and work were at hand, but neither seemed disposed to be industrious.
Georgiana had been sorting a basket of silks. After tangling the third skein, she gave it up with a little laugh.
“I am afraid I am good-for-nothing to-day,” she said. “I cannot fix my thoughts upon anything that does not walk past the window.”
Mary shut her book upon her finger.
“I am not surprised,” she replied. “Novelty is always unsettling. To find one’s usual habits interrupted by guests—or by being a guest,” she added, with a faint smile, “will naturally discompose the most regulated mind.”
Georgiana coloured, and then, as if driven by some inward resolution, said, “It is not only the novelty of guests, but of these guests. I have been thinking—ever since we left Longbourn—of our conversation that evening in your father’s parlour.”
Mary looked at her more attentively.
“When we discussed,” she said, “whether two people might be perfectly suited and yet determined to quarrel?”
“Yes,” Georgiana answered, with a shamefaced little smile. “You said that such constancy in disputation must proceed from some deeper interest.”
“I did,” said Mary, folding her hands with composure.
“I have seen too many instances, in novels and in life, where persons who professed themselves mutually disgusted were afterwards discovered to have been only misled by pride or prejudice. A mind truly indifferent does not exert itself to argue.”
“And when we spoke of—of my brother and your sister,” Georgiana added, “you said—” She broke off, half laughing, half abashed. “I do not know if I ought to repeat it.”
“I said,” Mary returned, with more composure than she truly held, “that if two people were ever formed to correct one another’s defects and strengthen one another’s virtues, it might be so in their case.
I also observed that, at Longbourn, they never missed an opportunity of contradicting one another. ”
“Such particular attention could hardly proceed from indifference. I recall your saying so,” Georgiana added, the corners of her mouth trembling. “I have been thinking of it ever since. Only—when I am with them here, they do not contradict each other at all. They are all civility. It puzzles me.”
“It puzzles them likewise, I dare say,” Mary replied. “Violent opinions, once abandoned, leave a sort of vacancy. They have not yet settled what to put in the place of their quarrels.”
Georgiana laughed outright.
“How very odd—and very true—that sounds! But do you still think—now that you have seen them together here—that what you said at Longbourn might ever come to pass? That an acquaintance begun in such opposition could end in—a happier resolution?”
Mary looked towards the window, where the damp light lay soft upon the gravel.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that my sister is not insensible to good sense and good principles, wherever she may discover them. And I think your brother, though he has been used to too much deference, is capable of valuing a mind that does not flatter him. Whether these dispositions will lead to any particular result, I cannot pretend to say. It would be presumptuous to calculate upon it.”
Georgiana was silent for a moment, winding a length of silk between her fingers.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, in a low tone.
“I mean—if it could be without pain to either. When we were at Longbourn, I saw so much liveliness—so much kindness—in your sister. She made even my foolishness seem less terrifying. And my brother—” She paused, then added, with a sister’s gravity, “he has never been so much himself with any stranger as he is with her, even when they are disputing. Here, at Pemberley, he is—quieter. But I cannot always tell whether he is more at ease or more afraid.”
Mary’s eyes softened.
“Elizabeth has the art of making everyone more themselves than they choose to appear,” she said. “If Mr. Darcy is silent, it may be from caution, not coolness. He is not the sort of gentleman who would expose his heart without strong encouragement.”
“Do you think she would ever give it?” Georgiana ventured.
“I think,” Mary answered, “that she feels more than she allows. But she has a high notion of the fitness of things. She will not let her imagination run where she believes there is no right to follow. If any attachment is to grow, it must be founded on clear evidence. She will not mistake civility for affection.”
Georgiana sighed, half hopeful, half desponding.
“Then I must hope that he will not be too proud to show it, if he feels anything of the sort. I am sure he does—sometimes. When he looks at her—” She broke off again, colouring. “I ought not to watch them so narrowly.”
“A certain degree of observation is unavoidable in society,” Mary said, though a hint of colour had risen in her own cheek. “But we must be cautious of forming fixed conclusions upon imperfect information. We may acknowledge that the possibility exists, without presuming to decide the event.”
Georgiana smiled a little.
“That is very like you, Mary—always moderate, even in hope. I am afraid I am not so reasonable. I cannot help imagining—if such a thing were ever to happen—how happy we might all be. To have Elizabeth always here, to walk these paths with her, to know that my brother had chosen so wisely—” Her voice shook, and she checked herself.
“But you are right. It is foolish to dream.”
“I do not consider it foolish to acknowledge what would be desirable, if Providence should incline matters that way,” she said. “Only we must not, as my mother would say, set our hearts upon it. That is the way to be unjust both to them and to ourselves.”
Mrs. Annesley set down her work and looked up with gentle amusement.
“It is not foolish to dream, my dear,” she said quietly.
“Only to think that dreams require our management. When two people are inclined to each other, the wisest course is often to do nothing at all. You may be quite certain that a great deal has already passed between them, whether they will own it or not. Hearts do not always speak plainly at first.”
Georgiana turned to her, half relieved, half abashed.
“But ought we not—that is, if we could provide some opportunity—”
“You may provide the opportunity,” Mrs. Annesley replied, her eyes crinkling at the corners, “but the sentiment must be their own. If they are to come together, it will be because they have found each other in truth, not because you have arranged every meeting. Your part is only to ensure they are not parted by accident or misunderstanding.”
Mary inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“That is wisely said,” she observed.
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Annesley added, taking up her needle again, “the most effective assistance is to step back. It would not serve for them to feel that they are being watched or directed. Let them believe the choice is their own. That, my dear girls, is the truest kindness we can offer.”
Georgiana drew a long breath and smiled, more composed than before.
“We must not interfere,” she said with an air of horror at her own imagination. “That would be quite inexcusable. I shall try to be patient,” she said, “and trust to what I see, rather than what I wish.”