CHAPTER 30
A Room Persuaded
By seven o’clock on Thursday evening, Portman Square had acquired that composed, illuminated look by which a house announces that it is no longer merely inhabited, but prepared.
Elizabeth stood for a moment in the dining room and judged the whole with a hostess’s eye.
The room had submitted.
That, she thought, was the only word for it.
It had resisted at first with all the power of old paper, old habits, old chairs, and old disapproval; but it had, at last, been persuaded into hospitality.
The candles were neither too many nor too few.
The table had been set with a correctness which did not stiffen into display.
The silver, where silver was required, shone without clamouring to be admired.
The flowers were low enough for conversation, and the chairs had been placed with such care that no one elderly would be cramped, no gentleman of appetite would be deprived of reach, and no young lady would be obliged to look at anyone she particularly disliked for longer than civility required.
The claret silk had seemed bold in Madame Elsworthy’s rooms. In her own dining room, among glass and candlelight, it became less an indulgence than a declaration that she meant to be present at her own table.
Elizabeth had not been nervous while dressing.
She had not been nervous while Evans settled the gown, nor while Mrs. Albright made her final report, nor even while Mrs. Doddridge stood in solemn conference over Lord Pomington’s evening attire.
Any one guest might have been managed. Mrs. Hall could be managed.
Mrs. Belwick could be managed. Miss Hall could be endured, which was better than management and less fatiguing.
Jane could be loved. Mr. Bingley could be allowed to be happy until the room improved by it.
Miss Bingley could be fenced with. The Gardiners could be received.
Mr. Hartwood could be fed. Mr. Beaker could be respected. Mr. Darcy could—
Well.
Mr. Darcy could be admitted.
The difficulty lay not in any one of them. It lay in bringing them together and expecting them all to sit down in the same room as if her life had always been one thing.
It had not.
Her life had been Longbourn and Portman Square, Mrs. Marwood and Mrs. Bennet, ledgers and sisters, old ladies and tenants, sensible tradesmen and impossible dogs, affection and independence, duty and escape. Now she had set places for all its contradictions and trusted the soup to help.
The dinner had been arranged less for display than for comfort.
There must be something light enough for Mrs. Hall, something handsome enough that Miss Bingley could not pity it, something substantial enough for Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Bingley, and something plain enough that Mr. Beaker might approve it without being asked to confess pleasure.
Jane must be made welcome without being overwhelmed.
Mr. Gardiner must not be starved by elegance.
Mrs. Gardiner must not be oppressed by abundance.
The table must be good enough to honour the company and sensible enough not to make honour ridiculous.
Mrs. Albright, who had presided over the arrangements with an authority which made Elizabeth feel quite unnecessary and therefore deeply grateful, entered once more to make an adjustment to a spoon which could not possibly have offended any human eye.
“It will do, Mrs. Albright,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Albright, in the tone of one who agreed only because she had already made it so.
“And the second course?”
“Ready to follow in proper time, miss.”
“Not in its own time?”
“No, miss. In proper time.”
“Excellent. I should dislike to be governed by poultry.”
Mrs. Albright’s mouth did not move. This was how Elizabeth knew she had nearly smiled.
Mrs. Doddridge appeared then, carrying Lord Pomington with all the care due to a small object of national importance.
Pom-Pom had been dressed in green velvet, trimmed just enough to suggest consequence without giving him the appearance of a sofa cushion.
A small clasp at the throat caught the candlelight.
He endured the whole with the air of one whose birth had accustomed him to jewels and whose patience with humanity remained conditional.
“He looks magnificent,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Doddridge considered him. “He looks warm.”
“A higher achievement, perhaps.”
“Certainly a more useful one.”
Pom-Pom was set upon his chair in the corner of the dining room where he might be admired without being kicked, addressed without being handled, and fed without confusing the footmen.
A small table had been placed near him, and if its dignity was not equal to the rest of the room, it was not for want of intention.
“If anyone laughs at you,” said Elizabeth, “it will only prove them unequal to society.”
Pom-Pom blinked.
Mrs. Doddridge adjusted one fold of the velvet. “He will not require broth before the fish.”
“No?”
“After would be more dignified.”
“Then after it shall be. We must all do what dignity requires, though I own it often chooses inconvenient moments.”
The first carriage sounded in the square.
Elizabeth turned once more toward the table. It held. The room held. She would therefore hold also.
The first arrivals belonged properly to the old Marwood world.
Mrs. Hall came with composed civility and the air of a woman who had never entered a room without intending to approve or disapprove it in due order.
Mrs. Belwick followed, bright-eyed, eager for entertainment and determined to find it if anyone supplied the least excuse.
Miss Hall came last of the three, dry, upright, and observant; her eye took in the candles, the table, the claret gown, the dog, and Elizabeth herself with an accuracy no ornament could delay.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Hall, after the first greetings, “you have done very well.”
From Mrs. Hall, this was lavish.
Mrs. Belwick declared the room handsome, comfortable, and quite equal to anything necessary, which was even more lavish and less alarming.
Miss Hall looked about a moment longer.
“It is no longer merely respectable,” she said. “That is an improvement.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I shall write that down and have it framed.”
“Pray do not. It would become less true if displayed.”
“Then I shall preserve it by vanity in private.”
Miss Hall’s eyes warmed by the smallest degree. “That is always the safer method.”
Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker arrived soon after, together, as if long association had made even their entrances a legal habit.
Mr. Hartwood brought with him the excellent air of a man who believed dinner one of civilization’s sounder institutions and had come prepared to support it.
Mr. Beaker, tall, spare, and grave, seemed to regard pleasure as a matter which ought not be encouraged too openly, though he looked about the room with quiet satisfaction.
“Wholly fit for rational beings,” said Mr. Hartwood.
“That,” said Elizabeth, “is precisely the level of ambition to which I aspired.”
Mr. Beaker inclined his head. “The room has survived alteration better than many houses survive inheritance.”
Elizabeth accepted this as praise, because from Mr. Beaker there was very little else it could be.
Jane came next, with Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley.
With Jane came warmth; with Mr. Bingley, motion; with Miss Bingley, polish and the delicate suggestion that every room entered upon a period of examination the instant she crossed its threshold.
Jane kissed Elizabeth’s cheek with sisterly affection.
“My dear Lizzy,” she said, looking at her with pleasure, “how very handsome you look.”
“Take care, Jane. You will make me vain before the soup.”
“I hope the soup will survive it,” said Mr. Bingley, who had followed with a bow so cheerful that Elizabeth was convinced he had already approved the hall, the stairs, the footman, and most of London.
Miss Bingley’s eyes rested first on Elizabeth’s gown, then on the room.
“Claret was the correct choice after all,” she said.
“I shall inform Madame Elsworthy that civilization survives,” said Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley smiled just enough. “Madame Elsworthy never doubted civilization. Only other people’s obedience to it.”
“Then she and Mrs. Albright have much in common.”
Mr. Bingley, who had been admiring the room with all the candour of a man who finds comfort a personal compliment, said, “Miss Elizabeth, this is excellent. Truly excellent. Jane, did I not say the house would be delightful?”
“You said so before seeing the dining room,” said Jane.
“Yes, but I was confident.”
“You are often confident,” said Miss Bingley, “where evidence would be more fashionable.”
“Then how fortunate that evidence has come in on my side.”
Elizabeth liked him more for that. It was very difficult not to like Mr. Bingley when he was pleased with everyone and anxious that everyone should be pleased in return.
Miss Bingley, meanwhile, looked about with more care than admiration.
Her eye moved from the claret silk to the candles, from the candles to the servants, from the servants to the company already assembled with such unembarrassed variety.
Her expression did not soften; Miss Bingley did not approve by softening.
But something in her attention sharpened into reluctant respect.
Elizabeth understood it with a small inward amusement. Miss Bingley might dismiss a country girl, a lively sister, even a woman with money if the money was worn badly. She could not quite dismiss independence when it had been set out in glass, linen, firelight, and obedience.
The Gardiners arrived last but one.