Chapter 30 #2
“Do not make the occasion unbearable.”
“I would separate his pride, his mistakes, and his character, then examine each.”
“You make that sound simple.”
“It is simple to state. I did not say it was easy to do.”
Elizabeth looked at the drawing room, where Lydia’s voice rose over Mrs. Bennet’s account of Lady Catherine’s cane. “His pride remains.”
“Yes.”
“He has made serious mistakes.”
“Yes.”
“And you think his character is better than either?”
Mary picked up the tray. “I think you believe it may be.”
Elizabeth stopped her before she could leave. “You have watched him less than I have.”
“Because I watched you more.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is all the answer I have. Mr. Darcy’s conduct matters, but your treatment of it tells me what has changed. A month ago, you would have found vanity in his defense of Kitty and pride in his refusal to appease Lady Catherine. Today you objected to neither.”
“I had no cause.”
“You would have looked until you found one.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it. Mary had no reputation for wit, which made the remark more effective. “You take pleasure in this.”
“No. I know what it is to have judgment fixed before one has finished speaking.”
The words stopped Elizabeth. Mary’s solemnity, her music, and her desire to instruct had made her an easy object of family amusement. Elizabeth had joined that amusement with affection and seldom malice, but affection did not prevent carelessness.
“I am sorry,” she said.
Mary looked down at the cups. “For Mr. Darcy?”
“For you.”
A flush rose in Mary’s face. “That was not my purpose.”
“No, which may be why it deserves saying.”
Mary adjusted her hold on the tray. “Then I accept it.”
She carried the cups toward the kitchen before Elizabeth could answer. The restraint annoyed Elizabeth more than a lecture would have because Mary had given her nothing to argue against.
She went to the library and found Bennet in his chair, a book open but his attention on the window. He looked over the page.
“Have you come to improve my understanding of the afternoon?”
“Mary has done enough improving for one household.”
“A sentence I never expected to hear.”
Elizabeth took the chair opposite him. “Did you believe Mr. Darcy?”
Bennet closed the book around one finger. “Which part?”
“His defense of us.”
“A man does not quarrel with a woman like Lady Catherine for amusement. At least, no sensible man does.”
“That was not my question.”
“No. It was a request that I tell you whether his words came from conviction.” Bennet studied her. “They did.”
“You sound certain.”
“I watched him choose the harder answer when an easier one was available. He might have soothed his aunt by admitting that our family embarrasses him, defended you while sacrificing the rest of us, or dismissed Kitty as foolish and preserved half his dignity. Instead, he stood beside the whole untidy collection.”
Elizabeth folded her hands. “That does not erase what he thought before.”
“No. Did he ask you to erase it?”
“He apologized in every fashion except using the word.”
“Some men find conduct easier than speech.”
“Mr. Darcy does not appear to find speech difficult when correcting others.”
Bennet smiled. “Then perhaps his correction of himself deserves notice.”
The answer echoed Jane and Mary, though each had reached it by another path.
Elizabeth rose and crossed to the window.
The drive lay empty beneath the last light.
Lady Catherine’s wheels had cut dark tracks in the damp ground, while the marks from Bingley’s carriage crossed them on the way to Netherfield.
“I believed Mr. Wickham because his story explained Mr. Darcy,” she said.
“And now?”
“Now Mr. Darcy explains himself with less convenience.”
“That may be to his credit.”
“It is not to my comfort.”
“Comfort is a poor test of truth.”
She turned. “You are as severe as Jane.”
“Your sister has surpassed me. I shall have to recover my position.”
Elizabeth smiled despite herself, then grew serious. “I still do not know what passed between him and Wickham.”
“No.”
“And he may still refuse to tell me.”
“He may have reasons that do not flatter him, or reasons that do. You are not required to decide before the evidence arrives.”
“That sounds like something you have said before.”
“Age repeats itself because youth seldom listens the first time.”
Elizabeth went upstairs before supper and considered the assembly without the satisfaction the memory had once supplied. Darcy’s insult remained ugly, but she could no longer deny how much wounded vanity had shaped the contempt she built from it.
A knock sounded, and Mary entered with a candle. “Supper is ready.”
Elizabeth turned from the mirror. “Mary.”
Her sister paused.
“You were right.”
Mary’s satisfaction showed for one instant before discipline overcame it. “About which point?”
“Do not ruin it.”
Mary took the rebuke with grace. “I shall try.”
They went downstairs together. In the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet was at the part of the story in which Lady Catherine’s carriage became larger than the house, Kitty’s remark became an act of family courage, and Darcy’s defense proved an attachment she had suspected from the first moment he entered Hertfordshire.
Elizabeth stopped in the doorway.
Mary followed her gaze. “Distinguishing among facts may take some time.”
“In this family, it may prove impossible.”
They entered before Mrs. Bennet could summon them, and Elizabeth took her place at the table no more certain of Darcy’s intentions than she had been that morning. She knew only that her first judgment had failed, and she would not replace it with another chosen for comfort.