Chapter 2 #2
Miss Bingley smiled indulgently. “She is very amiable.”
“And very pretty,” Bingley added.
Mrs Hurst exchanged a look with her sister. “Pretty, yes,” she said. “Though beauty alone is not everything.”
“Certainly not,” Miss Bingley agreed. “Connections, for instance, are of significant importance.”
Darcy shifted in his chair. “I see no reason to discuss Miss Bennet’s connections as though they were a defect in her character.
” He was conscious almost at once that his defence had been offered with more warmth than he intended.
He had not spoken to provoke, nor even to persuade, but merely to correct an injustice.
That the correction should have come so readily was unsettling.
He had once been far more willing to consider such distinctions unimportant.
He found himself recalling Elizabeth Bennet as she had appeared at the ball, neither anxious to shine nor indifferent to the company, but observant, composed, and quietly alert.
She had borne her family’s failings with a mixture of humour and patience that had surprised him at the time, and which surprised him still when he reflected upon it.
That others should judge her by circumstances over which she had no control now struck him as both careless and unfair.
Miss Bingley’s tone, which he had once accepted without reflection, irritated him more than he cared to acknowledge.
There was an eagerness in it he did not like, a desire to diminish others in order to elevate herself.
It sat poorly with the air of elegant civility she sought to cultivate.
Darcy had long valued good sense and discretion.
He was forced to admit that Elizabeth Bennet possessed both, even where her situation did not recommend her.
With considerable discomfort, Darcy became aware that his opinions were shifting not by argument, but by observation.
He had not reasoned himself into the change.
It had occurred gradually, through a series of small impressions he had neither sought nor resisted.
That such impressions should now influence his conduct unsettled him more than any open disagreement might have done.
Miss Bingley did not seem to appreciate his defence of the Bennets. Her smile sharpened, making Darcy wonder if he had betrayed too much. “I meant only that one must consider suitability in all its aspects. Unsuitable acquaintances can become most uncomfortable.”
Bingley frowned slightly. “I believe I am quite capable of judging my own comfort.”
Miss Bingley said nothing further, though her displeasure was evident. She soon turned the conversation toward plans for Christmas, speaking with enthusiasm of London, its assemblies, and the advantages of spending the season among friends of equal standing.
“I cannot imagine remaining in the country through the winter,” she said. “It is insupportably dull.”
Mrs Hurst concurred, while Mr Hurst, who typically showed little interest in any subject beyond his plate, muttered agreement without lifting his eyes.
Supper concluded at last, and the ladies withdrew. Darcy remained with Bingley and Mr Hurst, though his attention wandered as soon as the door closed behind them. The image of Elizabeth Bennet returned, unbidden and unwelcome.
As neither Darcy nor Bingley wished for a long conference with Mr Hurst, they did not wait long before following the ladies.
To Darcy’s surprise, Miss Bingley did not propose a game of cards, nor yet slyly hint that she might play the pianoforte, if he wished.
Instead, she urged her sister to the instrument.
Darcy watched the manoeuvre with considerable curiosity.
It was not like Miss Bingley to miss an opportunity of displaying her accomplishments to him.
She likely had some plan in mind which would be better suited by having Mrs Hurst play.
It was not a quarter of an hour before he was proved correct. Miss Bingley then approached with an air of great significance. “May I speak with you?” she asked.
Darcy inclined his head and followed her to a quieter part of the room. Part of his mind was busy admiring the stratagem. Under the cover of the pianoforte music, they could indeed talk in confidence, even with all the others present.
“I will be direct,” Miss Bingley began abruptly. “Charles is far too much attached to Hertfordshire for his own good. It is time we persuaded him to leave.”
He frowned, not much liking such presumption. It was wrong of Miss Bingley to speak so familiarly to him, and more wrong still to act as though they had a right to decide what Bingley ought to do. “On what grounds?” Darcy said at last.
“On every ground,” she replied. “The society here is not suitable. The influence exerted upon him is not advantageous. He will not see it himself, and therefore must be guided.”
Darcy considered her carefully. “You mean Miss Jane Bennet.”
Miss Bingley did not deny it. “She is very well in her way, but quite unconnected,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “If Charles remains here, he will only entangle himself further.”
Darcy felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on him. He had once thought much the same; he had even urged Bingley not to stay too long. But to do so again, now that his own judgement had been shaken, was a choice Darcy could not relish.
“I will speak to him,” he said at last, though without conviction.
Miss Bingley brightened immediately. “I knew I could depend on you. Oh, how I shall look forward to London society again! And to seeing dear Georgiana, of course. Have you heard from your sister of late?”
“She writes with great dedication,” Darcy praised.
A spirit of mischief made him briefly consider recounting Georgiana’s latest effusions about the brilliance of Bach in great, numbing detail, but he reconsidered.
It was too likely that Miss Bingley would take any prolonged conversation as a reason to hope.
Out of both compassion and his own interest, Darcy was very unwilling to promote such a conclusion.
He therefore took the first opportunity of a break in Mrs Hurst’s playing to urge Miss Bingley to the pianoforte.
To judge by how quickly she accepted, Miss Bingley must have taken this as an opportunity to display her talents to him, rather than the wish to escape her conversation that it really was.
As the music began again, Darcy withdrew to the window, grateful for the solitude. He welcomed the excuse to be silent, though silence did little to still his thoughts.
Elizabeth Bennet was in danger.
Once formed, the conclusion could not be dismissed. He knew Wickham too well to doubt it. He had seen the consequences of his charm, the ruin concealed beneath his manners. To remain silent, knowing what he did, was an abdication of responsibility.
And yet, to speak was unthinkable.
How could he warn her without an impossible degree of confidence and intimacy? How could he speak of Wickham’s designs without speaking of Georgiana? The thought of exposing his sister’s near ruin, even in the service of another’s safety, was intolerable.
Elizabeth Bennet did not trust him. Of that much, he was certain.
She believed him proud, unjust, and capable of cruelty.
In her mind, Wickham was the injured party, and Darcy his oppressor.
Any warning he offered would be received with suspicion, if not outright disbelief.
He could not bear the thought of her doubting his motives further.
Nor, if he were honest, could he bear the thought of revealing how much she had come to matter to him.
His feelings, already a source of private unease, might be laid bare by any attempt to intervene.
To bring her entirely into his confidence would require a frankness he did not yet possess, and courage of a different kind.
Surely discretion was required.
They would leave Netherfield soon. Bingley would thus be removed from temptation, and Darcy would return to London and resume the life he understood.
Elizabeth Bennet would fade from his thoughts, surely, once her bright eyes and charming humour were no longer immediately before him.
As for the risk to her, he could not like it.
But he must trust to Miss Elizabeth’s quick wit, good sense, and moral character.
If she were truly the woman he thought her, she would be safe from the worst of Wickham’s scheming. Therefore, he would say nothing.
As the music ended and conversation resumed, Darcy remained apart, refusing to let his composure break. It was done. It was decided. He would speak to no one about what he knew. He would not risk his sister’s peace, nor his own composure, for a warning that might be rejected.
It was a resolution made with effort and held with difficulty, but it was the right one. Darcy was almost certain of it.