Chapter 12 #2
And she had not written in selfishness. More than anything else, that fixed his attention.
There was not a word in the letter that pleaded for herself.
No complaint. No appeal to personal uneasiness.
No attempt to move him by describing her fears or her family’s mortification.
She spoke only of danger where it was “most readily welcomed,” of authority, of effect, of what was or was not useful.
She had written like a woman thinking first of others and only afterward of her own situation.
He read the letter again and was struck anew by the phrase: my own conviction, and that of those whose judgement I most value…
The sentence admitted much in very little space.
She had not been acting alone. Jane Bennet, then, almost certainly knew something of the matter, though not all.
Perhaps Mary Bennet as well; he recalled enough of that young lady’s grave, observant manner to suppose her capable of becoming a valuable ally.
Elizabeth had not surrendered herself to solitary anxiety.
She had consulted, examined, and concluded.
The decision to write was therefore not the impulse of a frightened moment, but the end of deliberation.
Darcy folded the letter once, precisely, then unfolded it again.
He was honoured by her trust. The admission came uninvited, and having once presented itself, could not be denied.
She had every reason, not many weeks before, to think poorly of him.
He had offended her by his pride, allowed her to misinterpret his reserve as contempt, and suffered Wickham to poison her opinion of him with shocking success.
That she now wrote as she did, carefully and gravely, yet with evident confidence that he would understand and weigh her request fairly, was no small thing.
It was, in its own restrained way, an act of esteem.
The thought was not unwelcome. It stirred in him an emotion too complex to be called only gratitude.
Respect was in it. Relief was in it. There was also, he could not deny, a warmth which had less to do with Wickham than with the hand that had written the page and the mind that had directed every line of it.
He checked himself almost immediately. This was not the time to indulge feeling. The subject was serious. Her confidence deserved something better than self-congratulation.
He returned to the breakfast table and set the letter beside his plate just as the door opened and Georgiana entered with Mrs Annesley.
Georgiana’s expression brightened at the sight of him. “Brother, I hope I am not very late.”
“Not at all.”
Her companion greeted him with her usual civility and composure and took her place beside Georgiana.
Some light conversation followed. Georgiana had been practising the pianoforte before breakfast and feared she had done little justice to a passage she meant to improve, while Mrs Annesley spoke of a call expected later in the day.
Darcy answered as was proper, but with very distracted attention.
Georgiana, whose diffidence by no means excluded observation where those she loved were concerned, glanced at him more than once.
“You have received something of consequence,” she said at last, looking at his correspondence with cautious curiosity. “I hope it is nothing disagreeable.”
Darcy looked down at the letters before him, then at the one which lay nearest his hand. “No, nothing disagreeable,” he said. “Only unexpected.”
Georgiana seemed satisfied with that and asked no more. He was grateful for it. Though there was nothing in the letter that she might not know in time, the mention of Wickham still had the power to wound her. Until he had decided how to act, he wished for no discussion, however gentle.
The remainder of breakfast passed without incident. Yet even while Georgiana spoke of a new piece of music sent by her master and Mrs Annesley recommended a shawl merchant of particular merit, Darcy’s thoughts remained divided between the women before him and the letter beside his hand.
What might be done by yourself could not be achieved by anyone else.
It was not intended as a compliment, only as a statement of the truth.
She asked him to do what only he could do.
Not because he was wealthier than others.
Not because his rank commanded blind obedience.
But because he knew Wickham as few men living did, and because his word, once given, could not lightly be dismissed.
There lay the true difficulty.
To speak to Wickham’s officers would be to attach his own name, fully and deliberately, to an account he had hitherto revealed only in confidence.
No honourable man did such a thing carelessly.
If he went forward, he must be prepared to state enough to make the warning effective.
He must endure questions, perhaps even disbelief, from men whose judgement he neither knew nor particularly esteemed.
He must also accept that Wickham, driven into a corner, might turn more vicious than before.
Darcy considered all this without shrinking from it, yet neither did he underestimate it.
There had always been a part of him, and not, he thought, the least reasonable part, which recoiled from giving Wickham one moment more consequence in his life than necessity demanded. To be obliged to pursue the man through yet another scene of explanation and disgrace was repugnant to him.
And yet, what was the alternative?
To do nothing was itself a choice.
To fold Elizabeth’s letter away, commend her prudence to himself, and wait in the hope that Wickham might somehow be contained by the ordinary workings of society would now be a decision made in full knowledge. Worse, it would be a decision made after she had asked for his help.
Darcy stood very still. That consideration ended the struggle more than all the rest put together.
Had the request come from a nervous parent, an officious neighbour, or some alarmed acquaintance eager to embroil him in village scandal, he might have refused without self-reproach.
Had it come from a mind less steady, he might have judged patience preferable to action.
But Elizabeth Bennet had not written from weakness.
She had written after trying what could be tried.
She had measured the danger, found her own influence insufficient, and turned to him because she believed he would not fail where duty was plain.
To disappoint that belief would be unworthy.
The conviction settled in him with the calm force of something which, once clearly seen, admitted no further debate. He would act. He could not do otherwise when Elizabeth Bennet had asked for his help.
There were inquiries to be made, names to be confirmed, and a letter or two to be written before he chose the most effective course of proceeding with Colonel Forster or whoever else held proper authority over Wickham’s conduct. He would not move blindly. But move he would.
Darcy stood up. “Excuse me, Georgiana, Mrs Annesley. I believe I must go to my study now.”
Georgiana looked at him with quiet interest. “You are going to be busy today?”
“Yes.”
“I hope,” she said after a slight pause, “that it is something which will not distress you too much.”
Darcy’s expression softened. “I hope it may have the opposite effect in the end.”
She smiled at that, though she could not understand it.
When he had closeted himself in his study and sent off the first notes to bring his agents to the house for their instructions, Darcy took the letter up once more.
For a moment he looked at the page not as evidence, nor as a call to action, but simply as something written by her.
The hand was firm. The language was careful.
Every line reflected the same union of sense and feeling that had distinguished her in his thoughts long before he wished it to do so.
He folded it and placed it inside his pocketbook. There was work to be done.
But as he left the breakfast room, one thought accompanied him with a steadiness as real as his purpose: whatever the outcome of the business itself, Elizabeth Bennet had trusted him, and he would prove himself deserving of it.