CHAPTER 6 #3
Lady Catherine inclined her head, and after a few moments withdrew, leaving Wickham once more alone, though not in the same uncertainty in which she had found him, for the ground he occupied had, in that short exchange, become more secure, and the progress he had made, though not yet complete, was sufficiently advanced to justify confidence without inviting complacency.
Wickham moved to the window, where the rain, now less insistent, traced faint and irregular lines upon the glass, and allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction at the progress he had achieved, for Lady Catherine’s confidence, once gained, was not easily withdrawn, and he perceived that he had already advanced beyond the point at which mere favour might be lost without consequence, having begun instead to establish something nearer to dependence, in which her judgement, once engaged, would act not merely in his support, but in anticipation of his advantage.
“Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Younge said, appearing at the threshold with an air of readiness that suggested she required little instruction, “shall I inform Lady Catherine that Mr. Collins has arrived, or do you wish to receive him before he is announced to the house, for I believe he waits with some expectation of being admitted without delay, and appears disposed to present himself with all the formality the occasion may require?”
“You may inform her, Mrs. Younge, and with as little delay as propriety allows,” Wickham replied, turning slightly, though without relinquishing his composure, “for I think it more suitable that Mr. Collins should first be received by her ladyship, whose authority in this house admits of no question, and whose judgement, when once declared, is seldom either disputed or misunderstood, particularly by those who are most inclined to defer to it.”
When she had withdrawn, Wickham did not immediately move, but remained where he stood, considering with quiet satisfaction that no intervention on his part would now be required, for whatever explanation Mr. Collins might seek, and whatever disappointment he might attempt to express, would be met and answered by a force far more decisive than any argument he himself could have offered, and in a manner which would leave no room for appeal, since it would bear the sanction not only of authority, but of conviction already secured.
It was his intention, therefore, to wait, and to observe rather than to act, for a man such as Collins, whose vanity was easily gratified and whose dependence readily transferred, would require little more than direction properly applied, and Wickham had no doubt that, once Lady Catherine had spoken, any resistance would be softened into gratitude, and any expectation reduced to such a form as might best accommodate itself to the arrangement already established.
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Wickham scarcely marked the moment when Fitzwilliam Darcy entered the parlour, so entirely was his attention engaged by his own reflections; yet when Darcy addressed him, the suddenness of the voice, low, measured, and unmistakably composed, was sufficient to make him start, though he recovered himself quickly enough to disguise the full extent of his surprise, and to turn with an air of readiness which, if not entirely natural, was at least practised enough to pass without immediate suspicion.
“How are you, Mr. Wickham, for I find you so occupied that I must wonder whether your thoughts are directed toward the immortality of the soul, or rather toward the more immediate question of maintaining your present situation, which I cannot suppose to be entirely secure.”
“I must beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy, if I have given you any cause to think me inattentive, for I had not expected the honour of your company at this moment, nor have I yet had the opportunity to thank you properly for the recommendation which first introduced me to my present circumstances, and which I have not forgotten, however imperfectly I may have acknowledged it.”
Darcy advanced a step, though without haste, and his manner, while perfectly composed, bore that particular steadiness which admitted neither familiarity nor evasion.
“Yes, I had indeed intended to seek you in Shrewsbury, where I expected to find you usefully established, and I confess that I was not prepared to discover you settled so near Rosings, and, consequently, within reach of interests which are not wholly indifferent to me, nor, I think, properly within your concern.”
“Circumstances, I regret to say, Mr. Darcy, were not entirely within my control, and another was preferred there, so that I was obliged to accept what was offered here, though I should have wished to inform you sooner, had I been afforded the leisure to do so, for I would not willingly appear deficient in respect where I owe so much.”
“That omission may yet be remedied,” Mr. Darcy said with the slightest hint of irony, “for I could, without difficulty, arrange your removal to Shrewsbury, where I believe your presence might be rendered more acceptable by considerations which are well understood in such matters, and which, if properly applied, would ensure that your talents are placed where they may be exercised with less inconvenience to others.”
“I am sensible of your attention, Mr. Darcy, and I would not appear ungrateful for what you are pleased to propose, yet I must assure you that I am entirely satisfied with my present situation, having already begun to form connections here which I should be reluctant to abandon without sufficient cause, and which I trust may, in time, justify my remaining.”
Darcy’s expression altered, though so slightly that it might have escaped a less attentive observer; yet there was now in his manner something less guarded, and more directly opposed.
“It is precisely that circumstance which gives me concern, Wickham, for I have already observed how rapidly you have established yourself, and I cannot say that what I heard this morning, in the pulpit, gives me any confidence that your talents are equal to your advancement, however conveniently it may have been obtained.”
“I thank you for your candour, sir, though I cannot but hope that your judgement may be reconsidered upon a more favourable occasion, when I may have the advantage of addressing my congregation under less pressing circumstances, and with that composure which the office, when properly discharged, is intended to inspire.”
“Do not trouble yourself with such expectations, for I have no inclination to soften my opinion, and I must insist that what I heard was wholly inadequate to your office, however convenient it may have proved to your purposes, and I should think it prudent that you do not mistake indulgence for approval.”
Wickham felt, for a moment, the old and unwelcome pressure of Darcy’s presence, which had always possessed the power of diminishing his advantages without diminishing his pride, and he was conscious that, in such an interview, he must rely less upon confidence than upon careful management, and less upon charm than upon restraint, for he could not hope to prevail where he could not persuade.
“Surely, Mr. Darcy, you would not suppose that I have accepted my situation with any intention but that of fulfilling its duties, and I should be sorry to think that you attribute to me designs which I have neither expressed nor acted upon, for I have endeavoured, within the limits of my situation, to conduct myself with propriety.”
“I suppose nothing, Wickham, but I observe, and what I have observed is sufficient to make me cautious, for I cannot pretend ignorance of your habits, nor remain indifferent to your presence in a house where your influence may extend beyond what is either proper or safe, and where its consequences may not be confined to yourself.”
Wickham assumed the air of a man unjustly suspected, and turned a look toward Darcy in which injured innocence was not without a trace of submission.
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,” the clergyman said, “unless you refer to my desire to conduct myself with propriety in a situation which, I must remind you, I did not obtain without legitimate recommendation, and which I have no intention of abusing.”
“You may spare yourself that defence, for I am already aware of the means by which you have advanced yourself, Wickham, and I am not disposed to dispute what cannot now be altered, but I will not overlook the use you may intend to make of it, nor allow that use to proceed without attention.”
“Then I must conclude that you suspect me of intentions which you cannot prove, and which I should be at a loss to justify even if I understood them as you appear to do, for I cannot answer for accusations that have not been clearly expressed.”
“Understand this, Wickham, for I will not speak twice in the same manner.” Darcy’s tone, though still restrained, lost what little flexibility it had retained.
“If your intentions here are not entirely blameless, you will find yourself very much mistaken in the consequences you expect to command, and equally mistaken if you suppose that those consequences will be left to your direction.”
“Are you offering me advice, Mr. Darcy, or must I consider your words as something more decisive, for I should be sorry to misunderstand you in a matter which appears to concern me so nearly, and in which clarity might prevent unnecessary disagreement.”
Wickham cast upon Darcy a glance at once submissive and calculating, as though yielding outwardly while reserving his judgement.
“Call it what you please, but I recommend that you treat it as a certainty rather than a conjecture, for any attempt to act against the interests of those under my protection will be met with a response you may find less manageable than you suppose, and less easily evaded than you may expect.”