CHAPTER 7 #3
And with that, Darcy strode from the room, his mind already fixed upon one necessity: he must learn the truth for himself, and without delay.
***
Darcy did not linger after Lady Catherine’s declaration, for the idea she had advanced admitted neither patience nor delay, and though his outward composure remained intact, there was within him a disturbance too urgent to be quieted by reflection alone.
That Elizabeth Bennet—whose discernment he had come to value, and whose spirit he had learned to admire even against his inclination—might have accepted Mr. Collins struck at once against both his understanding and his pride; yet, asserted as fact, it could not be dismissed without proof.
He quitted Rosings with little ceremony, taking up his hat and passing through the hall without summoning assistance, for the habit of command yielded, in that moment, to something far more immediate.
The rain, which had gathered unseen and broken suddenly into violence, descended now in a hard, unrelenting torrent, beating upon the gravel with a force that rendered every step uncertain and every shelter desirable; yet he crossed the threshold without pause, as though insensible alike to inconvenience and exposure, and gave himself up to the storm with a determination which admitted neither delay nor reconsideration.
The evening air, heavy and wind-driven, seemed to close upon him as he advanced, the rain striking against his face and coat with a persistence that might have checked a less resolute mind, yet could not divert him from a purpose already formed.
His thoughts, no less agitated than the sky above him, moved in rapid and opposing currents—now rejecting the report as impossible, now admitting it with a reluctance bordering upon dread—never resting long enough upon either conclusion to afford him ease, while the violence of the weather, instead of dispersing his reflections, appeared only to give them sharper urgency.
There was, in his manner, a haste wholly foreign to his usual command of himself, for though his step remained firm, it was quicker than his habit allowed, and bore the unmistakable impression of a mind pressed beyond its ordinary restraint.
The rain, driven at intervals with greater force, clung to him without his notice, as though the external discomfort were too slight to compete with that inward disturbance which no effort of reason could immediately subdue, and which, once admitted, demanded resolution rather than endurance.
The road to the inn was neither long nor difficult, yet it seemed to him extended beyond its natural measure, for his mind would admit no diversion, returning always to the same intolerable question.
If the report were false, it must be exposed without delay; if true, it must be borne—but not without resistance, nor without understanding how such a conclusion had been reached.
By the time he arrived, the urgency which had driven him forward had resolved into something more controlled, though not less intense, and he entered with a steadiness that concealed, rather than diminished, the force of his purpose.
He inquired directly for Mr. Bennet, and was conducted without delay to a private room, where that gentleman received him with a composure that seemed proof against interruption.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, rising with polite attention, though not without a shade of curiosity in his expression, “this visit, I think, must be attributed to something more pressing than mere civility, for you do not appear a man easily governed by sudden impulse, nor one to venture abroad in such weather without sufficient cause.”
“I must beg a few moments of your time, Mr. Bennet, upon a matter which cannot, I fear, be delayed,” Darcy replied, declining to sit, for he stood before him drenched from head to foot, his coat heavy with water, and the rain still falling from the brim of the hat he held in his hand, and speaking with a directness which, though perfectly civil, was wholly without ornament.
“The question I have to ask concerns your daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I would not willingly proceed upon uncertainty where the truth may be obtained.”
The older gentleman regarded him with increased interest, and, resuming his seat, allowed a brief pause to follow, his eye resting upon his visitor with a composure not wholly unmixed with amusement, as though the condition in which he appeared rendered all explanation unnecessary.
“I have been informed,” Darcy continued, after a brief pause, during which he seemed to measure how far he might trust himself to speak without restraint, “that Miss Bennet is engaged to Mr. Collins, and that the matter is already settled. I must therefore request, sir, that you confirm or deny this report without reserve, for I cannot remain satisfied with conjecture where such a claim has been so confidently asserted.”
A slight pause followed, during which Mr. Bennet’s brows rose with deliberate slowness, and his expression, though composed, admitted a trace of amusement which he made no effort to conceal.
“Engaged?” he repeated, as though the word required examination before it could be accepted.
“To Mr. Collins? My dear sir, you present me with intelligence of which I had not the smallest suspicion, and I cannot but admire the expedition with which my daughter is supposed to have arranged her future without troubling herself with either my knowledge or consent.”
Darcy did not relax, though his attention sharpened visibly.
“The information was given to me by Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” he said, with measured restraint, “and delivered with such assurance that I could not, in prudence, disregard it without immediate inquiry.”
“That, I think, was wisely done,” returned Mr. Bennet, leaning back with a composure now more evidently touched with satisfaction, “for I can assure you, upon my word, that no such engagement exists, nor has any such understanding been formed between my daughter and Mr. Collins, either by inclination or arrangement.”
For a moment, Darcy remained entirely still, his hand, which had rested upon the back of a chair, tightening almost imperceptibly before relaxing again, as though the answer, though simple, required time to be fully received; then, by degrees, the tension which had governed his whole manner gave way.
The severity of his expression softened; his breath, unconsciously restrained, was released; and though he turned slightly aside, the change was too marked to escape observation.
“Then it is not true,” Mr. Darcy said at last, more quietly than before, yet with a steadiness that had been absent from his earlier tone.
“It is not true, sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, watching him now with open attention, and not without a degree of inward satisfaction which he did not trouble himself to disguise.
“And I may add, for your further comfort, that my daughter is not at present disposed of in any direction whatsoever, nor, I believe, under any immediate danger of being so.”
Relief, though restrained, was no longer to be mistaken, and Darcy, mastering himself with effort, inclined his head with a sincerity which did him more credit than any studied expression.
“You have relieved me, sir, in a manner for which I am greatly obliged,” he said, choosing his words with care, though unable entirely to conceal their force. “The report was such as I could neither credit nor dismiss without being assured of its truth.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Bennet replied, with a dry composure that only half concealed his amusement, his eyes resting upon Darcy with a keenness that seemed to take quiet account of every change in his manner.
“Though I cannot but be curious what interpretation you had already placed upon the supposed event, that its contradiction should afford you so sensible a relief.”
A brief pause followed, in which Darcy appeared to consider how far he might properly answer, before replying with guarded precision.
“I had reason to believe that such a connexion would not be consistent with my understanding of Miss Bennet’s character,” he said at last, with measured calm, though the effort of restraint was still perceptible.
“Then we are entirely of one mind,” Mr. Bennet concluded with quiet satisfaction, “for though Mr. Collins is a gentleman of very commendable perseverance, I should not wish to see it rewarded in that particular direction.”
Silence followed for a moment, not uncomfortable, yet not without meaning, as each seemed aware that something more had passed between them than had been spoken.
“Since you have taken the trouble to come so far for the sake of information,” Mr. Bennet continued, resuming a tone of easy civility, “you must allow me at least to offer you some refreshment before you return, unless Rosings exerts so strong a claim upon your time that you must depart as abruptly as you arrived.”
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” Darcy answered, “but I believe I must return without delay, as there are circumstances which require my immediate attention, and which I should not willingly postpone.”
“That I can readily believe,” said Mr. Bennet, rising, and regarding him with a look in which curiosity and quiet approval were not entirely absent.
“Only permit me to observe, as a general rule, that reports, however confidently delivered, are not always deserving of equal confidence in return—though I must confess, in this instance, the gentleman who sought correction seems rather more affected than the report itself.”
A faint smile, brief and controlled, touched Darcy’s expression.
“Your observation is just, sir, and I shall endeavour to profit by it,” he replied, before taking his leave with a bow that, though formal, was not without warmth.
Left alone, Mr. Bennet resumed his seat with evident composure, yet his countenance retained a look of thoughtful amusement, as though he had witnessed something not merely curious, but instructive, and which, in its consequences, might prove of more importance than its immediate appearance suggested.
He resolved, not without a certain quiet satisfaction, to acquaint Elizabeth with the particulars over breakfast the following morning.