CHAPTER 8
The breakfast at the inn was laid with more attention to comfort than display, yet the quiet order of the room, joined to the softened light of a morning newly cleared of rain, produced an ease of spirits which neither Mr. Bennet nor his daughter was disposed to resist, though the events of the preceding evening had left impressions not so readily dismissed, and which, in Elizabeth’s case, returned with a persistence she could neither wholly justify nor entirely set aside.
They had not long been seated when her father, who had thus far occupied himself with the ordinary business of tea and toast in a manner apparently free from design, cast upon her a glance at once light and attentive, as though the moment for observation had passed, and that for remark might now be chosen without impropriety.
“We must not indulge ourselves too long, Lizzy,” he began, with an ease that scarcely concealed intention, “for it has been agreed, I believe, that we are to return to Rosings this morning, in order to take our leave of her ladyship with all due civility, after which the carriage is to convey our indefatigable cousin to Hunsford, where he may begin, with proper solemnity, to contemplate the duties and advantages of that establishment which he had so confidently hoped for, and which has now been refused him.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, though her attention, which had rested outwardly upon the simple arrangements of the table, seemed already drawn elsewhere by the quiet seriousness beneath his tone.
“And from thence,” he continued, with a faint turn of humour, “we shall proceed toward London, provided the roads do not oppose us more than usual, and, by setting out at a reasonable hour after luncheon, may hope to arrive by evening with no greater inconvenience than is customary in such undertakings. And, of course, we shall visit the Gardiners, and leave Mr. Collins to his reflections.”
“It will be well to be upon the road again,” Elizabeth replied, her composure entire, though not untouched by reflection, “for though our stay has not been without interest, I think we may both allow that its conclusion is not ill-timed.”
“That, my dear Lizzy, is a conclusion in which I most readily concur,” returned her father, “though I cannot pretend that the whole of our visit has been without instruction, however little we may have solicited it.”
A brief pause followed, in which Elizabeth, though silent, grew more attentive, as one who perceives the approach of something not yet declared, but already of consequence.
“There was, however,” he resumed, setting aside his cup with unstudied precision, “one circumstance of last evening which I find myself unwilling to pass over entirely, though I shall not insist upon its importance, unless you should prove disposed to examine it with me.”
Elizabeth looked up at once, her curiosity awakened, though she endeavoured to preserve an appearance of calm.
“You refer, Papa—” she began, with a steadiness that did not wholly conceal her interest, “to Mr. Darcy?”
“I do refer to that gentleman, indeed,” Mr. Bennet replied, regarding her with composed attention, “who waited upon me here last evening, having quitted Rosings in weather sufficient to excuse any man from stirring abroad, and who did so with a promptitude which, I confess, appeared somewhat at variance with his usual habits.”
Elizabeth felt, without clearly knowing why, a slight quickening of her thoughts, as though something in the recollection resisted indifference.
“He did not seem a man at leisure,” her father continued, “nor one disposed to hazard such a journey for the mere pleasure of discourse, for his manner, though perfectly civil, admitted neither delay nor digression, and was marked throughout by a directness which I thought unusual in him.”
Elizabeth set down her cup with greater care than was necessary, her attention now fully engaged.
“What was it that Mr. Darcy wished to know, Papa?” she asked, her voice quieter, though perfectly composed.
Mr. Bennet allowed himself the smallest pause, as though the simplicity of the answer did not preclude its consequence.
“The gentleman wished to be informed,” he said at last, “whether you were engaged to Mr. Collins.”
The effect, though slight in appearance, was by no means insignificant. Elizabeth did not start, yet a stillness came over her which betrayed that the words had not passed without impression, and though she spoke at once, it was with an effort she could not wholly disguise.
“Engaged—to my cousin?” she repeated, with composed incredulity. “I cannot conceive by what means such a report could have arisen.”
“Nor I,” returned her father, with dry composure, “though it was delivered with a confidence which might have imposed upon any man less advantageously informed than myself, who, by some happy circumstance, retains a tolerable knowledge of his daughter’s affairs.
You should have seen in what condition he came—his clothes quite drenched, and the rain still falling from the hat he held. ”
A faint smile rose to Elizabeth’s lips, though it did not wholly banish the thoughtful gravity that had succeeded her first surprise.
“And what answer did you give him?” she asked, her eyes now fixed upon him with a steadiness that admitted no disguise.
“That which truth required, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet replied, “and which, I imagine, was received with more satisfaction than he found it prudent to express, for I had scarcely denied the report before I perceived in him a change which, though perfectly governed, was sufficiently marked to be understood even by a less attentive observer.”
Elizabeth’s breath, though measured, seemed for a moment restrained.
“He was, in short, relieved,” her father added with quiet certainty.
She turned slightly aside, as though to command her thoughts, yet the impression remained, resisting immediate dismissal.
“It was natural, perhaps,” Elizabeth said, after a pause, “that he should wish to correct an error which concerned his acquaintance, and which, if believed, might have led to awkward consequences.”
“Perhaps so,” Mr. Bennet returned, without disputing her, though his expression retained a thoughtful composure, “and yet I have observed, my dear Lizzy, that gentlemen do not commonly expose themselves to rain, inconvenience, and evident haste, for the sole purpose of correcting an error which touches them but lightly.”
Elizabeth felt the truth of this, though she resisted its full extent.
“You think, then, that he was more concerned than the occasion required, Papa?” she asked, her voice lower, though steady.
“I think,” Mr. Bennet said with quiet deliberation, “that he was not indifferent; and as indifference is the easiest of all conditions to preserve, its absence, in such a case, deserves at least to be remembered.”
Elizabeth made no immediate reply, for though her understanding supplied one answer, her feelings inclined toward another, and she was not yet prepared to unite them.
“Your mother,” her father continued, with the faintest smile, “would, I have no doubt, have drawn from such a visit conclusions of a far more decisive nature, and proclaimed them with a spirit that would leave us little room for doubt; but as I am less expeditious in forming judgments, I am content to observe, and wait.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved in spite of herself, though her eyes retained a thoughtful softness which had not been there before.
“You are very cautious, Papa,” she said gently.
“Only so far as prudence recommends, Lizzy,” he replied, rising with composed ease, as though the matter, for the present, had been sufficiently considered.
“For the rest, I am satisfied that what is worth knowing will, in time, make itself known without our assistance, and that what is worth feeling will not be diminished by being felt a little more slowly.”
Elizabeth rose likewise, her composure restored, though her mind remained engaged in a manner she could neither wholly welcome nor entirely resist.
“Come, my dear,” he added, offering his arm, “we must not keep Lady Catherine waiting, lest she imagine we have formed designs of remaining longer than she has permitted, and thereby give her fresh occasion for displeasure.”
Elizabeth accepted his arm with a calm smile; yet as they prepared to depart, her thoughts returned, not to Rosings, nor to the journey before them, but to a gentleman who had not been indifferent—and to the quiet, unbidden certainty that such concern, once awakened, was not easily dismissed, nor likely to remain without consequence.
At that very moment, Mr. Collins came hurrying down the stairs, eager to join them, and very nearly stumbled in his haste, his want of attention rendering his descent less dignified than he might have wished.
***
They had scarcely alighted at Rosings when the door was opened to them with prompt attention, and the footman, whose manner combined respect with that habitual composure which long service gives, informed the small group from the inn that her ladyship, together with Mr. Wickham, had quitted the house not long before in order to proceed to Hunsford, leaving express word that Mr. Collins, upon his arrival, was to follow without delay, as his presence there was considered necessary.
This intelligence had no sooner been delivered than Miss de Bourgh herself appeared, having observed their arrival from the window, and, advancing with a degree of animation not often seen in her, received them with a civility which, though restrained by habit, was made more agreeable by an evident desire to please; while Mrs. Younge, who followed at a small distance, adhered to her with so constant an attendance that it seemed less the office of a companion than the vigilance of a keeper, and could not fail to be remarked in a house otherwise so correctly ordered.