CHAPTER 8 #6
Elizabeth glanced almost involuntarily toward Anne, whose expression did not change, though there was in her stillness something far more eloquent than reply.
She thought then of the missing silver, of Mrs. Jenkinson sent away for ‘her health’, and of the quiet bitterness beneath Anne’s calm voice, and found Wickham’s agreeable manner less easy to admire than perhaps it had once appeared.
Before she could reflect further, the door opened again, and Mr. Darcy entered with her father.
The alteration in the room was slight, yet immediate.
Darcy’s countenance retained its usual composure, but there was something in the stillness of it which made Elizabeth attentive at once.
Whatever had passed between him and Mr. Bennet in the library had not been insignificant.
Her father, too, though perfectly at ease in appearance, possessed that particular air of quiet observation which usually signified that he knew more than he intended immediately to disclose.
Lady Catherine, however, perceived nothing but the return of her nephew.
“Darcy, you have been hidden half the morning,” she declared.
“I suppose Mr. Bennet has discovered that my library is of the highest standard, as it ought to be, though I have often told your late uncle, Sir Lewis, that men who pride themselves upon books commonly neglect the far more necessary business of governing their households.”
Mr. Bennet bowed with becoming submission.
“I am afraid, madam, my household has long governed itself with an independence that does not sufficiently consult my authority, but I found your shelves so well ordered that I was tempted to believe discipline may yet be restored by example.”
Lady Catherine regarded this as either agreement or harmless wit, and permitted it to pass.
Mr. Darcy, meanwhile, had offered Elizabeth only the briefest acknowledgment, yet brief as it was, she could not mistake in it a gravity more deliberate than usual. It was not coldness; it was attention under restraint, and because she did not understand it, she felt it the more strongly.
Wickham, who usually missed very little that concerned his own security, observed the exchange also. For one brief moment his eyes met Darcy’s.
Nothing in either face altered enough for another to notice, yet something had passed—something wordless, exact, and wholly without civility. It was the recognition of men who understood that whatever ease had formerly existed between them was now not merely ended, but replaced by knowledge.
Wickham looked away first, and did so with a smile so slight it might have belonged to politeness alone.
Lady Catherine, happily indifferent to undercurrents she had not chosen to perceive, resumed the subject of Hunsford with increased satisfaction.
“I have told Mr. Collins,” she said, “that a parsonage reflects the dignity of its patron no less than the habits of its incumbent, and I will not have negligence where my influence extends. There are still pictures to be rehung, plate to be properly inventoried, and several arrangements respecting household management which must be settled before anything can be considered complete.”
At this, Mr. Bennet, who had until then confined himself to listening, lifted his eyes with mild interest.
“Indeed, madam? Then I hope the improvements have not proved too energetic, for I have always thought that in houses undergoing alteration, objects acquire a dangerous talent for disappearing under the protection of good intentions. Inventories, in such cases, are often the last refuge of honesty.”
There was a pause—brief, but sufficient.
Mr. Collins looked alarmed without understanding why. Anne lowered her eyes. Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Darcy become perfectly still.
Only Wickham answered, and with admirable smoothness.
“Your observation is a wise one, sir. Disorder is a most obliging accomplice, and negligence often receives the blame that properly belongs elsewhere. Fortunately, Rosings is not a house where much can remain hidden for long.”
Mr. Bennet smiled with grave civility.
“Then we may all be fortunate, Mr. Wickham, if clarity continues so much in fashion.”
“I am afraid I do not entirely understand what you are aiming at, sir,” Mr. Wickham said, turning toward Mr. Bennet with a smile whose civility was just sufficient to conceal the sharpened attention beneath it.
“You speak with such respect for inventories and such distrust of improvement that I begin to suspect either my management or my character has been accused in my absence, and I should be sorry to defend myself against charges which have not yet had the kindness to introduce themselves.”
The room, which only a moment before had preserved the outward ease of ordinary conversation, altered at once beneath the smoothness of his reply.
Mr. Collins looked from one gentleman to the other with visible distress, as though uncertain whether loyalty required him to support the man who had betrayed him or his cousin, and finding equal danger in both directions.
Lady Catherine drew herself more upright, offended less by the possibility of conflict than by its presuming to occur beneath her roof without first consulting her authority.
Anne remained perfectly still, though Elizabeth observed the slight tightening of her hand upon her untouched cup.
Darcy alone said nothing, and that silence was more threatening than speech.
Mr. Bennet, however, appeared perfectly at ease, as though the matter under discussion concerned nothing more alarming than the weather or the condition of the turnpike road.
“I accuse no man without better evidence than conversation can provide,” he replied, with that mild civility which in him often preceded something far less harmless. “I merely observe, sir.”
Wickham inclined his head with admirable grace, though the smile remained a degree too still to be entirely natural.
“I have never yet found household order to be a criminal occupation, Mr. Bennet, though I confess I am learning that even good intentions may be made to appear suspicious where imagination is willing to assist them.”
Before Mr. Bennet could answer, Darcy stepped forward, and the measured coldness of his manner was enough to make even Wickham visibly startle.
“No,” he said, looking directly at Wickham, “let us spare ourselves the labour of imagination and confine ourselves to facts. Or names. Who is Arsene Smith, vicar?”
For the first time, Wickham’s composure suffered a visible fracture.
It was slight, and would have escaped a less attentive eye, but surprise entered first, followed almost instantly by calculation, and then by that polished recovery which long habit had made nearly instinctive.
Elizabeth, watching him, felt the change as distinctly as if the room itself had shifted.
“Arsene Smith?” Wickham repeated, with a faint laugh intended to suggest only mild confusion. “I am afraid the name has no particular claim upon my memory. I have never heard of such a gentleman, and I cannot imagine why I should be expected to account for him.”
Darcy did not move, nor did his expression alter in the slightest degree.
“That is unfortunate,” he said, “for Mr. Arsene Smith appears to know you rather well, Wickham. He knows that you are residing at Rosings, he knows that correspondence directed to you will reach you here, and he writes with the confidence of a man who believes his business both familiar and welcome.”
Lady Catherine, whose patience for obscurity had already been exhausted, struck the arm of her chair lightly with visible irritation.
“Darcy, if there is something to be said, I insist that it be said plainly. I will not have my drawing-room turned into a theatre of half-phrases and private understandings. If this Mr. Smith concerns my house, then I require the matter explained immediately.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head, but his attention never left Wickham. From his pocket he drew the folded letter and placed it upon the table between them with a deliberation that made the gesture itself accusatory.
“A letter addressed to Mr. Wickham arrived this morning,” he said calmly.
“It was not delivered, because circumstances made delivery imprudent, I daresay. The gentleman writing was not a creditor, as Mr. Wickham might have suggested, but a stock broker, and the new vicar’s expectations are remarkably ambitious for a man who claims no acquaintance with the name. ”
Wickham’s smile had not disappeared, but it no longer possessed any ease.
“I hope, Darcy, you do not intend to establish a principle by which every private letter in England may be opened upon the strength of curiosity and old prejudice,” Mr. Wickham said, with a smile that had become more careful than easy.
“It would make the post a very dangerous institution, and leave every gentleman at the mercy of suspicion before breakfast.”
Mr. Bennet, who had been observing the exchange with an attention far keener than his indolent posture suggested, allowed himself the smallest movement of amusement.
“The post, sir, has always been dangerous chiefly to those who write incautiously. It is one of its few democratic virtues, and perhaps the only one which reaches equally from London to Kent.”
Lady Catherine, however, had no patience for wit where her authority was concerned. She rose half from her seat, indignation lending colour to a countenance not accustomed to being kept in ignorance of anything that occurred beneath her own roof.
“What does the letter contain, Darcy? I will not be answered with philosophy while strangers discuss mysteries concerning my own household. If this concerns Rosings, I insist upon hearing it plainly, and I insist upon hearing it now.”