CHAPTER 11 #3
“Then I must warn you, Mr. Darcy, that particular compliments are much more difficult to manage than general ones. General admiration may be divided among a whole neighbourhood, but particular admiration leaves one person responsible for answering it.”
“I should not wish to burden you beyond what you are willing to bear,” he said, with a seriousness softened by the faintest suggestion of amusement.
“Then you improve in consideration, sir,” Elizabeth answered promptly.
“I have had reason to value instruction.”
The words recalled too much of their walk at Longbourn to be received lightly.
Elizabeth felt again the delicate danger of an understanding not yet declared, and for several turns of the dance she said little, while Darcy, who seemed to perceive that silence had become safer than speech, did not immediately press her.
Yet there was pleasure in that silence too; for it was no longer the silence of distance or pride, but of a feeling sufficiently present to require care.
When the dance ended, Mr. Darcy led Elizabeth back toward her mother and sisters with every propriety; but before releasing her hand, he bowed with a gravity which gave the civility more meaning than the form required.
“I am honoured by your kindness, Miss Bennet.”
“You must not overvalue it,” Elizabeth replied, smiling despite herself. “I am known to dance where the music is tolerable and the partner does not tread upon me.”
“Then I shall endeavour to preserve both advantages.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had witnessed enough to nourish expectation for a month, received Elizabeth with a look of such triumphant significance that her daughter immediately wished Darcy had returned her to any other part of the room.
Yet before Mrs. Bennet could say more than “Well, Lizzy,” in a tone laden with dangerous prophecy, Sir William Lucas approached with renewed compliments upon the beauty of the set, the elegance of the dancers, and the very great pleasure of seeing such harmony between old families and new neighbours.
The evening continued with increasing animation.
Mr. Bingley danced again with Jane and when he was obliged to stand up with another young lady, his attention remained so evidently divided that even that lady’s mother could hardly be offended, since the spectacle of so much honest partiality had already become a general entertainment.
Mr. Darcy danced only once more before supper, and not with Elizabeth; yet his attention returned to her often enough to be observed by those who noticed everything and discussed more than they noticed.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, was not permitted to remain long in quiet reflection.
She was claimed by one partner, then another; she was addressed by Charlotte Lucas with affectionate curiosity, teased by Lydia, congratulated indirectly by her mother without any clear subject being named, and watched by her father with an expression which suggested he was collecting material for private amusement.
Through all this, she endeavoured to maintain a composure equal to the occasion, though the consciousness of Mr. Darcy’s presence, and of the room’s gradual awareness of it, followed her more faithfully than any partner.
It was near the conclusion of the next set, when the assembly had reached that pleasant height of warmth and confidence at which conversation grows bolder and observation less disguised, that a slight disturbance became perceptible near the entrance.
It was not loud enough to interrupt the music, nor sudden enough to command the entire room; yet a movement passed through the cluster nearest the door, a turning of heads, a murmur of recognition, and then a quickened exchange among several officers who had gathered there.
Elizabeth, who had just returned from the dance and stood beside Jane, saw Lydia’s expression change first from ordinary merriment to eager surprise.
Kitty immediately caught her sister’s arm, while Mrs. Phillips, at a little distance, lifted both hands toward her nieces with delighted astonishment, as though some particularly welcome arrival had unexpectedly appeared for the entertainment of the evening.
Then the gentleman at the centre of this renewed attention stepped fully into view.
Dressed with striking elegance in the fresh uniform of a militia officer, George Wickham had entered the Meryton assembly.
***
For one brief instant the movement of the assembly appeared to falter, not sufficiently to interrupt its gaiety, yet enough to show that some unexpected arrival had instantly claimed the notice of the room.
The music continued; the dancers still advanced and retreated through the figures of the set; servants threaded carefully between groups carrying wine and refreshments toward the supper-room; yet within the shifting attention of the assembly something had unmistakably changed.
In a gathering of nearly one hundred and forty persons, where curiosity travelled more rapidly than sound and observation seldom remained long unemployed, the arrival of a stranger possessing uncommon ease of manner could scarcely fail to produce immediate consequence.
Lydia Bennet, whose attention was invariably claimed by any gentleman connected with a regiment, was among the first to distinguish the new arrival clearly.
“Who is that officer? Is he new?” she whispered eagerly to Kitty, though in a tone much too animated to remain entirely private. “I am certain I have never seen him in Meryton before, and he is by far the handsomest man in the room.”
Kitty, already stretching herself for a better view, appeared immediately inclined to agree; while Mrs. Phillips, who delighted equally in novelty and importance, nodded in agreement while examining the gentleman now entering the assembly with the composed assurance of a man perfectly accustomed to attracting favourable notice wherever he appeared.
Elizabeth’s colour altered almost imperceptibly.
George Wickham the last man she expected to see entering the ball room.
Another new man in town would have paused uncertainly near the entrance, or displayed some hesitation proper to a man doubtful of his reception.
On the contrary, Mr. Wickham advanced with that easy confidence which formed perhaps the most charming part of his character, for it possessed the power of persuading casual observers that openness must necessarily accompany composure.
Several officers greeted him immediately.
Within scarcely a minute his presence had already become woven into the movement of the evening as though he had belonged to Meryton society far longer than the few moments since his arrival.
Standing at some distance beside Mr. Bennet and Sir William Lucas, Darcy remained entirely still.
Hhe had turned toward the entrance at the first murmur of novelty; yet from the instant his eyes rested upon Wickham, every trace of softened ease disappeared from his countenance beneath a composure so complete that Elizabeth immediately understood how blunt his self-command had become.
The change was not violent enough to attract general notice, yet to anyone acquainted with him it was unmistakable.
Whatever gentleness Longbourn and their recent understanding had gradually encouraged in Darcy, now seemed suddenly withdrawn behind a colder discipline of manner.
Mr. Bennet observed the alteration almost immediately.
Though much connected with the affairs at Rosings had never been openly explained before him, he understood enough of Wickham’s history—and rather more of human character generally—to perceive that the man now entering the assembly did not appear there accidentally.
His eyes moved once from Wickham toward Mr. Darcy and then quietly back again, with the thoughtful expression of a man arranging facts already known into a more complete pattern.
“He arrives,” Mr. Bennet observed at length with composed dryness, “with the confidence of a gentleman either entirely innocent or very considerably practiced.”
Mr. Darcy’s answer followed after a pause scarcely longer than propriety required.
“Experience, sir, has unfortunately made the safer conclusion where Mr. Wickham is concerned.”
Sir William Lucas, perceiving perhaps that some hidden meaning existed beneath the exchange though not entirely discerning its direction, hastened at once toward safer conversational ground.
“He appears a remarkably personable young man, nevertheless,” he declared with cheerful importance. “Indeed, I do not remember seeing a stranger enter these rooms and recommend himself so rapidly within the first five minutes.”
“My dear sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, “there are gentlemen who acquire confidence in five minutes and lose it again within five months; though society, being naturally charitable, usually prefers the quicker judgement to the slower one.”
Before Sir William could entirely determine whether this remark ought to be considered wit or warning, Wickham himself approached their part of the room.
Elizabeth watched his progress with increasing uneasiness.
He moved neither hurriedly nor idly, but with careful deliberation disguised beneath apparent ease, pausing here and there long enough to exchange greetings, accept introductions, and permit admiration to gather naturally around him before advancing farther.
He had always understood society well enough to know that reputation, like theatre, depends largely upon entrance and timing.
When at last he reached them, he bowed first to the ladies with every appearance of polished respect before turning toward Darcy himself.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said smoothly, “I confess I had not expected to discover you still among the attractions of Hertfordshire.”
“Only for the present,” Darcy replied frowning.