CHAPTER 11 #5
“My dear Mary,” said her father, “improper conversation forms the chief amusement of most assemblies. You must distinguish more carefully between vice and recreation.”
Mary coloured slightly, but persevered.
“They were speaking of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy in a manner I could not hear comfortably. One lady declared Mr. Darcy has previously attached himself to wealthy widows without ever forming serious intentions, while another seemed persuaded that his attentions to Lizzy are equally imprudent.”
Lady Lucas looked genuinely distressed now.
“And unfortunately,” Mary added with increasing uneasiness, “many persons seem inclined to believe these reports merely because so many different versions are circulating at once.”
Mr. Bennet became silent for several moments.
Across the room the music still continued uninterrupted; dancers moved through the figures with cheerful regularity; servants carried refreshments between crowded groups; laughter rose repeatedly from every side.
Yet beneath all the ordinary animation of the evening there had unmistakably begun that subtle alteration of atmosphere by which society announces that scandal has entered the room and found welcome there.
At that moment Mrs. Bennet herself came hurrying toward them with an agitation too sincere to be mistaken even at a distance.
She advanced toward her husband with an agitation so entirely beyond her usual fluttering excitement that even Mr. Bennet immediately perceived the difference.
Her colour had risen unevenly into her cheeks, her fan moved with hurried irregularity in her hand, and though she attempted twice to address him before reaching his side, anxiety appeared for several moments to deprive her even of coherent expression.
“Mr. Bennet,” she said at last in a hurried whisper, scarcely waiting until Lady Lucas and Mary had withdrawn a little distance away, “something exceedingly dreadful is taking place in this ballroom, and I declare I shall not survive the evening if it continues another half hour.”
“My dear,” he replied calmly, “the assembly has already survived both two country dances and Mrs. Long’s singing. I cannot think the danger now likely to prove fatal.”
“This is not a subject for jesting,” Mrs. Bennet returned with almost tearful impatience.
“You have no conception what people are saying. Everywhere I turn I hear some new horror concerning Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, and each person repeats it as though the whole thing were already established beyond dispute.”
Mr. Bennet now regarded her more attentively.
“What precisely has alarmed you so violently, my dear?”
“Everything!” cried Mrs. Bennet softly. “Some insist Mr. Darcy is ruined; others that he obtained his estate dishonourably; another woman hinted he has pursued rich widows before and never meant marriage at all. But worse than any of it—far worse—people are speaking of Lizzy as though she were already compromised.”
Her voice trembled visibly upon the last word.
“They say she was seen with him in London, in Kent, and at St. Albans, and now here again in public before the whole neighbourhood. Several ladies have already begun looking at her with that dreadful expression which means they believe something improper without yet knowing exactly what it is.”
Mr. Bennet’s countenance, though still outwardly composed, lost much of its earlier amusement.
Mrs. Bennet meanwhile continued with increasing distress.
“You know how society behaves in such matters. By tomorrow morning half Hertfordshire will decide Lizzy has encouraged attentions which may never lead to marriage at all, and if Mr. Darcy should withdraw now—or if these stories continue spreading unchecked—our daughter’s reputation will suffer in every drawing room for twenty miles around. ”
She stopped abruptly, struggling for composure.
“I have often spoken foolishly,” Mrs. Bennet said more quietly after a moment, “and perhaps too eagerly where marriages are concerned; but Lizzy is my child, Mr. Bennet, and I cannot stand calmly by while people destroy her character before my eyes.”
There was in this declaration so much genuine maternal fear beneath all her ordinary nervous exaggeration that Mr. Bennet’s expression softened immediately.
“My dear,” he answered with considerably more gentleness than he generally permitted himself in moments of domestic agitation, “you may rely upon it that I shall not allow our daughter to become the evening’s sacrifice merely because Meryton has discovered a fresh appetite for invention.”
“But what can possibly be done now?” Mrs. Bennet whispered desperately.
“The whole room already hums with it. Every dance seems to produce another tale more dreadful than the last. And some appear to have heard these rumours already in town during the last few days, so the mischief is not confined merely to this assembly.”
Mr. Bennet glanced slowly across the assembly toward the place where Darcy still stood in conversation, grave, composed, and entirely unaware perhaps of the full extent to which society had already begun arranging judgement around him.
“A few lies,” Mr. Bennet said quietly after a pause, “travel through a ballroom much faster than truth; but fortunately society possesses one weakness still greater than its love of scandal.”
Mrs. Bennet looked at him anxiously.
“And what weakness is that?”
“Its love of certainty,” he replied. “Leave this matter to me now, and endeavour, if possible, not to alarm Lizzy before I have spoken with Mr. Darcy.”
“You truly believe it may still be repaired?”
“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” her husband said with returning composure, “when Hertfordshire begins manufacturing nonsense in six contradictory directions at once, one may generally defeat it by the simple inconvenience of facts.”
Mr. Bennet searched for Mr. Darcy immediately after leaving his wife, for the various reports which had reached him in such rapid and contradictory succession no longer permitted either delay or amusement.
Though naturally inclined to regard most provincial alarms as temporary disorders certain to collapse beneath their own absurdity, he understood too well the dangerous power of repeated insinuation in a crowded assembly to mistake the seriousness of what was now spreading through the room.
The music still continued with cheerful regularity; the dancers advanced and retreated through the figures of the set with every outward appearance of unconcern; servants passed amongst the assembled company carrying candles and refreshments; yet beneath this ordinary gaiety there had already begun that subtle alteration in atmosphere by which society announces that scandal has entered amongst it and found immediate welcome there.
Wherever Darcy crossed the room, conversations appeared either to lower themselves suspiciously or else to resume too suddenly.
Ladies who earlier regarded him merely with curiosity now observed him with expressions in which interest and caution had become uneasily mingled together; while Elizabeth herself, though still preserving admirable composure beside Jane, had evidently begun sensing that some change in the temper of the assembly had gradually arisen around her without her yet entirely understanding its source.
Meanwhile Wickham, never remaining long fixed within any single circle, moved easily from group to group with all the smiling tranquillity of a gentleman perfectly satisfied with both the effect he produced and the information he so obligingly circulated.
Though Mr. Bennet neither approached him nor appeared to observe him closely, he required little further evidence to discover from what quarter the disturbance chiefly arose.
Mr. Darcy stood at that moment beside Sir William Lucas near the farther side of the assembly-room, listening with grave civility to a long and ceremonious observation concerning the superiority of country hospitality over every species of metropolitan entertainment.
Mr. Bennet crossed directly toward him, and something perhaps in his expression caused Darcy to disengage himself almost immediately from Sir William’s conversation before a single word had yet been spoken.
There existed in Mr. Bennet’s manner none of the easy irony with which he usually approached the small absurdities of society; and Darcy, who had already observed enough of the altered temper of the room to suspect mischief actively at work around them, required little further warning to understand that the matter had now advanced beyond ordinary gossip.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said with unusual directness once they stood near enough to converse unheard, “I believe Hertfordshire has lately undertaken to improve both our histories with an industry which makes private conversation immediately necessary.”
Darcy’s countenance altered at once, though the alteration would scarcely have been perceptible to any observer less attentive than Mr. Bennet himself.
“The rumours have spread farther than a town ball ought to?” he asked quietly.
“They have spread far enough to invent every species of excellent nonsense,” Mr. Bennet replied.
“My wife approaches nervous dissolution; Mrs. Phillips has already collected six entirely distinct scandals concerning your affairs; Lady Lucas fears half Derbyshire has been robbed merely to furnish Pemberley; and Mary has begun suspecting Lizzy morally compromised before the supper announcement has even been made. According to these admirable authorities, Elizabeth has been seen with you in London, in Kent, at St. Albans, and now displays herself so openly beside you at Meryton that society has nearly settled the ruin of her reputation before the musicians have finished tuning for the next set.”
Darcy became perfectly still.