CHAPTER 11 #6
Without further explanation they withdrew together toward a narrower passage adjoining the card-room, sufficiently removed from the principal assembly to secure them from interruption, though not so distant as to provoke curiosity in itself.
For several moments Mr. Bennet remained silent, studying Darcy with thoughtful attention, for whatever reserve habitually governed the younger man’s expression had now hardened visibly into something colder, graver, and infinitely less secure.
“At Rosings,” Mr. Bennet said at length, “Mr. Wickham lost expectations which he appears unwilling either to forgive or relinquish quietly. I can scarcely doubt now that he spreads these falsehoods in hopes of discrediting you and injuring my family besides.”
“If such gossip circulates so widely,” Darcy answered gravely, “then he has chosen precisely the retaliation I ought perhaps to have anticipated from the beginning. Wickham never attacks directly where implication may operate more effectively. Open accusations invite contradiction; uncertainty allows society itself to complete the injury.”
Mr. Bennet then repeated, with considerably less irony than before, the various stories now circulating throughout the assembly.
He spoke of Darcy’s supposed financial ruin; of Pemberley allegedly endangered through gaming debts contracted in London society; of ancient injustices attached to the Darcy family name; of Bingley represented as little more than a dependant maintained through dubious loans; and finally, with visible displeasure, of the increasingly public suggestions that Elizabeth’s connection with Darcy had already exceeded the boundaries of propriety through repeated private meetings in London, at Rosings, and now openly before the whole neighbourhood at Meryton itself.
Darcy listened without interruption; yet as the accusations approached more nearly toward Elizabeth’s honour, the composure with which he had thus far governed himself seemed gradually to assume a severity almost painful to witness.
One hand closed unconsciously behind his back; his gaze lowered briefly toward the floor; and when at last he spoke again, the restraint of his voice rendered the emotion beneath it infinitely more affecting.
“This,” Mr. Darcy said after a pause during which he appeared to struggle visibly for self-command, “goes considerably beyond ordinary malice. Wickham understands perfectly that injury directed against me alone would eventually exhaust itself; but injury directed against Miss Bennet and your family may survive long after the falsehood itself has been disproved.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Mr. Bennet replied. “The room no longer contents itself with doubting your fortune or discussing your estate. It has already begun speculating upon my daughter.”
Mr. Darcy turned sharply toward him then, and whatever hesitation might previously have restrained him appeared in that instant entirely overcome by a far stronger consideration.
“Then the matter cannot remain uncertain another hour, sir.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him attentively without speaking.
“So long as society imagines my attentions undefined,” Darcy continued with increasing firmness, “every insinuation retains power. People speculate because they believe secrecy possible, imprudence probable, and honour perhaps doubtful. But if your daughter’s engagement becomes publicly acknowledged with your full consent and approval, the entire structure of these calumnies collapses immediately beneath the simple authority of truth. ”
Even Mr. Bennet, though not easily surprised, appeared momentarily struck by the directness with which the proposal had been advanced.
Darcy, however, now seemed entirely beyond retreat.
“I love your daughter deeply and sincerely, sir,” he continued, his voice lower now, though no less steady than before.
“Whatever delay may previously have existed in formally declaring myself arose neither from uncertainty nor dishonourable intention. I would sooner stand before the whole county this instant and claim openly the happiness of belonging to her than permit another hour in which her name may suffer through any connection with mine left doubtful or misunderstood.”
The last words were spoken with a quiet earnestness so entirely free from theatrical display that Mr. Bennet, despite all habitual reserve upon sentimental subjects, felt himself more affected than he had anticipated.
“You understand,” he said at length, “that my daughter’s happiness concerns me infinitely more than the defeat of George Wickham.”
“It concerns me more than every other consideration combined,” Darcy answered immediately. “If Elizabeth herself cannot willingly consent, then nothing else ought to be spoken. But if she can trust me enough to permit it, I shall devote every future day of my life to proving that trust deserved.”
The simplicity of the reply appeared fully sufficient. Mr. Bennet inclined his head once.
“Then the matter rests properly where it ought—with Lizzy herself.”
Elizabeth meanwhile had already begun observing their prolonged absence with growing uneasiness.
Though she still stood beside Jane near the musicians, and though outward composure remained carefully preserved, her attention had long since abandoned every surrounding conversation.
When at last her father and Mr. Darcy returned to the room, walking together with a quiet gravity that immediately drew the eye, the unmistakable directness of their advance set her heart into a sudden, rapid flutter.
They stopped directly before her, and the slight alteration of colour in her cheeks betrayed sufficiently that anxiety had already anticipated unpleasant explanation.
“My dear,” Mr. Bennet said in a low, guarded tone that did not carry beyond their small circle, “Hertfordshire has tonight displayed a most uncommon generosity toward your future by inventing one for you entirely without assistance from either your family or yourself.”
Elizabeth looked immediately from her father toward Darcy, who stood closely beside him, his expression intensely fixed upon her own.
“What has happened, Papa?”
“Nothing very remarkable,” Mr. Bennet replied dryly, “except that before the evening concludes you are likely to be considered simultaneously compromised, secretly attached, nearly abandoned, and perhaps preparing to abscond with Derbyshire itself.”
Elizabeth stared at him in astonishment too sincere for immediate speech.
Darcy stepped nearer then, all reserve at last subdued beneath the urgency of circumstance.
“Mr. Wickham has been spreading insinuations and lies throughout the assembly,” he said quietly, “and society, as unfortunately it generally prefers invention to truth, has aggravated them considerably through repetition.”
Understanding entered Elizabeth’s expression almost instantly, followed immediately by indignation.
“Dear God. This cannot be possible. And people believe him?”
“They believe enough,” Mr. Bennet answered, “that your reputation now risks becoming considerably more interesting to Hertfordshire than I should wish it to appear.”
Elizabeth’s colour deepened painfully.
“How ungenerous, Papa,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes,” Darcy replied, his eyes fixed steadily upon her face, “and precisely for that reason I believe there remains only one immediate method by which the injury may be entirely prevented.”
Elizabeth looked at him silently, though something in his expression had already begun visibly to alter her alarm into a more trembling species of expectation.
“The room speculates because our situation appears uncertain,” Mr. Darcy continued more softly.
“So long as society imagines my attentions undefined, every falsehood acquires additional encouragement from ambiguity. But if your father publicly acknowledges our engagement before the assembly, Wickham’s entire scheme collapses instantly.
No gentleman may continue circulating such insinuations concerning a lady whose future husband stands openly beside her with her family’s approval. ”
Elizabeth’s breath caught slightly.
“You ask me, therefore, to become publicly engaged tonight with you, Mr. Darcy?”
“I ask you, Miss Eilzabeth,” he answered, and though his voice remained low, all the depth of feeling which habit generally restrained now spoke unmistakably through it, “to permit me openly to protect what I already value more than my own consequence, reputation, or comfort. Whatever circumstances force haste upon us now, my feelings themselves have never contained either haste or uncertainty. I loved you before this evening began, Elizabeth, and I shall love you long after Hertfordshire has exhausted its appetite for scandal.”
For one brief moment Elizabeth appeared unable to answer him.
All the agitation of the evening, all the humiliation and danger produced by Wickham’s malice, seemed gradually to dissolve beneath the steadiness of Darcy’s regard and the unmistakable sincerity with which every word had been spoken.
What only minutes earlier had appeared a public crisis now revealed itself suddenly as something infinitely more intimate and irrevocable.
Mr. Bennet, perceiving perhaps that further paternal commentary might at present prove superfluous, folded his arms quietly before observing:
“Well, Lizzy, shall Hertfordshire continue arranging your history without consultation, or will you permit us the smaller inconvenience of telling the truth ourselves?”
Despite everything, Elizabeth laughed softly through emotion which no longer entirely permitted concealment; and when at last she raised her eyes again fully to Darcy’s face, there remained within them very little uncertainty.
“I believe,” she answered gently, “that truth may indeed prove considerably safer.”
***