CHAPTER 25 #2
The pianoforte was good, though rather more admired than loved.
Elizabeth sat down, touched the keys, and chose something not too brilliant.
She had no wish to conquer the room. Music that entered a drawing room with banners generally deserved to be resisted.
She played instead with spirit enough to quiet conversation and feeling enough to make silence worth having.
By the second page, she forgot Mr. Clark. By the third, she forgot Mrs. Westbrook’s evident intentions. By the end, she remembered Mrs. Marwood’s music room, the newly laid fire, Beethoven making demands, and a London house beginning to answer her.
There was applause when she finished, warm and genuine.
Miss Westbrook looked delighted rather than diminished, which did her credit.
Mrs. Ridge praised her prettily. Mr. Westbrook, restored from the dining room and newly supplied with port and goodwill, said he had never heard that piece played with more understanding, which was probably not true but was kindly meant.
Mr. Gardiner smiled across the room with frank pleasure, and Mrs. Gardiner looked both proud and faintly sorry that she had delivered Elizabeth into such notice.
Mr. Clark came forward last.
“Very pretty, Miss Bennet,” he said, with the air of a man rewarding a child for behaving better than expected. “You have been well taught.”
“Occasionally,” said Elizabeth.
“I confess I prefer music that does not take one too much by surprise.”
“How prudent.”
“One wishes to be pleased, not disturbed.”
“Then I hope I have not injured your evening.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Clark, smiling. “Not at all.”
Elizabeth closed the instrument with unusual care.
The rest of the evening passed with perfect propriety.
Mrs. Westbrook was kindness itself; Mrs. Ridge was sweet; Miss Westbrook charming; Mr. Westbrook good-humoured; Mr. Ridge agreeable; Mr. Gardiner useful when conversation required rescue; and Mr. Clark constant.
He found opportunities to stand near Elizabeth, to offer her tea, to inquire whether she was fatigued, and to mention, more than once, that he would be in town for several weeks.
Elizabeth received all with courtesy. She did not dislike him enough to be entertained. That was his great defect. Mr. Collins had been so absurd as to be almost invigorating. Mr. Clark was merely dull with good hair.
When Elizabeth rose to leave, Mrs. Westbrook pressed her hand warmly.
“We must not let this be the last time, Miss Bennet. My daughter has quite lost her heart to your playing.”
“I am honoured by Miss Westbrook’s good opinion.”
“And my nephew is so fond of music.”
Mr. Clark bowed. “Particularly when it is played with taste.”
Elizabeth curtsied.
Mr. Gardiner handed her to her carriage himself.
“You will tell me,” said Elizabeth quietly, while Mrs. Doddridge was being settled, “whether I am ungrateful if I say that young company is not always an improvement upon solitude.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Gardiner, “there are many things which are improved by youth. Conversation is not invariably among them.”
Elizabeth laughed, forgave him much, and went home.
For a few moments the carriage moved in silence.
Then Mrs. Doddridge said, “Mr. Clark is very attentive.”
“Mrs. Doddridge, I beg you will not be cruel.”
“No, miss.”
“He is handsome.”
“Yes, miss.”
“That is not enough.”
“No, miss.”
Elizabeth looked out at the dark glass of the window and saw her own faint reflection there: sage silk, composed face, curls still mostly obedient. A young woman returning from a respectable dinner, properly accompanied, properly admired, and almost violently relieved that it was over.
“Pom-Pom would not have liked him,” she said.
“No, miss.”
“That is not why I dislike him.”
“No, miss.”
But Mrs. Doddridge said it in such a manner that Elizabeth suspected she had reserves of doubt.
The next afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner called at Portman Square.
Elizabeth received them in the breakfast room.
The drawing room remained in partial disorder, and Elizabeth had learned that unfinished rooms were inclined to become moral arguments if one allowed relations to sit in them too long.
Mrs. Gardiner came in with the expression of a woman prepared to confess something, though not a crime.
Mr. Gardiner followed with the air of a man willing to share blame provided it did not interfere with tea.
“You have come,” said Elizabeth, “to ask whether young company restored me to society.”
“I have come,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “to see whether you survived it.”
“That is more honest.”
Mr. Gardiner accepted his cup. “I have come because your aunt said I must, and because I wished to know whether Mr. Clark had continued speaking after we left him.”
“He did not follow the carriage, so I cannot answer for his later conduct.”
Mrs. Gardiner sighed. “Mrs. Westbrook did mention that her nephew would be present.”
“Did she?”
“She did. I thought only that you might be entertained by a little more young company.”
“Young company was certainly supplied.”
“Yes. Rather more directly than I expected.”
“Directly is kind. Mr. Clark had the air of a man deposited beside me with instructions not to move.”
“I did not intend that, Lizzy.”
“No. I know you did not.”
“I should have guessed, perhaps. Mrs. Westbrook is a kind woman, but she has a mother’s habit of arranging happiness before anyone has asked for it.”
“She has also an aunt’s habit.”
Mrs. Gardiner accepted the correction with grace. “Very just.”
Elizabeth smiled and handed her the bread and butter. The refreshments were warmer than what she had been tempted to provide to the memory of Mr. Clark, which proved, she thought, a forgiving nature.
“He is a handsome young man,” said Mrs. Gardiner, with an effort at fairness.
“Exceedingly,” said Elizabeth. “He would be handsomer still if he could be persuaded to speak less.”
Mrs. Doddridge, who was seated by the window with a small piece of blue wool in her lap, said without looking up, “It would not injure him, miss.”
Mr. Gardiner put down his cup.
Mrs. Gardiner laughed before she could prevent herself.
Elizabeth considered this the first truly just action of the matter.
“He is not a bad young man,” said Mr. Gardiner.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “That is the difficulty. If he were worse, he would be more entertaining.”
“Lizzy.”
“I am very serious. Mild deficiency is the hardest condition to forgive. There is so little one can do with it.”
Mrs. Gardiner tried to look severe and failed. “I will own that he did not distinguish himself as I might have wished.”
“He distinguished himself from silence, which would have suited him better.”
“I shall not tell Mrs. Westbrook so.”
“I beg you will not. It might encourage her to send him again for correction.”
Mr. Gardiner looked at his wife.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her tea.
Elizabeth saw it.
“No,” she said.
“I said nothing,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
“You were going to say that perhaps another meeting—”
“I was not.”
“You were preparing to think it.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “You are very severe upon thoughts.”
“They are the beginning of arrangements.”
“So they are.”
“Aunt, I am very grateful to you for thinking of me. I do not dislike dinners. I do not dislike society. I do not even dislike young gentlemen in principle.”
“That is a relief,” said Mr. Gardiner.
“But I dislike being placed where someone else’s good intention begins to look like a plan for my disposal.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s amusement softened. “I know.”
Elizabeth looked into her tea. “It is not so very different from Longbourn, when put badly.”
“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner quietly. “But it was not meant in that spirit.”
“I know that too.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached across and touched her hand briefly. “Then we are forgiven?”
“Entirely.”
“And Mrs. Westbrook?”
“Provisionally.”
“And Mr. Clark?” asked Mr. Gardiner.
“He has not offended enough to require forgiveness.”
“That is almost worse,” said Mr. Gardiner.
“Much worse.”
The subject turned, by degrees, to Miss Westbrook’s music, Mrs. Ridge’s good humour, the quality of the Westbrooks’ cook, and whether Mr. Westbrook had always laughed at his own stories before the end.
By the time the Gardiners left, Elizabeth was in charity with her aunt, affection with her uncle, neutrality with the Westbrooks, and a state of firm resistance toward all nephews.
The following day was Thursday.
Elizabeth had not told herself she was waiting for four o’clock.
She had only arranged the library earlier than usual.
The fire was laid before luncheon. The Manchester Square papers were placed in order, Samuel Terling’s latest note folded beneath Mr. Beaker’s figures, and the fresh inkstand set nearer the chair Mr. Darcy generally used.
Mrs. Doddridge had observed all this and said nothing, which was among her more pointed forms of speech.
Elizabeth wore a warm morning gown of soft brown wool, plain enough for business and comfortable enough for a January afternoon. The sage silk had been returned to its proper place, where Evans might admire its success in private and Elizabeth could pretend not to know.
Pom-Pom, restored to his rightful place in society, occupied a cushion near the fire.
His blue wrapper had been brushed; his Christmas brooch had not been permitted for an ordinary afternoon, but a narrow ribbon had been allowed.
He had forgiven Elizabeth for the Westbrook dinner only after breakfast, and even then not extravagantly.
At three o’clock, Mrs. Westbrook and Mr. Jonathan Clark were announced.
Elizabeth looked at the clock.
It was, she thought, a very exact form of misfortune.
“Show them in,” she said.
Mrs. Westbrook entered with all the ease of a woman who believed herself welcome because she meant well. Mr. Clark followed, polished, handsome, and faintly pleased by the opportunity of appearing unannounced by any fault of his own.