CHAPTER 27
Not At Home
By the last week of January, the drawing room was finished, the dining room was condemned, and Elizabeth had discovered that a house, once stirred from mourning, did not return quietly to sleep.
The drawing room had altered first. It had ceased to be a chamber arranged for Mrs. Marwood’s old acquaintance and preserved by long habit against every possible intrusion of pleasure.
The heavy curtains had been changed; the chairs had been released from their penitential arrangement against the walls; the carpet no longer made the fire appear apologetic; and the room, when the candles were lit, had taken on the alarming air of expecting people.
Elizabeth had stood in the doorway upon the morning of its completion and regarded it with suspicion.
“It is very much improved,” Mrs. Doddridge had said, from behind her basket.
“That is what makes it dangerous.”
Mrs. Doddridge considered this. “Rooms cannot invite people without assistance.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But they may encourage others to think I have done so.”
The room had its first real trial sooner than Elizabeth expected.
Mrs. Westbrook and Mr. Clark called on Tuesday, at an hour so proper that it might have been selected by committee. Elizabeth saw the carriage from the upper landing; saw Mrs. Westbrook descend; saw Mr. Clark follow with his neat assurance; and felt no surprise at all.
“Mrs. Westbrook and Mr. Clark, ma’am,” Mrs. Albright said a moment later.
Elizabeth glanced toward the new drawing room.
“Miss Bennet is not at home.”
Mrs. Albright received this with the calm of a woman who understood that houses had more than one kind of door.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And send a card after them. Miss Bennet regrets that she was not at home when Mrs. Westbrook and Mr. Clark called. She is much occupied with matters of her own household and must beg to be excused from returning the visit at present.”
“At present, ma’am?”
“It has a civil sound and a discouraging meaning. I am fond of economy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Pom-Pom, who had been occupying a square of winter sunlight with an expression of deep constitutional suffering, opened one eye.
“You need not look at me so severely,” Elizabeth told him. “You were not expected to receive him.”
Pom-Pom closed his eye again, as if relieved to be excluded from so much vulgarity.
Mr. Clark had done nothing to deserve rudeness.
Elizabeth was quite willing to allow it.
He had been civil; he had admired her playing; he had spoken only a little too much like a man pleased to find an ornament unexpectedly supplied with fortune.
He might make some woman an attentive husband, provided that woman enjoyed being instructed in the proper uses of her own independence.
But he had also done nothing to deserve hope.
Since the drawing room was now finished, Elizabeth had determined that it must earn its keep.
Having endured samples, invoices, opinions, delays, and two separate discussions upon curtain fringe, she considered it only just that every caller within reach should be made to admire the fruits of her suffering.
Mrs. Gardiner was therefore shown into the drawing room on Wednesday morning, where Elizabeth received her with an air of such studied indifference that her aunt smiled before she had removed her gloves.
“It is very handsome, Lizzy.”
“Is it? I had not noticed.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked round at the altered curtains, the better-arranged chairs, and the fire which now seemed invited rather than tolerated.
“Of course not.”
“I am glad you understand me.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed and accepted tea. For several minutes the room was allowed its triumph. Mrs. Gardiner praised the curtains, admired the carpet, approved the chairs, and said everything proper to a niece who had worked hard and wished to be complimented without appearing to require it.
Only when tea had been poured, and Pom-Pom had been persuaded that Mrs. Gardiner’s muff was not an offering placed expressly before him, did her aunt say, “Mrs. Westbrook called yesterday, I think.”
“She did. With Mr. Clark.”
“Ah.”
It was a very small word, but Mrs. Gardiner put enough understanding into it to spare them both several sentences.
Elizabeth smiled a little. “A very expressive syllable, Aunt.”
“I meant it to be economical.” Mrs. Gardiner set down her cup. “Were you not at home by accident?”
“No. I thought it kinder to be plain early.”
Mrs. Gardiner accepted this without surprise. “Kinder to whom?”
“To all of us, I think.” Elizabeth looked at the fire, then back at her aunt. “Mr. Clark has done nothing to deserve rudeness. He has also done nothing to deserve hope. If Mrs. Westbrook’s kindness is allowed to travel much farther, it may become embarrassing to everyone.”
“Then it is best stopped early.”
“That was my thought.”
Mrs. Gardiner was silent a moment, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It had none of the quality of correction. She appeared only to be considering the practical shape of the thing.
“I am sorry for Miss Westbrook,” Elizabeth added. “She seemed gentle and sensible. I might have liked her.”
“Then perhaps we shall find you acquaintances with fewer nephews attached.”
Elizabeth looked at her.
Mrs. Gardiner’s smile was mild. “There are safer acquaintances in London than Mrs. Westbrook, if what is wanted is society rather than arrangement.”
“Safer sounds very dull.”
“Not always. Only less determined.”
“That is a recommendation I had not known I required.”
“Then I shall remember it for you.”
The promise was lightly made and lightly received. Elizabeth liked her aunt the better for offering assistance without pressing it upon her. Mrs. Gardiner had all the tact of a woman who knew that good intentions, badly timed, might become only another species of interference.
“And speaking of town,” Mrs. Gardiner continued, “I had a letter from Jane.”
Elizabeth’s attention sharpened.
“Mr. Bingley’s business is now settled enough that they expect to be in London in February. Jane says she will write when their dates are certain.”
“So soon?”
“After the first week, I believe.”
Elizabeth considered this. Mr. Bingley had spoken before of business after the New Year; the news was therefore no great surprise, only a loose thread drawn into place.
“Then I shall expect her letter,” she said. “And before it comes, I must persuade the dining room to look less like a rebuke.”
Mrs. Gardiner glanced toward the door. “Is it so severe?”
“It has opinions.”
“Jane will not come to judge your dining room.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “That is why I should like not to punish her with it.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “She will be very happy to see you.”
“And I shall be very happy to receive her.”
That was true. It was not the full warmth of easy sisterhood, but it was true.
Jane was good; Jane had always been good where goodness was possible; and Elizabeth had no wish to answer goodness with coldness merely because intimacy had not been given sufficient years in which to grow.
Between sisters who had not been allowed to grow close, kindness was a beginning, and Elizabeth meant to make no poor one.
When Mrs. Gardiner had gone, the drawing room appeared even more satisfied with itself than before. Elizabeth left it to its vanity and went in search of Mrs. Albright.
The dining room had not improved with consideration.
It was a long, solemn room, brown from conviction rather than fashion, with curtains that had served faithfully through many years of dinners at which Mrs. Marwood had been respected, obeyed, and never much contradicted.
It had dignity. Elizabeth did not object to dignity.
She objected only to the particular species of dignity which made a person feel judged by the sideboard.
Mrs. Albright, having conquered the drawing room, had turned upon the dining room with the composed severity of a magistrate.
Samples appeared. Estimates multiplied. The upholsterer who had once been permitted to advise on curtains and had never entirely recovered from the honour was consulted improperly by one of the maids and had sent three opinions, two of them contradictory.
“The green is not green,” Elizabeth said, holding one paper against the drapery.
“No, ma’am,” said Mrs. Albright.
“And the gold is too determined.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This one looked warmer in the shop.”
“Most things do, ma’am.”
Elizabeth lowered the paper and looked at her. “You have been waiting to say that.”
“Only since Tuesday, ma’am.”
Elizabeth, who could refuse Mr. Clark with admirable steadiness, found herself oppressed by braid.
There were consolations, however. Mr. Samuel Terling had, by the end of January, achieved the rare distinction of becoming useful without becoming interesting.
He had begun in December as an experiment.
Experiments, in Elizabeth’s experience, were too often praised for being bold when they ought to have been praised only if they did not explode.
Mr. Terling had not exploded. He had gone where he was sent, written down what he had been told, asked questions when a foolish man would have pretended knowledge, and returned with reports in which enthusiasm had been held in proper subjection to fact.
He had found two tenants for Cotton Lane who appeared capable of paying rent without considering it an insult.
He had reduced one ancient claim of custom into writing before it had time to grow another head.
He had listened to Mrs. Bell for forty minutes and emerged with both her chief complaints and his own temper intact.
He had not offended Mr. Beaker beyond the ordinary irritation Mr. Beaker felt toward youth, ink, and breathing.
This was no small recommendation.
Elizabeth therefore retained him.