11. The Evidence of Conduct
eleven
The Evidence of Conduct
Meryton had altered very little in Elizabeth’s absence, though everyone in it appeared determined to persuade her otherwise.
Mrs. Long had chosen a new cap-maker and wished every acquaintance to admire the result without being asked.
The Gouldings had obtained a new gig, which seemed to inspire both envy and concern among those who possessed neither.
Mr. Robinson’s eldest daughter was said to have received an offer from a young man in Ware, though Mrs. Philips had serious doubts about his complexion and greater doubts about his mother.
The butcher’s boy had grown two inches, according to Lydia, and none at all, according to Kitty, who insisted Lydia said so because he had once admired her bonnet.
In short, Meryton remained precisely itself. Elizabeth found comfort in that.
After Ireland, London, and all the summer’s movement, there was a peculiar pleasure in walking into the village with Jane and discovering the same shop windows, the same dusty road, the same women pausing at doors to inquire after her travels and then answer their own questions before she could do so.
Mr. Gardiner’s business had given her a glimpse of warehouses, clerks, shipping concerns, and the practical machinery by which fortunes were made, maintained, and occasionally imperiled.
Meryton, by contrast, treated the arrival of new ribbon as an event capable of sustaining conversation for three days.
Mr. Wickham’s presence had added considerably to that conversation.
He was, as Mrs. Philips liked to say, a very superior young man for the law.
By this Elizabeth understood that he wrote an elegant hand, wore his coat well, and did not smell of ink unless one came upon him near the office after a long morning’s work.
He lodged with an elderly widow in a small house near the church, kept regular hours, and had already earned such approval from Mr. Philips that her aunt could scarcely mention him without assuming an air of proprietary triumph.
“He has been at his books since seven this morning,” Mrs. Philips declared one Thursday when Elizabeth and Jane stopped in Meryton to purchase thread.
“Seven! Mr. Philips says he works like a man who means to succeed. And he does not place himself above others, either. I saw him myself carrying old Mrs. Harker’s parcel when her rheumatism troubled her.
A gentleman who carries parcels without making a display of condescension is worth ten who merely bow handsomely. ”
Elizabeth could hardly disagree.
Over the next several days, evidence of Mr. Wickham’s usefulness presented itself in small, unforced ways.
He walked a farmer through some question concerning a boundary agreement and refused payment for the explanation because, as he said, Mr. Philips had already been consulted on the matter.
He read a letter for a tenant’s widow whose son had gone to sea and then wrote the answer while she sat beside him weeping into a handkerchief.
When Mr. Denny and another young man attempted to draw him into cards at the assembly rooms, he laughed, shook his head, and said he had already paid dear enough for every lesson games of chance had ever taught him.
That last remark reached Elizabeth through Lydia, who repeated it with great satisfaction and some drama.
“He said it exactly so,” Lydia insisted, perched upon Elizabeth’s bed while Elizabeth changed her gown for dinner. “And Mr. Denny said he was growing dull, and Mr. Wickham said dullness was a vast improvement upon debt.”
“Very wise.”
“I thought so. Though I told him he must not become too dull, for then I could never marry him.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Lydia.”
“What? I shall be sixteen in November, and he says he will not speak to Papa properly before then, though I think that is very tiresome of him.”
“It is also sensible.”
“That is why it is tiresome.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling. “You might try admiring sense when it is offered for your own benefit.”
“I do admire it. I wish it were quicker.”
Lydia flung herself back upon the bed with such vigor that the ribbons laid there jumped.
She was still bright, impatient, and easily diverted by the promise of pleasure, but there was less recklessness in her than Elizabeth remembered.
The change did not make her sedate. Nothing short of a miracle could have made Lydia sedate.
Instead, her liveliness had found an object that required her to be better than she had been.
She took greater pains with her reading because Mr. Wickham had recommended one of Mr. Philips’s old histories of English law in a manner that made her determined to discover whether any history of law could be endured.
She spoke less cruelly of Mary because Mr. Wickham had once said that seriousness, though sometimes inconvenient at breakfast, deserved respect.
She even mended a torn glove rather than demanding a new pair, which astonished Mrs. Bennet so much that she mentioned it at dinner and thereby destroyed much of Lydia’s satisfaction.
All this recommended Mr. Wickham more than compliments could have done.
He did not flatten Lydia’s exuberance. He guided it. There was a difference, and Elizabeth valued him for knowing it.
One afternoon, when the heat lay heavily over the fields and Mrs. Bennet had declared it impossible for anyone to walk farther than the shrubbery without expiring, Mr. Wickham came to Longbourn with Mr. Philips on a matter of business for Mr. Bennet.
The gentlemen disappeared into the library, and the ladies were left to endure Mrs. Bennet’s anticipation of their reappearance.
“I do hope your father will not keep Mr. Wickham too long,” she said, arranging and rearranging the tea tray though Hill had already done everything necessary.
“Young men must eat. It is a very bad thing for them to be kept from tea when they have been working. Law must be very exhausting, all those papers and arguments. Lydia, do not sit so near the window. You will freckle.”
“Mama, I already have freckles.”
“Then do not acquire more.”
Kitty giggled. Lydia tossed a cushion at her, then stopped when Jane gave her a mild look. She collected the cushion from the carpet, restored it to the chair, and sat upon her hands as if she might otherwise commit further crimes.
Elizabeth, who had observed the whole operation, hid her amusement behind a book.
When Mr. Wickham entered at last, Lydia’s hands emerged from beneath her and instantly began to fuss with her ribbon. Mr. Philips followed, praising Mr. Bennet’s judgment in three separate phrases and Mr. Wickham’s neat summary of the matter in four.
“Your father is satisfied,” Mr. Philips said, taking the chair Mrs. Bennet offered him. “And if Bennet is satisfied with any document set before him, you may know it has been made very plain indeed.”
Mr. Bennet, entering behind him, gave Elizabeth a look of long suffering. “I am slandered in my own house, Lizzy.”
“Only by relations, Papa. That scarcely counts.”
“On the contrary, relations do it with the most confidence.”
Mr. Wickham accepted tea from Jane and then crossed to offer Mrs. Bennet a packet. “Mrs. Philips asked me to bring this. She said the pattern came from London and that you would know whether it is worth copying.”
Mrs. Bennet opened it with a gasp of delight. “Oh! A cap! How thoughtful. Lydia, see how becoming the lace is. Mr. Wickham, you must tell my sister she has chosen very well.”
“I shall tell her she has pleased a lady of excellent taste,” he replied.
Mrs. Bennet flushed with pleasure. Lydia looked as proud as if she had selected the lace herself.
Elizabeth watched him move through the room with practiced ease, neither too familiar nor stiff, adjusting himself to each person without seeming to perform.
He listened when Mary attempted to explain why legal order reflected moral order.
He allowed Kitty to describe a new trimming she had seen at the milliner’s and did not once let his eyes drift toward Lydia while Kitty spoke.
When Lydia interrupted anyway, he said, “Miss Lydia, your sister had reached the best part,” and Lydia subsided, astonished at herself but not offended.
That was perhaps his greatest talent. He corrected without making correction feel like shame.
After tea, the heat lessened enough for Mrs. Bennet to allow a walk into the lane, provided no one ventured too far and no one returned with damp feet, though how one might obtain damp feet on a dry August road she did not explain.
Lydia and Kitty clamored to go. Jane excused herself to write a letter.
Mary observed that walking might assist digestion and then remained at the pianoforte.
Mr. Wickham offered his arm to Lydia, and Elizabeth, required by propriety and curiosity, went with them.
“I do not need a chaperone,” Lydia whispered as they passed through the gate.
“You do,” Elizabeth replied.
“I am nearly sixteen.”
Lydia had just turned fifteen in June, but Elizabeth did not remark on that. “That is precisely the difficulty.”
Mr. Wickham’s mouth twitched, but he was wise enough not to enter the dispute.
Kitty soon found reason to fall behind in pursuit of a wildflower growing near the hedge, and Elizabeth slowed with her, allowing Lydia and Mr. Wickham to walk several paces ahead.
The lane was familiar beneath her feet, bordered by late summer grass and hedges dusty from the road.
A cart passed, its driver touching his hat.
Mr. Wickham returned the greeting with easy civility.
Mrs. Bennet’s assumptions had already directed his attentions into a settled matter, but Elizabeth wanted to hear how he managed those assumptions when not surrounded by teacups and maternal exclamations.
She did not have long to wait.