Chapter 7 #3
Mr Bennet looked up briefly over the top of his book. “You are very welcome, Lizzy. I always listen with great attention when my daughters predict calamity.”
Elizabeth attempted a faint smile, though it cost her some effort. “I hope, at least, that I am mistaken.”
“So do I,” he replied lightly.
There was nothing more to be said.
Elizabeth left the study and closed the door quietly behind her.
The hallway beyond felt colder and far less comfortable than it had when she first approached it with such confidence in her father’s judgement.
She paused for a moment, uncertain where to go, before turning instinctively toward the back of the house.
The garden door opened with only slight resistance, and the cold air outside met her with a sharpness that was almost welcome. Elizabeth stepped onto the path and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders as she began to walk.
The winter garden was entirely still. The bare branches of the trees stood dark against the pale sky, and the gravel paths stretched empty between the sleeping beds.
It was the same walk she had taken earlier with Mr Darcy, though the circumstances of that conversation now appeared very different in her recollection.
Elizabeth walked slowly, her thoughts returning again and again to the interview she had just left.
She had approached her father with perfect confidence that he would listen. Mr Bennet had always treated her with more consideration than the rest of her sisters, and Elizabeth had long believed that, where serious matters were concerned, his judgement might be relied on.
Yet he had listened only long enough to dismiss her concerns as unnecessary anxiety.
Elizabeth paused beside the hedge and looked across the quiet lawn.
She could not persuade herself that she had exaggerated the danger.
Mr Darcy had spoken with a gravity that could not easily be mistaken, and the circumstances he had described were too dangerous to be invented.
No man, she felt certain, would fabricate such a history concerning a sister he obviously loved with all his heart.
The recollection of his manner returned to her with renewed force.
He had not spoken lightly. Indeed, the difficulty with which he had revealed the story had been clear throughout the conversation.
Even while condemning Wickham’s conduct, he had seemed more concerned with preventing future harm than with defending himself against past accusations.
Elizabeth resumed walking, her steps slow and thoughtful.
It was impossible not to acknowledge that he had placed considerable trust in her. The history he had revealed could not have been shared without risk, and yet he had chosen to confide in her rather than address the matter to her father.
At the time, she had thought the choice surprising. Now, it appeared less so.
Elizabeth stopped again and clasped her hands before her.
It was not pleasant to admit the conclusion toward which her thoughts had gradually led her.
Mr Bennet had heard her warning with patience, but with no intention of acting on it.
Whether from indifference, amusement, or simple reluctance to involve himself in uncomfortable inquiries, the result was the same.
Her father would do nothing.
Elizabeth felt a quiet disappointment settle heavily over her spirit.
She had always valued her father’s intelligence and enjoyed the ease of their conversations.
Yet his habitual indifference to the concerns of the household, which had so often appeared merely humorous, seemed now to carry consequences that were far less agreeable.
Mr Darcy was a man of a different stripe.
He had not been indifferent. On the contrary, he had taken the trouble to warn her, even at the risk of appearing officious or unjust. The more she considered it, the more she was obliged to acknowledge that his conduct had required both courage and delicacy.
Elizabeth walked slowly toward the far end of the path, her thoughts settling into a calmer order.
Her opinion of Mr Darcy had not changed in every respect.
His manners were still often proud, and his judgement of others sometimes severe.
Yet she could not doubt the sincerity with which he had acted that morning.
Indeed, it was impossible to deny that he had shown a degree of concern for her safety which her own father had declined to exercise.
Elizabeth closed her eyes against the pain of the realisation, unable to dismiss it. Drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders, she turned back toward the house.
If Mr Bennet would not investigate the matter further, she must at least take care that Mr Wickham received no encouragement from her. That much, at least, was entirely within her own power.
As she approached the house once more, Elizabeth found that her thoughts returned again to the conversation in the garden and to the earnestness with which Mr Darcy had spoken.
She had never seen him in quite that light before.
And the recollection, at once disquieting and strangely warming, remained with her long after she had returned inside.