Chapter VIII
That evening, at supper, the conversation could not settle upon any subject unrelated to Pemberley.
Mr. Gardiner, who had intended merely to eat in comfort after the fatigues of the day, found himself repeatedly returning to the same topic with increasing animation.
The stream below the western lawn, the management of the grounds, the ease and propriety visible throughout the estate – all appeared, upon recollection, even more deserving of admiration than they had seemed at first sight.
“I declare,” said he, helping himself once more, though with less attention to his plate than to his reflections, “I do not remember when I have been more pleasantly surprised by any gentleman. There was nothing studied in Mr. Darcy’s civility.
Many men know how to be polite when they choose, but very few possess that sort of attentiveness which seems entirely without effort. ”
“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Gardiner, “and what struck me still more was the evident sincerity of it. One could not suppose him acting merely from form. Had he wished only to satisfy propriety, a much smaller degree of attention would have sufficed.”
Elizabeth, who had thus far applied herself very diligently to arranging fruit upon her plate without consuming any of it – with such elaborate care, indeed, that her uncle might reasonably have supposed the arrangement itself part of the meal – felt her aunt’s eyes rest upon her for a moment longer than usual.
“I confess,” continued Mrs. Gardiner thoughtfully, “I am now very curious, Lizzy, to know by what misfortune you and Mr. Darcy ever came to dislike one another.”
Elizabeth looked up quickly. “Dislike is perhaps too strong a word.”
“Was it?” asked her aunt gently. “You certainly never encouraged us to think well of him.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly.
“You described him,” said Mr. Gardiner with good humour, “as proud, disagreeable, and excessively reserved. I expected a man scarcely capable of enduring his fellow creatures.”
“And instead,” added Mrs. Gardiner, smiling, “we find a gentleman anxious that we should remain another day solely because his stream might better reward your uncle’s fishing ambitions.”
Mr. Gardiner laughed. “A temptation,” said Mr. Gardiner, “against which I have never possessed much moral strength.”
Elizabeth attempted to smile also, though not entirely successfully. “Mr. Darcy is… not always the same in every company.”
“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner quietly, “that is very apparent.”
Her aunt spoke too deliberately for Elizabeth’s comfort.
Her aunt continued after a short pause. “And yet I cannot persuade myself that his attentions today proceeded merely from general civility.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled upon the table.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Gardiner, leaning back in his chair, “the invitation itself was extraordinary. For a man of his consequence to press the acquaintance of comparative strangers so warmly would already be remarkable. But to insist upon prolonging our stay – and with such evident earnestness – is not easily explained.”
Mrs. Gardiner now looked directly at her niece, though with perfect kindness. “I believe, Lizzy,” she said gently, “that the explanation may have more to do with you than with us.”
Elizabeth felt the colour rise to her cheeks.
“My aunt!”
“My dear, you need not look so distressed. I do not mean to tease you.” Her expression softened further. “But surely you must perceive it yourself. Mr. Darcy appeared particularly desirous of your good opinion.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes at once. “He was attentive to all of us,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Gardiner, “but not equally.”
A short silence followed.
Mr. Gardiner, less delicate perhaps but equally affectionate, added with cheerful openness, “And if I may speak plainly, Lizzy, I suspect the gentleman admires you very much indeed.”
Elizabeth could not maintain composure in the conversation much longer. “You both imagine far too much,” she said, attempting lightness though her voice betrayed some agitation. “Mr. Darcy is merely anxious to repair an acquaintance formerly conducted with less ease.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
Yet her manner plainly suggested she was not convinced.
Elizabeth felt herself incapable of continuing the subject safely.
She therefore enquired whether her uncle truly intended to attempt fishing the following morning, and by this means the conversation gradually altered; though not, she suspected, because either of her relations had entirely relinquished their conclusions.
Later, when she had retired for the night and found herself at last alone, all the composure she had maintained throughout the evening deserted her entirely.
The room was quiet. Beyond the window, Lambton had already begun to sink into stillness; the last sounds from below stairs faded gradually, until nothing remained but the distant murmur of voices somewhere in the inn and the occasional passing of wheels upon the street.
Elizabeth sat beside the candle for some time without undressing.
Her aunt’s words returned to her repeatedly.
He appeared particularly desirous of your good opinion.
Was it possible?
Elizabeth, who had formerly prided herself upon discerning everybody else’s feelings with tolerable accuracy, found her own increasingly beyond interpretation.
She had asked herself the question before, though never so directly. Until now, she had resisted it almost instinctively, partly from pride, partly from caution, and partly because the alternative appeared too dangerous to entertain.
For if Mr. Darcy still felt for her anything resembling his former attachment, every gesture, every word would have more meaning… she did not know how she ought to behave.
And if he did not…
That thought, she discovered unwillingly, was no longer entirely comfortable either.
She rose at last and moved slowly towards the window.
Tomorrow they would go to Pemberley.
Tomorrow she would see him again – not unexpectedly upon a street, not amidst accidental meetings and hurried conversation, but in his own home, among those who knew and loved him best.
The idea filled her with an agitation she could neither master nor wholly regret.
She thought of Georgiana – of her sweetness, her timidity, the quiet affection with which she looked towards her brother, and the gentle confidence with which she had spoken of him.
There had been nothing artful in Miss Darcy’s manner, nothing proud, nothing resembling the character Wickham had once so readily attributed both to brother and sister alike.
A particular afternoon in Meryton returned unexpectedly to her memory.
She saw again the easy confidence with which Wickham had walked beside her, sometime before Christmas, speaking of old grievances he appeared almost unwilling to reveal.
At the time, his reluctance had seemed honourable.
She remembered thinking that no man could invent such a story with such openness.
Now the recollection embarrassed her.
The openness had been too convenient. The reluctance too perfectly timed. What she had once mistaken for sincerity seemed increasingly like practice. Nor had she been singular in receiving his confidence. Before many weeks had passed, the story seemed known throughout Meryton.
And Elizabeth, remembering now the warmth with which she had formerly listened to those accusations, felt a painful shame steal over her once more.
How willingly she had believed him.
Not merely because his story had been plausible, nor because Mr. Darcy’s reserve had encouraged unfavourable judgement, but because Wickham’s account had flattered her vanity while seeming to justify her prejudice.
She had been pleased to find Mr. Darcy condemned by another and pleased to think herself discerning for having disliked him early.
And in that satisfaction, she had accepted as truth assertions which ought to have been examined far more carefully than she had ever troubled herself to do.
For Wickham had not merely attempted to injure Darcy in her esteem; he had spoken lightly – almost cruelly – of Georgiana too.
And she, who now could not imagine Miss Darcy speaking ill of anyone, had listened without sufficient indignation merely because her resentment towards the brother disposed her to think ill of all connected with him.
Worse still, she remembered now – with a degree of mortification almost intolerable – how very near she herself had once come to admiring him beyond prudence.
There had been moments in Hertfordshire when Wickham’s easy manners, his openness, his flattering attentions, and the readiness with which he appeared to understand her feelings had nearly persuaded her that his preference was sincere.
Had his attentions continued uninterrupted – had his pursuit not so suddenly transferred itself elsewhere – she could no longer feel entirely certain how far her partiality might once have carried her.
She had escaped his attentions only because of her small portion.
The thought alarmed her. She congratulated herself that when he turned his attentions elsewhere, her heart did not seem to be really touched.
What she had formerly mistaken for frankness, after Mr. Darcy’s letter, appeared dangerously like calculation.
His charm, once so pleasing, revealed itself increasingly as something practised – something employed not from warmth of heart, but from habit, vanity, and self-interest. Even his intimacy of manner, which had once distinguished him so favourably from Darcy, now seemed less the mark of openness than of a man too accustomed to making himself agreeable whenever advantage required it.
Elizabeth turned away from the window and began walking slowly across the room.
The candle had burned lower than she realised.
She crossed to the dressing table and began removing the pins from her hair one by one. Several fell immediately into her lap; one disappeared altogether.
Ordinarily, she would have searched for it. Tonight, she scarcely noticed.
What must Mr. Darcy think of her now, if he remembered – as surely he must – the readiness with which she had once defended Wickham?
The injustice of it appeared plainer every day.
She who had accused Darcy of pride had been, in her own way, equally vain in trusting so completely to the quickness of her own judgement.
And yet what affected her most was not merely the error itself, but the contrast between what she had believed and what she now saw.
The man whom she had once thought incapable of generosity had exerted himself so naturally for the comfort of others.
The sister whom she had unconsciously imagined proud and reserved had met her with openness, sweetness, and unaffected kindness – qualities which could hardly have flourished under the influence of a selfish or unfeeling brother.
Even their attachment to one another – quiet, natural, wholly without display – contradicted every suspicion Wickham had once encouraged.
Elizabeth stopped at last beside the candle.
How differently she had understood them then. And how differently she wished now to be understood herself.
She thought of Darcy himself: of the effort so visible beneath his composure; of the seriousness with which he listened; of that altered manner which no longer seemed governed by pride, but by something far more difficult and far more affecting – humility.
Or perhaps she no longer looked at him solely to find fault.
She remembered, too, his expression when she had said:
“So am I.”
She had not expected those simple words to affect him so.
She reached at last for the candle extinguisher.
Yet before lowering it, she found herself looking once more towards the dark outline of the hills beyond the window.
Tomorrow.
The thought returned immediately.
Tomorrow she would see Pemberley.
Tomorrow she would see him again.
She had once believed herself secure in her understanding of him.
Now she understood nothing clearly except this: that tomorrow mattered far more to her than it ought.
A conclusion which, had anyone attempted to suggest it to her only weeks before, she would have rejected with considerable indignation.