Chapter Twenty-Five
The weeks which followed passed with greater tranquillity than Elizabeth would once have believed possible.
Summer deepened gradually over Hertfordshire.
The hedgerows grew dense and green, the days lengthened, and Longbourn resumed the familiar habits of ordinary life.
Yet beneath that appearance of familiarity there existed a sense that something had altered, not only within the household but within the people who inhabited it.
Nowhere was this more evident than in her parents.
The change was difficult to define precisely because it was Mrs Bennet who had altered most and yet altered least. She remained sociable and deeply interested in the lives of her daughters, but the restless agitation which had once accompanied every disappointment had deserted her.
She no longer hurried from one excitement to another, nor did she dwell upon imagined disasters with quite the same enthusiasm.
There was a contentment about her which Elizabeth could not remember seeing before; a quiet confidence that sat so naturally upon her that it seemed impossible to believe it had ever been absent.
The younger girls were considerably less comfortable with the transformation.
Lydia appeared to regard it as a temporary illness and watched her mother with open suspicion whenever she failed to become alarmed by something.
Kitty, finding herself deprived of the familiar storms around which she had long arranged her own feelings, seemed at first uncertain what to do with herself.
Yet even they were not entirely untouched by the change.
A calmer household had a curious effect upon its inhabitants, and though neither sister would have admitted it, both had become a little steadier in consequence.
Mr Bennet, for his part, appeared quietly delighted by the whole affair. Whether this was because he genuinely admired the alteration in his wife or because he enjoyed bewildering the neighbourhood, Elizabeth was never entirely certain. Most likely, she suspected, it was both.
There was something unexpectedly affecting in seeing two people, who had spent so many years misunderstanding one another, arrive at a place of greater kindness.
No declarations had been exchanged. No revelations made.
The transformation had occurred through a hundred small acts which would have appeared insignificant to anybody not paying attention.
Jane, meanwhile, continued to astonish her in an entirely different manner. Elizabeth had expected uncertainty and disappointment and all the other emotions which common sense suggested ought naturally to accompany a separation. Instead Jane appeared as cheerful and serene as ever.
Mr Bingley's name arose frequently enough in conversation.
Darcy (for he was now in her mind and heart, simply Darcy) mentioned him occasionally in his letters, always affectionately but never at any great length.
Bingley had attended a dinner. Bingley had become interested in this, that and the other.
Bingley had somehow acquired strong opinions regarding tenant cottages.
None of it amounted to very much and certainly none of it explained Jane's unwavering confidence.
The mystery occupied Elizabeth for several weeks before she finally resolved to satisfy her curiosity. The explanation proved almost laughably simple.
She found Jane one afternoon in the drawing room whilst the rest of the household was otherwise engaged.
The room was quiet. A fire burned low in the grate and Jane sat beside the window with her work in her lap, looking so entirely at peace with herself and the world that Elizabeth felt the sight almost an affront.
It was not merely that Jane appeared cheerful. Cheerfulness would have been understandable. It was the complete absence of uncertainty which puzzled her.
Darcy's letters lifted her spirits, yet Elizabeth could not pretend they had brought her any real certainty.
Indeed, they had perhaps accomplished the opposite.
She knew him better now than she had in Lyme.
She thought of him more often than she intended.
There were days when she could scarcely pass an hour without some recollection of him presenting itself uninvited to her thoughts.
Yet what did she know? That he cared for her and wished to write. Beyond that, everything remained clouded by distance and circumstance. There were moments when she felt almost convinced of their future and others when she was seized by the absurd fear that she might never see him again.
Jane, meanwhile, appeared entirely free of such anxieties.
"How do you do it?" Elizabeth asked at last.
Jane looked up.
"Do what, dearest?"
"This."
Jane smiled. "I am afraid you must be more specific."
"This impossible tranquillity."
The smile only widened. "I did not know I possessed any. Indeed, I feel as much myself as ever."
"You do. It is deeply irritating."
Jane laughed softly and laid aside her sewing.
"Then explain it to me. Explain how you can sit there looking so content when you have not seen him for weeks."
Jane was quiet for a moment, considering the question with greater seriousness than Elizabeth had expected.
"I think," she said at last, "that perhaps I simply do not spend very much time wondering what might go wrong. I miss him very much. There are days when I should like nothing better than to see him walk through that door. I think of him often. More often than is probably sensible."
Elizabeth smiled despite herself. "There is the Jane Bennet I recognise."
"But I do not see what purpose would be served by allowing those feelings to make me miserable. If I believed he had forgotten me or changed his mind, that would be one thing. Yet I do not believe it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Jane lowered her eyes briefly to her work before looking up again.
"I am not sure of everything, Lizzy. I am only sure of him.
When we left Lyme, I believed that Mr Bingley cared for me.
Nothing has happened since then to make me think otherwise.
He is the same man now that he was then.
If circumstances have delayed him, they have delayed him.
If difficulties exist, I must trust him to overcome them if he can. "
Elizabeth sighed.
"You make it sound so very simple."
"Perhaps it is simpler than we imagine."
"I do not think Mr Darcy would agree."
At this Jane laughed outright. "No, perhaps not. You have your letters, Lizzy. You know better than most how much can be said without saying everything."
Elizabeth thought immediately of the stack of folded pages in her dressing table drawer and felt herself blush further.
"I am not sure they have made me any calmer."
"No," said Jane gently. "Because you wish for certainty."
Jane reached across and squeezed her hand.
"I do not mean that unkindly. Only that you wish to know exactly what will happen before you allow yourself to trust in it."
"And you do not?"
"I think I have found something in Mr Bingley which is very precious to me.
I believe he has found something similar in me.
Whether it takes a month or a year, whether there are obstacles or inconveniences or misunderstandings, I trust that what we have discovered will eventually bring us together again. "
A faint colour rose in her cheeks. "And if I am right, we shall be happier than we have any right to be."
???
The matter remained unresolved until the morning on which Netherfield ceased to be an empty house.
Mr Bennet unfolded a letter one morning at breakfast. Elizabeth had waited two weeks for a letter from Darcy and felt the same ache as she had in the previous days when nothing had arrived for her attention.
Mr Bennet coughed and announced quietly, "Netherfield is let."
The effect upon the rest of the family was immediate.
Questions arrived from every direction. Who had taken it? When would they arrive? Were they married? Had they children? Were they wealthy?
Mr Bennet endured the interrogation with studied calm. Having allowed the excitement to build for a few moments, he glanced down at the letter once more.
"I cannot answer most of those questions with any sort of certainty, but the gentleman's name is Mr Binkley."
Elizabeth looked up. "Mr Binkley?"
"So it says."
Lydia frowned. "What sort of name is Binkley?"
"A perfectly respectable one, I daresay," said Mr Bennet. "Though it sounds faintly invented."
Mrs Bennet peered at the letter herself. "He must be a young gentleman of good fortune."
"Is he handsome?" asked Kitty.
The question was ignored.
"I wonder if he is acquainted with Mr Bingley," said Jane.
The observation was made so innocently that Elizabeth laughed.
"Because their names are similar?"
"I shouldn't think so," said Lydia. "There are hundreds of people with similar names."
"It does seem strange," said Mary thoughtfully. "Particularly when one considers that there cannot be many wealthy young gentlemen in England whose names differ by only a single syllable."
"I hope they are not acquainted," said Mrs Bennet. "It would save a great deal of confusion."
Elizabeth smiled, but her eyes had already drifted towards Jane.
Her sister appeared amused rather than disappointed. Indeed, she looked almost entirely untroubled by the news.
The composure was becoming exasperating.
Mr Bennet unfolded the letter once more. "Though now that I look again—"
The entire table turned towards him.
"What?" demanded Lydia.
Mrs Bennet peered over her husband's shoulder at the page.
"The handwriting is dreadful. I am not certain… but I believe the gentleman's name may actually be Bingley."
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Lydia shrieked. Kitty followed immediately afterwards and Mary dropped her fork.
Elizabeth's heart gave a leap, for surely where Mr Bingley went, Darcy followed.
Only Jane remained entirely composed, though the faint colour which rose into her cheeks betrayed her more than any exclamation could have done.
Mr Bennet looked from one daughter to the other and sighed.