“No, I have not, but I have heard well of it.”
Darcy next mentioned to Elizabeth a novel of gothic horror he had enjoyed when up at university, but, to his delight, she decried what she termed the “extreme foolishness” of the heroes and heroines of such works, for being so ill-judging as to place themselves in situations which any individual with a proper way of thinking would eschew. “But one must put aside such pragmatic thoughts, in order to enjoy that frisson of terror which is the author’s object,” he protested.
“Enjoy terror?” demanded Elizabeth, “What right-minded person enjoys terror?”
“Well, it is not a true terror,” he admitted with a smile, “and it might well be suggested that Udolpho appeals more to the immature mind, which I will admit to characterise my own; your superior taste must be the foundation for your disapproval of the genre. But, in reality, there must be a degree of melodrama, of foolishness, if you will, else it could not be enjoyable; that is true. The very unreality of the characters’ actions, the fact that such things would, in fact, be very unlikely to occur, allows the mind to enter into the thing, and taste it just enough for enjoyment, but not so much as to cause real distress.”
“I had thought it the novelist’s job to make as plausible a tale as possible,” observed Elizabeth.
Georgiana looked up and agreed: “I believe I feel the same on that point; the more realistic the writing, the more engrossing the story.”
Her brother conceded to them both: “That, I am persuaded, is because your tastes in novels must be better than mine.”
Georgiana was gathering her thoughts, and her courage, to add to this, when Miss Bingley took advantage of the momentary lag in conversation to interject in rather spiteful accents: “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ––shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.” The effect of her words was like the shattering of a fallen glass; the whole room seemed frozen for an instant.
Darcy realised immediately her true object must be to start the idea of Wickham with Elizabeth; his anger flaring, he looked quickly Elizabeth’s way; that Miss Bingley should dare to bring up the topic in his presence was unpardonable, but he could not but fear how Elizabeth might respond: in her pique at this ill-bred provocation, she might let slip something concerning Georgiana. However, with perfect indifference, Elizabeth directly answered: “I am sure they would be no more missed in Longbourn’s drawing-rooms than in Netherfield’s.”
Darcy’s fear subsided on hearing her cool and composed reply, but his anger at Miss Bingley grew; she looked as though she longed to say more, but a glance at Darcy’s darkened countenance persuaded her to withhold her comments. Looking back at Elizabeth, Darcy realised with sudden warmth that in her guarded response she had been very careful with regard to his sister’s sensibilities: had she wished, she might have engaged Miss Bingley on the topic of Colonel Forster’s officers easily enough, without any reference to Wickham, or anything touching on Georgiana’s involvement with the man; that she had not, must have come from her desire to spare his sister any discomfort. The next thought struck him even more forcibly: she had believed that portion of his letter concerning Georgiana’s elopement! —indeed, she had, for there could be no other cause to avoid the topic than her acceptance of Wickham’s guilt. At this, Darcy’s sentiments underwent a profound transformation: Elizabeth had taken his side against Wickham! Never before had any one who was not a victim of Wickham believed Darcy’s representations of his evil, and now, Elizabeth had taken Darcy’s side against him. The warmth of his admiration for her was instantly strengthened by this realisation, although he hardly needed such reinforcement; he looked at her with a degree of grateful appreciation which, had she noticed it, must have told her how far from extinguished were his affections.
To revive the conversation, Darcy asked what reading Elizabeth would recommend; she then asked if they enjoyed the modern poets, to which Georgiana, still in confusion from the allusion to Wickham, contributed only a nod, but Darcy had not even that much to offer—in school the only English poets he had studied were Milton, Donne, Shakespeare, and Chaucer: he knew nothing of the modern authors mentioned by Elizabeth. But he was glad to learn, and listened with interest to what she said of them; all in all, even without the pleasure of knowing how it must frustrate Miss Bingley, it was a very enjoyable discussion, but short-lived: very soon the two ladies from Lambton rose to take their leave.
He escorted them out to their carriage, mostly to prolong his time with Elizabeth, and was very politely thanked by each; as he handed them in, he was extremely pleased by the fact that Elizabeth voluntarily reached for his support, without the faintest hint of aversion. As he re-entered the house, he was in excellent spirits.
Unfortunately, this lasted no longer than his return to the salon; no sooner was he in the door than Miss Bingley, who had apparently been speaking her mind very freely in his absence, judging by the discomposed looks of his sister, turned to him and said with energy: “How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy. I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”
All feelings of charity evaporated within him, and he directly recollected how disobliging Miss Bingley had been. In repressive tones, he disagreed: “To my eye she did not appear much changed; I perceived no difference other than that she is rather tanned—no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.”
Miss Bingley refused to take instruction from his tone, however, and continued, “For my own part, I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion which is intolerable.”
In her attack on Elizabeth, with her particular mention of “fine eyes”, Darcy could not mistake her intention of disparaging Elizabeth to him especially. His anger grew, but he held his tongue and refused to rise to her provocation. He did not scruple, however, to allow his expression to show how little he cared for what she had to say.
Heedless, Miss Bingley sailed on: “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”
“Yes,” said Darcy finally, his tone marking his anger, “but that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
Fixing her with a quelling look, he then walked out of the room; returning with a determined step to Mr. Gardiner, he soothed his temper by joining in mortal conflict with several more unoffending fish, and by listening to the good-natured common sense spoken by his companion.
Chapter Twelve
Darcy’s temper had regained its equilibrium by the time he went down to dinner; Mr. Gardiner had left in mid-afternoon, and between the two of them, with some help from the gardener, William, they were able to supply the fish for the evening’s meal. Darcy had sought out Georgiana on coming back in, to hear her very favourable opinion of Elizabeth and discuss their time together; he was careful, however, not to touch on Miss Bingley’s disobliging remarks.
At dinner, Miss Bingley wisely seated herself at some distance from Darcy, who had Bingley to his right, with Pender next to him. Miss Hartsbury and Sir Neville were to Darcy’s left. Darcy asked the two of them how they spent their day, to which Miss Hartsbury r
eplied, “Sir Neville was kind enough to accompany me on a walk about the grounds.” That gentleman looked faintly embarrassed at this, but the lady maintained a perfect composure. “We had a most marvellous walk to the folly on top of the hill; what a charming little folly, so lovely and so perfectly situated! —the view from there is exquisite. I am quite struck by how beautiful is your country, you know, Mr. Darcy; every new prospect is delightful.”
“I agree entirely,” added Sir Neville.
Darcy reflected that, should their relationship continue to blossom, Sir Neville would of necessity need to learn to be a man of few words. To Miss Hartsbury he said, “We must plan an excursion to the Peaks, and Dove Dale, whilst you are here. They are justifiably renowned for the picturesque of their prospects.”
“You have a remarkable library here at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy,” offered Sir Neville.
“Thank you. I tend to it myself: it is something of an interest of mine,” answered Darcy.
“It is fine, indeed, Darcy,” Pender agreed. “I felt very much at home there last evening, and found an edition of Acquinas I have not seen outside of the Bodelian.”
“Yes; I am afraid the penchant for philosophy runs quite far back in our family. I, myself, have added several first editions, including one of More’s Utopia you may want to look into whilst you are here.”
Miss Hartsbury asked playfully, “Is that all you ever think of, Mr. Darcy? Philosophy? —What of more practical matters? What of the here and now?” Sir Neville smiled at her in open admiration of her gift for conversation.
“What would you have me think of, Miss Hartsbury?” Darcy asked, matching her tone.
“What of families, Sir, and the opposite sex? Is there no place for women in your philosophy?” Darcy, of course, recognised her reference to the interest she had demonstrated in him the last Season but one; he was happy that the matter was now become a subject of jest between them.
But Pender replied for him, “I fear, Miss Hartsbury, that that subject lies outside the proper sphere of philosophy.”
“How, Sir?” asked she in surprise. “Are we of so little consequence, then, that we do not warrant thinking of?”
“Indeed, Master Pender,” said Lady Andover, “it would be folly for any man to belittle the fair sex in my company; is that your purport, then?”
“By no means,” he said firmly, dividing his deferential bow of the head equally between the two ladies. “It is the meaning of the word itself that excludes the topic from consideration.” He stopped there, as though he had explained himself fully, and even Darcy had to look quizzically at him. Feigning surprise, to Darcy he said, “You do not agree?”
“I fear I can neither agree nor disagree; once again, I confess, your argument is too recondite for me.”
“Yet it was the general subject of a rather lengthy deliberation we shared earlier this year,” Pender teazed. Darcy shook his head, unable to penetrate his meaning. “Why, if we do but consider the meaning of the word,” Pender went on, “we find that philosophy is ‘the love of knowledge’; and I recollect telling you at the time that a true knowledge of women is beyond any man; therefore women cannot be considered by philosophy.”
The gentlemen smiled and nodded at this. Miss Hartsbury, however, said, “With the greatest respect for your logic and erudition, Master Pender, I have to say that that is utter nonsense.” The whole table sat up at this, giving Miss Hartsbury their complete attention.
“My dear child,” expostulated her uncle, “have a care! You will please remember to whom you are speaking.”
Pender waved aside this objection, saying with curiosity: “How so, my dear Miss Hartsbury? Might I hear your reasoning?”
“Very well; tell me—is it possible that a woman might study and comprehend philosophy?”
Pender answered, “While there are some who might argue their capacity, I do not count myself amongst them. There have certainly been women in history with a philosophical bent, who have reflected ably on the subject, and I myself have known not a few who could argue logically and capably.”
“Well, there you have your answer,” Miss Hartsbury said.
It was Pender’s turn to look puzzled. “I fear, Madam, you have got ahead of me, there. Would you be so kind as to fill in the middle elements of your argument for this tired old brain?”
“Why, Sir, the female mind can certainly be fathomed by one of that sex, as readily as the depths of the masculine mind can be plumbed by the great male thinkers, and, if it can be allowed that philosophy can be studied, understood, and argued by a woman, the female mind is therefore no more beyond the reach of philosophical study than the male mind.”
Darcy and the others applauded, and Sir Neville let his looks convey his approval; Pender stood and bowed respectfully to Miss Hartsbury. “Here is one woman, at least, who is adept at the Socratic method; I honour you, dear lady.”
Miss Hartsbury beamed, and Darcy saw her dart an elated glance to his sister, who applauded again gleefully. Lady Andover said to Georgiana, “This might be a good moment, my dear, for the ladies to retire; it is always well to leave on a note of triumph.” Georgiana nodded, and the ladies rose; Pender stepped over to Miss Hartsbury after she had gained her feet and kissed her hand, at which she beamed and blinked with great energy; the rest of the men also stood of course, and, with more congratulations and applause, bid the ladies a temporary adieu.
The men settled back into their chairs, and the wine was passed. After a minute or two of desultory conversation, Bingley, perhaps thinking of Pender’s gallant gesture to Miss Hartsbury, asked, “Pender, back in Oxford, you said something I have not forgotten: would you truly not wish to have your youth back?”
“Not for worlds,” was Pender’s reply. “If I knew then what I know now, I should despise my friends for fools, and those above me for worse; yet, were I as ignorant as I was at the time, to what purpose would I return?”
“There, you speak aright,” stated Mr. Hartsbury importantly. “A man ought to leave off the follies of youth, and attend to those serious matters only understood in the fullness of the mature mind.”
“I fear you anticipate me, Sir,” said Pender, “for I confess, the follies of youth are the only attraction youth holds for me at all; they are rapidly abandoning me, and if I were to have it to do over again, I should take care to commit a great deal more of them.”
Darcy and Bingley chuckled, but Mr. Hartsbury said with weighty significance, “You are pleased to make light, Master Pender, but I am well-assured that a man of your parts would never do any such thing.”
Pender returned a slight bow, then asked: “Pray, might we hear your thoughts on the matter? In your estimation, what matters of a serious nature are the proper sphere of the mature mind?”
“Those same things that have been the concern of the contemplative mind, Sir, since the Fall: God, and how best we might follow His plan.”
“Ah, very good,” congratulated Pender, nodding, his head drooping over his wine glass in a meditative manner; a sharp glint in his eye, however, told that he had a verbal contest in view. “There can be no doubt amongst the learned that the mere events of history count but little towards God’s ultimate plan; the man of worth can do nothing to better effect than to support our spiritual leaders. You therefore have tithed the bulk of your wealth over to the Church, I presume?” he asked, lifting his eyes to Hartsbury.
Hartsbury shifted uneasily in his seat. “I regret that, personally, I have but little to give.”
“Of course,” said Pender apologetically, “how absurd in me to assume otherwise. A man of your deeply spiritual nature could accrue little by way of worldly goods; but you give very freely of your time, surely?”
“Ah, there again, Master Pender—my time is not my own; it is consumed nearly completely in attending to the details of my brother’s estate,” responded Mr. Hartsbury in regretful tones. “He left a vast fortune to my niece, who, of course, cannot manage it herself.”
Shortly after this, the men re-joined the ladies in the drawing-room. Miss Bingley, of course, greeted Darcy with smiles even before he was even properly in the room; he had not forgotten that afternoon, however, and so sat down near his sister and Miss Hartsbury, knowing it would prick Miss Bingley. Sir Neville joined them, and was rewarded with Miss Hartsbury’s brightest welcoming smiles.
Miss Bingley, not content to have Darcy at such a distance, and so pointedly shunning her company, came over to their little grouping. “And did you enjoy your conversation over the wine, Mr. Darcy? I fear we were a little dull here, waiting for you gentlemen.”
“Dull?” interjected Miss Hartsbury. “Did you find it so? Then I am sure it must have been my fault; I know, of course, that I tend to go on and on: I do apologise.”
“Why, no, my dear Miss Hartsbury,” said Miss Bingley, disconcerted at being thought to have made so openly a disparaging remark. “I meant no such thing, I assure you: I had nothing in view besides the natural relief that enlarging our group must bring.”
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