He then turned to his sisters: “Darcy will join us presently.” (speaking rather lower) “He is a little out of temper—we ran against that fellow Wickham in the town.”
Miss Bingley exclaimed at this. “What! George Wickham actually here in Meryton?”
“Most unfortunate. He has accepted a lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. But pray do not speak of it to Darcy. You know how he hates any mention of the man.”
“How dare he show his face in Hertfordshire while Mr. Darcy is staying here! What insolence!”
“My dear Caroline, now you are being absurd. And you have moved your right arm just when Miss Long was working on the sleeve.”
Miss Bingley’s response was to jump up from the sofa. “Who is the colonel of the regiment? Forster, is it not? Charles, you must speak to him—tell him what sort of man George Wickham is.”
This time it was Mrs. Hurst who told her sister she was being absurd. “It has nothing to do with you, Caroline. And Mr. Darcy would not thank you for meddling in his affairs.”
Miss Bingley looked not to have heard her; she was now pacing up and down, and Cassandra—in tacit acknowledgment that the sitting was over—began to put away her paints. Mr. Bingley in his usual eagerness to avoid an argument changed the subject: “We saw your sisters in the town, Miss Mary. I was delighted to see Miss Bennet looking so—” He checked himself and colored faintly. “She appeared to be completely recovered.”
I saw Cassandra glance up at him and guessed what she was thinking. Lovers, it seemed, found concealment nigh impossible. In his embarrassment, Mr. Bingley changed the subject yet again, asking Cassandra if she were pleased with the portrait: “It seems to me to be a splendid likeness—what say you, Louisa? Caroline? Has not Miss Long captured you both brilliantly?”
But Mrs. Hurst was now trying to wake her husband, and the only reply Miss Bingley gave was an impatient “hmm.” Bingley drew up a chair between Cassandra and myself, saying: “One disadvantage of being a younger brother—my dear sisters never listen to a word I say.”
He then asked Cassandra about the framing of the portrait—at which point Mr. Darcy entered the room.
After acknowledging Cassandra and myself, he picked up a newspaper, thus foiling Miss Bingley’s attempts at conversation. She was obliged to fall back on her brother and Cassandra, who were now talking of portrait painting in general. Cassandra was describing some of Gainsborough’s techniques—his use of six-foot handled brushes and his practice of closing the shutters so that the dim light would force him to focus on essentials.
Miss Bingley said in her condescending way: “You might be interested to know, Miss Long, that Mr. Darcy’s mother, Lady Anne, was painted by Gainsborough. As was his great-uncle, the judge.”
“You are mistaken.” Mr. Darcy spoke from behind his newspaper. “My mother was painted by Joseph Wright.”
“Wright of Derby!” exclaimed Cassandra. “Oh! I admire his work so much—particularly his landscapes. Matlock Tor by Moonlight is perhaps my favorite—”
“A fine painting,” Darcy agreed.
“But then there is his Blacksmith’s Shop and An Iron Forge—both equally fine. And his portrait of Mrs. Swindell, which I was fortunate enough to view at Somerset House—”
“Do you prefer painting landscapes to portraits, Miss Long?” said Bingley with a smile.
“I enjoy painting both. It all depends on the subject. I do prefer to choose my own subject.”
“Indeed?” (This from Miss Bingley.) “I must ask then whether you would have chosen to paint us?”
There was a dreadful pause during which Cassandra kept on cleaning a brush. I held my breath: I knew she would not dissemble.
In the end it was Mr. Bingley who spoke: “Upon my word, Caroline—you place Miss Long in a most awkward position.”
“No.” Cassandra set down the brush. “That is to say—no, I would not have chosen to paint you, Miss Bingley.”
“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch.” Mr. Hurst was now wide awake and stretching himself before the fire.
“Please understand.” Color was now suffusing Cassandra’s face. “It has nothing to do with whether or not I like a person. Most artists are obliged—”
Miss Bingley gave an angry little laugh. “I am vastly relieved to hear that!”
“Most artists are obliged to paint portraits in order to earn a living—‘phizmongering’ Hogarth was used to call it—and they cannot pick and choose their subjects. They must needs paint whoever will pay them.”
Darcy said: “And if there were no financial constraints? What subject should you choose then?”
“Well.” She picked up another brush. “Last year it so happened that I chose to paint Mary. At the time I hardly knew her, but her face interested me.”
It was now my turn to blush, feeling all eyes upon me. Cassandra continued: “As a rule, young faces do not interest me; they are too unformed. But occasionally, perhaps due to illness or adversity, one sees a face grown old before its time. Such faces interest me. Suffering interests me.”
“Does it, by Jove?” muttered Mr. Hurst.
I now sought refuge in taking off my spectacles and polishing them. I was conscious that Mr. Darcy was looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. And while the conversation among the others continued (with Mrs. Hurst telling of a London acquaintance who had recently sat to Lawrence), Mr. Darcy remarked: “I wonder I had not noticed it before, but your eyes are remarkably like those of your sister.”
I knew of course which sister he meant: Elizabeth and I had both inherited our father’s dark eyes while Jane, Kitty, and Lydia all had the light-blue “Gardiner eyes.” But Mr. Darcy was now looking embarrassed—adding unnecessarily: “Your sister Miss Elizabeth, that is.”
Miss Bingley may have overheard this—she rarely missed a word Mr. Darcy said—and it may also have made her jealous, for she at once said: “I hear that you ran against George Wickham in the town, Mr. Darcy—I could scarce credit it when Charles told me. I understand that he means to join the corps stationed here?” And when Mr. Darcy made her no answer: “I know you do not like to hear his name mentioned—”
“You are quite right. I do not.”
“I will not tease you on the subject further—except to say that Colonel Forster might be glad to hear of his dealings—” And in response to a forbidding look: “Very well then, it shall be as you choose. We will not speak of Mr. Wickham again.”
20.
I could have wished that my sisters had taken a similar vow of silence on the subject of Mr. Wickham. They were all in raptures over him. Elizabeth sang his praises as loudly as Lydia, so that my father was moved to observe that the fellow sounded rather too good to be true. (Which, as Cassandra later remarked, was as precise a description of Wickham as one could possibly wish for.)
But even Cassandra at first found Wickham perfectly amiable—indeed, I seemed to be the only girl in Meryton impervious to his charms, but from the beginning I mistrusted him. Mr. Darcy, I was sure, would not hold anyone in such aversion without good reason.
I saw him first at the Philipses where several of the officers had been invited to dine, and where my sisters and Mr. Collins had been asked to play at lottery tickets later in the evening. Aunt Philips had also asked Cassandra and Helen to “step across” to partake of a little bit of hot supper.
From the circumstance of my not being present the previous day when my sisters had met Mr. Wickham in Meryton, I was not introduced to him. Uncle Philips said in his befuddled fashion: “I think that you have already met my nieces, Mr. Wickham? My five beautiful nieces?”
Wickham bowed and smiled and soon afterwards seated himself beside Elizabeth. I was thus able to observe him without myself being observed.
He was certainly very handsome and just as certainly very aware of it; there was about him a bandbox perfection—and yet to my mistrustful eye, his hair had on it a little too much Russia Oil and his lower lip pouted as i
f he were somehow drinking people in—assessing them. I noticed too how even as he talked to Elizabeth, he looked about at the other young women in the room.
He talked first about the weather, but later when we all sat down to play at lottery tickets he began to speak of Mr. Darcy, asking how long he had been staying at Netherfield, and whether Elizabeth was much acquainted with him. Elizabeth’s professed dislike seemed to hearten him greatly—as did the news that Mr. Darcy was not liked in Hertfordshire. There was no more looking about at other ladies now: The subject of Mr. Darcy completely engrossed him. He confided that he had been intimately connected with the family since childhood:
“His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behavior to myself has been scandalous, but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”
He spoke earnestly, thrusting the lower lip, and Elizabeth for her part hung on his words as if she were at a play and he the only player. Indeed, Mr. Wickham reminded me of an actor—I imagined him making much the same speech before an audience, nicely calculating the effect of his noble looks and sentiments.
He then told Elizabeth that he had been meant for the church—that Mr. Darcy’s father had bequeathed to him a valuable living but that the present Mr. Darcy had disregarded his father’s will and given the living elsewhere.
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth, “but how could that be?—How could his will be disregarded?—Why did not you seek legal redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honor could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it…”
A sigh, a shake of his handsome head, but I could no longer believe a word he said—and I wondered that Elizabeth could believe him so implicitly. And could she not see the indelicacy of making such a communication to a stranger? Wickham was now talking to her as if he had known her all his life:
“I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken of my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
“This is quite shocking!—He deserves to be publicly disgraced!”
I did not enjoy seeing my clever sister being played like the proverbial trout. Had Wickham imputed such grave misconduct to anybody other than Mr. Darcy she would not have been so credulous. But I was beginning to realize that Elizabeth needed to think ill of Darcy: It preserved her peace of mind.
Wickham continued to talk, but having heard enough from him for one evening I went in search of Cassandra. I found her in the adjoining parlor, where Mr. Collins and Uncle Philips were playing at whist with two of the officers. Cassandra had drawn up a chair the better to observe the game and from her bright glance I guessed that she had been very well entertained. As soon as the rubber ended and the gentlemen returned to the other room she told me that she would very much like to paint Mr. Collins: “I should like to paint him at the card table.”
I was astonished. “You cannot wish to paint Mr. Collins.”
“Certainly I do. I have never before painted a clergyman.” She began to laugh. “Poor man! The expression on his face as he looked at his cards. He had not the least idea of the game and your uncle was becoming quite impatient.”
Helen now joined us, looking decidedly deshabille in a low-cut pink gown. “You should paint Mr. Wickham, Cass—a full-length portrait of him in his regimentals—now that would be a picture worth having.”
“Mr. Wickham is a little too beautiful to my taste.”
“La! How can anybody be too beautiful?”
We all contemplated Wickham through the open parlor doors where he and Elizabeth were still seated at the lottery ticket table, talking. I had it at my tongue’s end to tell them what Wickham had said of Mr. Darcy. Indeed, had I been confident of Helen’s discretion, I must have told them of my own mistrust of the man—but Helen was such an unpredictable little creature, by turns silly and shrewd, and she was now being extremely silly.
“You will never guess where he is to lodge—Lydia and Kitty were so envious of me when they heard—he is to take a room over Madame Bejart’s shop. We shall be able to watch all his comings and goings, Cass.”
And upon Cassandra’s giving her an impatient look, she turned to me: “He owns a gig, chérie—a tilbury. I adore those little open carriages, don’t you?—I mean to beg a ride from him one fine day.”
Later, when Wickham finally left Elizabeth’s side to chat to some of the other young ladies, I saw Helen accost him in a rather bold manner. I was not near enough to hear their conversation, but I saw how Wickham eyed her up and down, how his eyes went where eyes should not go.
At breakfast the next morning Kitty and Lydia talked Wickham over thoroughly—from the stabling of his gig (in Mrs. Long’s old coach-house) to who was to do his washing—and I noticed that Elizabeth, who usually ignored their gibble-gabble, was giving it her full attention.
My own thoughts soon reverted to Peter. I was desperate to see him again but uncertain how best to contrive it. There would be no difficulty in engaging him to teach me the violin—my father never questioned the appointment of masters—but I did not want him to give me lessons at Longbourn. I did not want Lydia and Kitty spying on us and sniggering.
My only other path to him lay via the fortnightly Meryton assemblies—but about these too I was uncertain. I could not attend them on my own, and now that Lydia and Kitty were sure of meeting their favorite officers at private parties, the public assemblies had lost something of their appeal.
Before I could decide on a course of action, however, fate—in the shape of Mr. Bingley—took a hand in my affairs. On the afternoon following the Philipses’ party he and his sisters called at Longbourn to invite us to their ball. It was to be held at Netherfield on the following Tuesday, the 26th of November. And while Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were chatting to Jane (and ignoring the rest of us) I was seized with the most brilliant idea.
Turning to Mr. Bingley, and in a voice that quavered only slightly, I said: “May I ask, sir, what you intend to do for musicians?”
21.
I had to repeat my question, for Mr. Bingley was hardly aware of anyone’s presence save Jane’s.
“Musicians? Well, I daresay my sisters will wish me to engage a fashionable London orchestra, although I confess my own preference is for something a little more lively—something more in keeping with the character of a country neighborhood. Do you have any suggestions, my dear Miss Mary?”
I had of course. And much to my delight it ended with his promising to call at the Great House of Stoke that same afternoon, there to bespeak the services of Peter’s quartet.
Fortunately, none of my family overheard this exchange, but my happiness was afterwards remarked on. “But you do not care for balls in the least, Mary,” Lydia said. “Why are you so excited about this one?” And Elizabeth, in high good humor herself, said: “I think it must be the prospect of dancing with our cousin.”
I carefully replied: “While I can have my mornings to myself, it is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all, and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”
Elizabeth may have divined something of my true feelings, however, for she came to my room later, bringing with her a ball-gown of bronze moiré silk that she had worn but once and now proposed giving to me: “There will not be time enough for us all to have new gowns made up and Lydia and Kitty have already bespoke Miss Stubbs’s services.”
I was extremely touched. “It is very kind of you to think of me.”
“My dear Mary, I am not giving you anything new.” She held up the gown before me. “It is too long of course but the color suits you admirably—I knew it would. And you may wear Grandmother Gardiner’s garnets with it, you know.”
I thanked her again and asked what she was planning to wear herself—whether it would be her new white silk with the tiny embossed checks. She professed herself to be undecided, and then, alas, as so often happened with Elizabeth, I said the wrong thing. “I suppose Mr. Wickham will not be coming to this ball?”
“Why should you suppose that?” (She was holding up the gown still, attempting to tuck it about me.)
“Well, he and Mr. Darcy are not exactly the best of friends—”
“Who told you that?”
“They were speaking of it at Netherfield—how Mr. Darcy cannot bear to hear Mr. Wickham’s name mentioned—Miss Bingley was speaking of it—”
“Miss Bingley.” Elizabeth’s tone was dismissive.
“And her brother—they both spoke of it. It seems that Mr. Wickham is not a respectable young man. He has not behaved well by Mr. Darcy—”
“On the contrary. ’Tis Mr. Wickham who is the injured party, Mary. I happen to know that for a fact.”
After a pause I ventured: “May I ask how you know?” And when she did not immediately reply: “I fear you may be placing too much reliance on Mr. Wickham’s word. I could not help hearing what he said to you at the Philipses—”
“Oh, Mary! You should not listen to other people’s conversations.”
I tried to speak calmly: “I do wonder that he should have chosen you as his confidante—a complete stranger—does not that strike you as a little odd?”
She was smiling but I could tell she was annoyed. “There are some people, Mary, whose candor and warmth of heart predispose them to trust others. And Mr. Wickham, I believe, is such a person.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 15
