Elizabeth, as Darcy entered the room, was standing with her youngest sister and an officer, Mr. Denny—he who had stood with Wickham in the street at Meryton. Unable to hear what was said, Darcy nonetheless observed that Elizabeth appeared disconcerted by his words, and even somewhat cast down. Her shoulders drooped slightly, and the smile fled from her face. Moved by seeing her thus discomfited, when they parted he approached to make his greeting, hoping to divert her thoughts or perhaps even to assuage her feelings, whatever might be called for in the case. He stepped around to face her and bowed.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet; good evening. It is a great pleasure to see you again. You are well, I trust?”
She seemed almost startled to see him, but this Darcy attributed to her discomposure, for, looking over his shoulder, she answered shortly: “Perfectly well, I thank you, Sir. Will you excuse me, please?” And with a preoccupied air, she stepped around him and crossed the room to where her friend, Miss Charlotte Lucas, stood against the wall. Concerned, hoping Elizabeth was not unwell, he watched them both for a time. That she was distressed was evident, but the case seemed to need only sympathy, for, after a few minutes of speech from her and consoling looks from her friend, Elizabeth’s good humour revived. She began to smile and laugh again, and was soon entertaining Miss Lucas, as well; she, too, began to laugh behind her fan at what Darcy was sure must have been some of Elizabeth’s intentionally outlandish opinions. Satisfied, he turned away; a breath he had not known he was holding became a sigh of relief: all was well—the evening could proceed according to plan. He began to think of moving towards her again through the crowd.
At that moment he felt a touch at his sleeve and turned to find Miss Bingley; said she: “I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but I fear I am committed to Colonel Forster to open the ball. You will not mind, I trust?”
Darcy locked his features into neutrality and said with a bow, “Not at all, Miss Bingley; quite proper.”
“I do not know when I shall be free from my duties as hostess…” she paused, waiting for Darcy to take the hint.
“I am quite sure we shall find ample time to surfeit ourselves with dancing during the evening, Miss Bingley,” was Darcy’s careful response. On his side, he was already surfeited with dancing, if it meant partnering her. His reply satisfied Miss Bingley, however, and she turned away to attend to her other guests. Darcy again breathed his relief and looked for Elizabeth; she still chatted with Miss Lucas, and as none of the other gentlemen present had approached them, Darcy felt some assurance that no one had engaged her yet.
Bingley briefly broke away from his other guests then, to approach his friend with this news: “Well, Darcy, you were right—that fellow has stayed away. I have just had it from Colonel Forster, who tendered his regrets to me. He has gone to Town.”
This intelligence brought considerable relief to Darcy’s mind. While he had been nearly certain Wickham would not attend, he could not but have moments of doubt, and Bingley’s information was welcome, indeed. In addition, Wickham would have no opportunity to influence Elizabeth with his lies if he were absent; moreover, as it had rained steadily most of the week, he could have had little occasion to be in company with her prior to this evening. Encouraged, he nodded his thanks to his friend and again began moving across the room to Elizabeth.
That intention was forestalled, however; just then the musicians struck up their instruments, and Elizabeth was approached by a parson who appeared to have made a prior claim; bowing like the veriest dandy, he took her hand with excessively studied manners and led her to the floor. Darcy was disappointed and a little alarmed, as the man was the same one he had seen in the square with Wickham and the others. Not knowing anything about him other than the fact that he had seen him with Wickham, he was concerned lest the man was in some way connected with him. His alarm was quieted, however, by the fact that Elizabeth gave Miss Lucas a droll look of martyred anguish behind the parson’s back as he turned to lead her to the floor. Darcy smiled and relaxed: this might hold some amusement.
In truth, it went a little beyond amusing, for the man was an absolutely wretched dancer; that, coupled with his odd and affected mannerisms, made him, and his poor partner, an object in front of the whole room. Darcy believed that he spent more time bowing and apologising to those whose dance he interrupted with his missteps, than he did leading Elizabeth through the set. To Darcy, incompetence in any activity was deplorable; as little as he liked the pastime, he had made it his business to be able to perform it with acceptable skill. Elizabeth bore with her partner as well as any one could, but it was clear to every one in the room how she must be suffering; to make matters worse, he kept her hand for a second dance. Darcy pitied her, but he reflected that this would at least make him a more desirable alternative.
Just as the set was ending, and Darcy was beginning once again to move in Elizabeth’s direction, he spied Miss Bingley enter the room and look about as though seeking some one; he was instantly persuaded that he was her quarry. He quickly ducked behind a conveniently placed screen. She surveyed the room in one quick revolution, going up on her toes to see over the heads of the couples returning to their seats; she then left by the same door through which she had entered. Darcy emerged cautiously from his hiding place, only to see Elizabeth be claimed for the next dance by an officer, one whom he recognised from his dinner at the mess, but whose name he did not know. Cursing his luck, with a bit left over for Miss Bingley, he waited out the dance while keeping a weather-eye out for the redcoats, the parson, Miss Bingley, or any one else who might prevent his asking Elizabeth’s hand for the following set.
When that dance was over and Elizabeth was released by the officer, she crossed to the side of the room away from Darcy, where her friend Miss Lucas still stood watching the couples on the dance floor. He moved with celerity to seize his chance: she had her back to him as he approached, but, on seeing Miss Lucas curtsey, she turned to face him. Without hesitation he hurriedly said, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet: would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”
“I…I…yes, I will, Sir.”
His petition had clearly taken her by surprise, and he grimaced inwardly at the awkward manner in which he had made it; yet, she had accepted him, and he was satisfied. He bowed his thanks and retreated, gratified to have finally achieved his object, his mind already on the problem of how best to broach the subject of Wickham. When the dance began again, he still had yet to make up his mind. But on taking Elizabeth’s hand and leading her to the floor in his turn, he was suddenly struck—he held her hand in his, and she was to dance with him. A kind of warmth, unlike any he had ever felt, suffused him: thrilling, yet strangely comforting at the same time; he gazed at his partner for a long moment, amazed at the pleasing distinction to which he was arrived in being able at last to stand opposite such a woman. He was even able to accept with tolerably good grace the looks he and his partner garnered from about the room. The warmth continued within him as they entered the set, and he was content to move through the first forms of the dance in silence, savouring the pleasure of the moment and the sensation of her hand in his.
After some little time, his partner spoke: “This dance is a favourite of mine.”
The dance was the minuet, which had long been Darcy’s favourite, too. He appreciated its grace, and its stately and mathematical progression. Gratified by the concurrence of their taste, he agreed: “And mine. The orchestra is very fine, as well.”
Elizabeth made no reply and Darcy allowed his thoughts to drift back again into his reverie. It lasted some minutes more, until she broke into his thoughts, saying: ‘It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
Darcy hastily brought himself to the present, embarrassed by his lapse. This was the Elizabeth he so enjoyed: witty, confident, and yet so consistently gracious and charming in manner. It was wonderful how she
could manage to take him to task and utterly enchant him in the same breath. He smiled at her, saying, “I shall be happy to comply, I assure you; you have but to hint at what you wish said, and it shall be so.”
“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. —But now we may be silent.”
By which, given her habitual contrariety of speech, Darcy concluded that she wished him to continue speaking. Darcy had been thoroughly versed in etiquette, and knew that the thing to do when you have nothing of substance to offer, is to ask a question. He therefore re-joined, “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
Delighted by this playful attack on what good manners must comprise, he said, “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” Mindful of his reputation for reserve, he rather hoped he might hear her deny the latter part of his question in a manner favourable to his character.
“Both,” replied Elizabeth, “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. —We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
Now she was teazing him. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he, with a smile. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. —You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.” He tried again to gently probe about her opinion of himself.
“I must not decide on my own performance,” she deflected his enquiry. Her manner throughout, however, had been playful, and Darcy was in no doubt that this exercise of her charms was entirely for his benefit.
A short silence followed, and Darcy felt it incumbent on him to start the next subject. It had often occurred to him that his youth in Derbyshire must have had many similarities with Elizabeth’s in Hertfordshire, as Country life was much the same no matter where one was raised. As a boy he had always looked forward to a walk into Lambton, the little town that was to Pemberley as Meryton was to Longbourn, and, with this in view, he asked, “Do not you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”
Her reply was not at all what he had anticipated. “Indeed, we do. When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
Wickham! The warmth within him vanished like the light of a candle blown out. He paused for a moment to adjust his thoughts; here then, was the opportunity he had been waiting for—although now that it had come, he wished it had not. Choosing his words carefully, so as not to expose too much ill-will, he made his attempt: “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.” He paused to see how she might respond.
He had not long to wait. “He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” Elizabeth retorted in an accusatory tone, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
With astonishment did Darcy realise that Wickham had somehow already reached Elizabeth with his lies. He hardly knew what to say; clearly Wickham had fed her some tale that put Darcy in a bad light, but, even if he knew what Wickham had said, the middle of a ball-room was hardly the place to defend himself. Yet he must somehow make her see the truth about Wickham. Still, he was painfully aware that he had ever been weak in persuasion; it was in reasoned discourse and logic that his strengths lay. What could he say that might convince her? He found himself trapped within the same doubts and tangled thoughts that had plagued him since the Thursday prior.
Before he could adjust his thoughts and render them into some form of speech, Sir William Lucas made as if to pass them; but, stopping, he offered them a compliment on how well they looked dancing together. Darcy, trying yet again to adjust his thoughts, was struggling to find words to reply when Sir William went on to say, “I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, shall take place,” and with this he bent a significant glance in the direction of Miss Bennet and Bingley, who were standing out of the dance behind Darcy and his partner. “What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy—but let me not interrupt you, Sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” He beamed kindly at them and turned away.
Darcy met this news regarding his friend with irritation; at every turn this evening, some one was waiting to step between him and his wishes. Now what was Bingley about? Forcing down the anger and frustration that, he knew, would render him unable to think clearly, he turned his attention to Bingley. He could see he was deep in conversation with Elizabeth’s eldest sister: so deep, indeed, that he was unaware of several people who were standing near him, obviously waiting to speak with him. Just then he took Miss Bennet’s hand, and, without so much as a glance at his other guests, led her out into the dance. Several of those waiting shared tolerant smiles at this, together with a knowing shake of the head. Darcy had never before seen his friend so enraptured by a woman as to fail in civility to others—and at his own ball! Only a true attachment could explain, or excuse, such behaviour.
He turned back to his partner and found that she, too, was watching the couple with interest. What with the consternation caused by this new intelligence and his anxious desire to warn her about Wickham, it took several moments before he could arrange his thoughts sufficiently to take up the conversation again. He had lost the train of their last subject, and turning back to her, he apologised: “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”
“I do not think we were speaking at all,” answered Elizabeth. She seemed out of humour as she said, “Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” Darcy ventured, knowing how devoted she was to reading. He kept his tone studiously light, and he smiled as he spoke, for he heartily wished to change the tenor of the conversation to a more congenial one. He hoped gradually to be able to bring their discussion back around to the subject of Wickham in a way more conducive to the communication he had in view. But the lady was not inclined to cooperate.
“Books—oh! no,” said she. “I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
He failed to understand why she should object to the topic, and observed: “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”
She had a distracted air as she spoke, leaving him in doubt of her true thoughts. He asked uncertainly, “The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?”
“Yes, always,” she answered absently. Darcy was at a loss as to what might next be said, as his partner’s mind was clearly elsewhere. She suddenly took his eye with hers, saying, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave—that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”
Surprised at this sudden change of topic, he nevertheless declared confidently, “I am.”
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
He was confused by these questions and
her sober manner; was she thinking of Wickham, or Bingley, or something else entirely? —“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
She pursed her lips and frowned, looking as though she were trying to clear her thoughts. “Merely to the illustration of your character. I am trying to make it out.”
“And what is your success?” That she should make such an attempt was pleasing, but the substance of their exchange up to that point was such that he was uncertain that he should be equally well pleased with the result.
“I do not get on at all,” she replied, with a shake of her head. “I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
Here was the illumination he sought; her manner as she spoke and looked at him convinced him: he was quite sure he knew the source of those “different accounts”—he wished that he could know what manner of lies Wickham might have given her. “I can readily believe,” he said, trying with all the sincerity at his command to make her understand the gravity of his words, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity,” she declared. Her manner was not contentious, but neither was it accommodating.
Darcy’s irritation and frustration, which had been struggling to break free almost since he had first approached to offer her his compliments, and fuelled by all the times he had found himself thwarted by Wickham throughout his youth, flashed into anger: she would not oblige him; she would not understand; she had rather believe Wickham, a man of no standing whom she had known only a week! As had always been the case with his father where Wickham was concerned, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Controlling himself with difficulty, he replied, “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” and bit down to hold back the heated words that wanted to follow. They proceeded down the dance, each one holding their own counsel; on his side, however, his anger was soon replaced by remorse, as he realised that the trouble lay not with her, but with Wickham. He cursed himself for losing his temper, yet he was prevented from regaining his composure by the memory of ancient injuries, and a crushing sense of impotence in the face of Wickham’s lies, which overwhelmed his emotions and overset his thoughts. While he could, and did, pardon Elizabeth for her acceptance of Wickham’s lies, whatever they might be, he knew himself to be powerless to combat them. Stiffly following the pattern of the set, he led her through the end of the dance, struggling against his emotions and racking his brain for a way to overcome his dilemma. He blamed himself bitterly, but his thoughts were too undisciplined, and his thoughts on the subject of Wickham too heated, too illiberal, to allow him to express himself judiciously, and he knew he would only make matters worse by speaking aloud what he truly wished to say. Nor did the lady speak, and they finished the dance as they had begun, in silence. He handed her to her seat and left her with a formal bow, and a deep and disturbing sense of something lost.
Into Hertfordshire Page 16
