“Then the matter cannot be dismissed, Anne, for if such reports are false they must be stopped, and if they are true they must be answered, and in either case they require immediate attention rather than silence.”
Anne sighed softly, and her hands trembled with a helplessness she no longer sought to conceal, as though every avenue of escape had closed before she could give it voice.
Darcy’s voice, though low, was now entirely decided, and whatever hesitation had attended his earlier questions had wholly disappeared.
“That is an allegation which, if unfounded, is dangerous to repeat, and if true, more dangerous still to neglect, for it touches not only his character but the dignity and safety of this house, and must therefore be considered with the greatest caution and without delay.”
He spoke without raising his voice, yet the firmness of his tone left no doubt that the matter had already assumed, in his mind, the weight of something not to be postponed.
“I would not have believed it upon first hearing, yet I found no contradiction in their statements, and no sign of invention in their manner, and I cannot persuade myself that they would hazard so grave a report without some foundation, however imperfect.”
She looked at him now, as if the burden of belief required confirmation, or at least permission, to be sustained.
“You have done right to inform me, Anne, for even uncertainty, when supported by circumstance, must not be disregarded, and I cannot allow such a situation to continue without making every effort to understand its extent and origin before it is too late.”
There was a brief pause at the end, not of hesitation, but of resolve settling into certainty.
“What is to be done, then, Cousin, for I do not think my mother would receive any warning against him, and I am uncertain whether speaking further would not only increase her confidence in him, and diminish what little weight my opinion retains.”
Her voice lowered slightly, as though even the question itself might be overheard by the very influence she feared.
“For the present, nothing must be attempted that would provoke opposition without preparation, yet everything must be observed with care, and I shall remain here long enough to determine whether what you have described admits of proof, or at least of sufficient confirmation to justify decisive action.”
He did not move as he spoke, but the stillness of his posture suggested a decision already taken.
“I am relieved that you are here, Cousin, for I had begun to doubt my own judgement, and to fear that what I perceived might be only the effect of uneasiness rather than of real cause, though I find now that I cannot dismiss it so easily.”
The tension in her expression eased, though not entirely, as if relief had come without removing the source of her concern.
“You are not mistaken in feeling concern, though the conclusions must be held in reserve until they are supported more fully, and I shall not leave Rosings without satisfying myself, as far as possible, of the truth of what has been reported.”
His gaze remained steady, and whatever uncertainty had attended the beginning of the conversation had now given way to something far more deliberate and controlled.
***
Wickham stood in the dimly lit parlour, his gaze fixed upon the solitary candle whose unsteady flame cast shifting shadows across the walls, distorting the outlines of the furniture into uncertain forms that seemed almost to reflect the duplicity he so habitually employed, for there was in that wavering light something peculiarly suited to a mind accustomed to adjusting itself to circumstance without ever wholly surrendering its purpose. As he considered his position, he moved the brandy in his glass with a slow and deliberate motion, watching the amber liquid catch and return the light in muted flashes, as though even that small and trivial spectacle might assist him in reducing to order those reflections which, though neither new nor unwelcome, required arrangement if they were to be made useful.
There had been, he admitted, more truth than comfort in what Anne de Bourgh had perceived, for her observations, though incomplete and wanting in force, had not been without foundation, and it afforded him a degree of quiet amusement, carefully restrained and never permitted to rise into open expression, that so much might be discerned by one who, possessing so little authority within her own household, could hardly hope to convert perception into consequence. Wickham did not ignore the risk; he only judged it manageable, and therefore unworthy of serious concern.“Poor Miss Anne. She observes, yet she can effect nothing.”
From the moment he had presented himself to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, he had recognised beneath her commanding exterior not merely pride and long-established habit, but something far more serviceable to his designs: asensibility which, having long gone unacknowledged, might be more easily awakened, and, once engaged, more readily directed.
Her ladyship was not, he reflected, beyond that period of life in which admiration might still be both valued and believed, nor so removed from society as to be insensible to its judgements, and he considered it no difficult undertaking to persuade her that she retained a degree of consequence which others, through negligence or indifference, might have ceased to affirm with sufficient warmth. For himself, questions of age were of little moment, provided that influence, security, and access accompanied them, and in Lady Catherine he perceived not only immediate advantage, but the means of escaping obligations which his present income, however prudently managed, could never wholly discharge, nor even indefinitely postpone without inconvenience.
“Mr. Wickham,” came a voice from behind him, composed yet not without curiosity, as Lady Catherine entered the room with a measured step, her presence at once imposing and expectant, and marked by that habitual assurance which rendered both inquiry and command equally natural to her manner, “you appear to be engaged in reflections of some consequence, for I have twice addressed you before you gave the least indication of hearing me, and I am not accustomed to find my presence so entirely overlooked in my own house.”
“Indeed, your ladyship, I must beg your pardon, for I was considering how much I owe to the fortunate circumstances which have lately attended my residence at Rosings, and how little I deserve the distinction with which I have been received here, for I should be wanting in gratitude if I didnot acknowledge that my present situation owes more to your discernment than to any merit I might presume to claim.”
“You speak of obligation with a readiness that does you credit, Mr. Wickham, though I should not wish to suppose that your sense of it exceeds what is proper, for I have always held that merit, when properly recognised, ought not to be disguised under excessive humility, which may sometimes, I think, obscure rather than recommend the qualities it is meant to display.”
Mr. Wickham smiled with a studied softness, as though the compliment had been both unexpected and perfectly deserved.
“Your discernment is most exact, my lady, and I cannot but feel that any appearance of humility in me must arise rather from a just appreciation of your judgement than from any wish to diminish what you are pleased to consider my merit, for I should be reluctant indeed to misrepresent, even by excess, the favourable opinion which you have been so good as to form.”
Lady Catherine regarded him with a steadiness which, in another, might have suggested suspicion, but which in her case appeared rather the settled habit of authority long exercised without opposition, and Wickham observed, with inward satisfaction, that her attention did not withdraw from him, but lingered with a degree of engagement which confirmed that his manner had not failed to produce the intended effect, and that his influence, though recently established, had already begun to take root.
“Tell me, Mr. Wickham,” she said at length, her tone assuming a degree of seriousness which invited confidence without entirely relinquishing control, “do you believe a man who has erred may truly repair his character, or must such faultsalways remain against him, however he may afterwards conduct himself?”
“Most assuredly, my lady, I believe that a man ought to be judged by what he becomes, not only by what he has been; and that where his conduct is improved, it would be unjust to deny him the benefit of that change.”
