Darcy turned away for a moment and rested one hand upon the mantel, not because he sought support, but because stillness was preferable to the danger of speaking too quickly, for indignation, once given words too soon, often spends itself before it has been properly understood.
“I recommended him, although he had done few to deserve it,” Mr. Darcy said at last, after a pause in which the admission seemed wrested rather than offered. “I placed him without my knowledge and intentions within these walls. I gave my aunt the very means by which he now presumes to scheme against her peace, and perhaps against Anne herself. If there is guilt in his success, I cannot wholly separate myself from the first step that made it possible.”
Mr. Bennet, who was not generally inclined toward consolation where truth was more useful, nevertheless answered with a seriousness less common in him, because the occasion deserved better than irony alone.
“You opened the door, perhaps; but he entered by his own intention, and there is a distinction worth preserving unless you mean to claim responsibility for every rogue who has ever profited by being well spoken of. A gentleman may recommend a man; he does not thereby undertake to answer for every corruption that recommendation later discovers.”
A faint smile, brief and entirely without amusement, touched Darcy’s expression before disappearing again.
“I should prefer fewer opportunities for learning so philosophical a distinction.”
“That,” Mr. Bennet admitted with dry exactness, “is the privilege of hindsight, and like most privileges, it arrives chiefly when it can no longer be of practical use, except to improve one’s humility.”
The older gentleman took up the letter again and tapped it lightly against his fingers, for the immediate question was no longer whether Wickham was dangerous, but how danger might best be prevented without first being denied.
“The important matter,” Mr. Bennet continued, “is not that we know him false—for I suspect you settled that question in your own mind long before this paper confirmed it—but that we now possess something Lady Catherine cannot dismiss as jealousy, prejudice, or wounded pride. Character may be argued against; impressions may be explained away; but arithmetic is a less sentimental witness, and even the proudest woman must, at last, submit to arithmetic.”
Mr. Darcy looked again at the letter, and though his anger had not diminished, it had already assumed a more useful shape.
“No,” he said quietly, after sufficient thought to master impulse, “not immediately. My aunt will defend him first, because to condemn him is to admit she has been deceived, and that is a humiliation my aunt does not bear with patience. She would sooner suspect the honesty of every servant in Kent than confess she has misplaced her confidence in a man she chose to favour.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head slightly, as one who found the judgement neither surprising nor unreasonable.
“Then we must allow her the dignity of discovering caution before her ladyship is compelled to acknowledge error. Good. We say nothing yet, sir. You should observe who moves, who speaks, and who grows uneasy under the mere suggestion of delay. A man who expects money soon seldom bears postponement with Christian resignation.”
Darcy’s gaze lifted, and in it there was now not merely resentment, but resolution; for once the injury had been clearly named, action became easier than reflection.
“Then delay,” he said, with a calmness more decisive than anger could have been. “Delay every expectation, every arrangement, every convenience upon which he supposes himself secure, and let us see which patience fails first—his, or my aunt’s.”
Mr. Bennet folded the letter once more with exactness and gave it to Mr. Darcy. “I think this letter should remain in your possession. Mr. Darcy, since is obvious it never been delivered. I would have wanted to offer my support in exposing such a terrible villainy, alas our presence here is very close to its end.
“Thank you for your advice and support, Mr. Bennet.”
“With pleasure, sir,” the older gentleman replied. “For though I have never greatly admired intrigue as a principle of life, I confess I dislike being robbed by anticipation even less, and if Mr. Wickham proposes to conduct his fortunes by arithmetic, I see no reason why he should object to finding that others have also learned to count.”
***
The parlour, relieved for a little while from the oppressive vigilance of Mrs. Younge, seemed to breathe more freely in her absence, and Miss de Bourgh, seated near the long window where the late morning light fell softly across her work-table, possessed, in that quieter interval, an ease of manner which Elizabeth had not before been permitted to observe. There was still delicacy in her appearance, and that habitual reserve which years of management had made almost inseparable from her person, yet beneath it lived something steadier than mere submission—a mind accustomed to silence, but by no means resigned to insignificance.
Elizabeth, who had never been inclined to mistake stillness for weakness, took her place beside Anne de Bourgh with that natural gentleness which invited confidence without appearing to seek it, while Mrs. Bennet, had she been present, would certainly have considered such tranquillity a most unfortunate waste of opportunity.
“I am glad,” Miss de Bourghsaid, after the first lighter civilities had been allowed their proper place, “that you returned this morning, for visits at Rosings are too often composed of obligations rather than conversation, and one may see the same people many times without learning anything of them, which I have always thought a very expensive form of society.”
Elizabeth smiled with a gentleness that spoke both understanding and compassion.
“Then I must be grateful that you speak with honesty, rather than merely performing the civilities expected of us, for society supplies far more of the latter than the former.”
A faint expression, very near amusement, softened Anne’s countenance.
“Politeness,” she said, “is frequently only another word for mutual concealment, and nowhere more so than in great houses, where everybody is expected to be pleased, and very few are permitted to be sincere. Rosings has, I think, been particularly diligent in preserving that custom.”
Elizabeth looked at her with increased attention, for the quiet precision of the remark revealed more than complaint—it suggested long observation.
“You perceive a change here, then,” she said, “though perhaps not one easily described, which I think is often the most persuasive sort of change.”
Miss de Bourgh turned slightly in her seat, as though the subject deserved more exactness than lighter conversation allowed.
“I do,” she replied. “Nothing has altered in appearance, and yet the whole temper of the house feels different. New rules are introduced, old habits displaced, servants become cautious where they were once merely respectful, and one is made sensible, without being directly told, that attention is expected in places where formerly none was required.”
