Darcy continued more steadily.
“Before I return to Derbyshire, I could not reconcile myself to leaving Longbourn without first requesting your permission to speak privately with your daughter.”
The request, though offered with perfect propriety, admitted little misunderstanding.
Mr. Bennet remained silent for several moments. There was nothing youthful or impetuous in Darcy’s manner, nothing resembling the hurried enthusiasm of an attachment lightlyformed. On the contrary, the restraint with which he spoke appeared only to lend additional gravity to sentiments which a less guarded man might perhaps have expressed too rapidly.
“You are aware, I imagine,” Mr. Bennet said at last, “that my daughter is not easily influenced where her own judgement is concerned.”
“I should esteem her less if she were otherwise,” Darcy said, briefly lowering his gaze before recovering his composure.
The answer followed neither too quickly nor too studiedly, but with a quiet firmness which appeared entirely sincere.
Mr. Bennet leaned back slightly in his chair.
“I do not pretend to govern Elizabeth’s affections, Mr. Darcy; nor have I ever found attempts of that nature particularly successful where she is concerned. But I believe her fully capable of hearing any gentleman whose conduct and character entitle him to her respect.”
Darcy bowed his acknowledgement of this with visible feeling, though still under the same careful command of himself.
“You are very obliging, sir.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet replied with composed dryness, “merely old enough to understand that daughters generally form their opinions whether fathers interfere or not.”
For the first time something approaching ease appeared in Darcy’s expression.
“The shrubbery walk beyond the south lawn is usually quiet at this hour,” Mr. Bennet continued after a moment. “If you remain here another few minutes, Elizabeth will almost certainly passthat way in the course of escaping her mother’s domestic arrangements. I shall see to that.”
A faint smile touched Darcy’s countenance before disappearing almost immediately again beneath habitual composure.
“In that case,” he said, rising, “I am indebted to you for more consideration than I have perhaps any right to expect.”
Mr. Bennet rose likewise.
“Not at all. I have long observed that life becomes unnecessarily difficult whenever sensible people are prevented from speaking plainly to one another.”
Darcy bowed with grave respect.
“I hope, upon my return from Derbyshire, to have the honour of seeing you again at Longbourn, sir.”
“I believe Hertfordshire will not object to reclaiming you,” Mr. Bennet returned mildly. “And as a Meryton assembly approaches, I daresay the county will soon expect your attendance whether you intend it or not.”
“If circumstances permit,” Darcy replied, with a steadiness which suggested that circumstances would be made to permit it, “I shall hope to be present.”
Mr. Bennet accompanied him as far as the door of the study.
“Then I wish you a safe journey to Pemberley, Mr. Darcy.”
“And I thank you sincerely, sir.”
***
Mr. Darcy waited where Mr. Bennet had directed him, in the quieter walk beyond the south lawn, where the shrubbery descended gradually toward the lower meadow and the trees, already touched by autumn, cast an irregular shade across the gravel path. The place possessed that mixture of seclusion and openness which old country houses often afforded without deliberate design; sufficiently removed from the windows of Longbourn to permit privacy, yet still near enough to preserve every appearance of propriety.
Though outwardly composed, Darcy found the interval of waiting far less easily commanded than many situations of far greater public consequence had ever appeared to him. Mr. Bennet’s permission, though granted with intelligence and kindness, offered no assurance beyond the liberty of addressing her freely; and now that the moment itself approached, he became more sensible than before how much depended upon Elizabeth’s reception of what he had not yet entirely trusted himself to say.
At length lighter footsteps became audible upon the gravel beyond the laurels, and Elizabeth appeared from the direction of the terrace walk.
There was nothing hurried in her manner, though neither did she attempt the appearance of accidental wandering. If colour rose somewhat into her cheeks upon first perceiving him waiting there alone, it merely rendered more striking the composure with which she advanced beneath the trees.
