Dressed with striking elegance in the fresh uniform of a militia officer, George Wickham had entered the Meryton assembly.
***
For one brief instant the movement of the assembly appeared to falter, not sufficiently to interrupt its gaiety, yet enough to show that some unexpected arrival had instantly claimed the notice of the room. The music continued; the dancers still advanced and retreated through the figures of the set; servants threaded carefully between groups carrying wine and refreshments toward the supper-room; yet within the shifting attention of the assembly something had unmistakably changed. In a gathering of nearly one hundred and forty persons, where curiosity travelled more rapidly than sound and observation seldom remained long unemployed, the arrival of a stranger possessing uncommon ease of manner could scarcely fail to produce immediate consequence.
Lydia Bennet, whose attention was invariably claimed by any gentleman connected with a regiment, was among the first to distinguish the new arrival clearly.
“Who is that officer? Is he new?” she whispered eagerly to Kitty, though in a tone much too animated to remain entirely private. “I am certain I have never seen him in Meryton before, and he is by far the handsomest man in the room.”
Kitty, already stretching herself for a better view, appeared immediately inclined to agree; while Mrs. Phillips, who delighted equally in novelty and importance, nodded in agreement while examining the gentleman now entering the assembly with the composed assurance of a man perfectly accustomed to attracting favourable notice wherever he appeared.
Elizabeth’s colour altered almost imperceptibly.
George Wickham the last man she expected to see entering the ball room.
Another new man in town would have paused uncertainly near the entrance, or displayed some hesitation proper to a man doubtful of his reception. On the contrary, Mr. Wickham advanced with that easy confidence which formed perhaps the most charming part of his character, for it possessed the power of persuading casual observers that openness must necessarily accompany composure. Several officers greeted him immediately. Within scarcely a minute his presence had already become woven into the movement of the evening as though he had belonged to Meryton society far longer than the few moments since his arrival.
Standing at some distance beside Mr. Bennet and Sir William Lucas, Darcy remained entirely still. Hhe had turned toward the entrance at the first murmur of novelty; yet from the instant his eyes rested upon Wickham, every trace of softened ease disappeared from his countenance beneath a composure so complete that Elizabeth immediately understood how blunt his self-command had become. The change was not violent enough to attract general notice, yet to anyone acquainted with him it was unmistakable. Whatever gentleness Longbourn and their recent understanding had gradually encouraged in Darcy, now seemed suddenly withdrawn behind a colder discipline of manner.
Mr. Bennet observed the alteration almost immediately. Though much connected with the affairs at Rosings had never been openly explained before him, he understood enough of Wickham’s history—and rather more of human character generally—to perceive that the man now entering the assembly did not appear there accidentally. His eyes moved once fromWickham toward Mr. Darcy and then quietly back again, with the thoughtful expression of a man arranging facts already known into a more complete pattern.
“He arrives,” Mr. Bennet observed at length with composed dryness, “with the confidence of a gentleman either entirely innocent or very considerably practiced.”
Mr. Darcy’s answer followed after a pause scarcely longer than propriety required.
“Experience, sir, has unfortunately made the safer conclusion where Mr. Wickham is concerned.”
Sir William Lucas, perceiving perhaps that some hidden meaning existed beneath the exchange though not entirely discerning its direction, hastened at once toward safer conversational ground.
“He appears a remarkably personable young man, nevertheless,” he declared with cheerful importance. “Indeed, I do not remember seeing a stranger enter these rooms and recommend himself so rapidly within the first five minutes.”
“My dear sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, “there are gentlemen who acquire confidence in five minutes and lose it again within five months; though society, being naturally charitable, usually prefers the quicker judgement to the slower one.”
Before Sir William could entirely determine whether this remark ought to be considered wit or warning, Wickham himself approached their part of the room. Elizabeth watched his progress with increasing uneasiness. He moved neither hurriedly nor idly, but with careful deliberation disguised beneath apparent ease, pausing here and there long enough to exchange greetings, accept introductions, and permit admiration to gather naturally around him before advancingfarther. He had always understood society well enough to know that reputation, like theatre, depends largely upon entrance and timing.
When at last he reached them, he bowed first to the ladies with every appearance of polished respect before turning toward Darcy himself.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said smoothly, “I confess I had not expected to discover you still among the attractions of Hertfordshire.”
“Only for the present,” Darcy replied frowning.
The brevity of the answer admitted no possibility of intimacy. Wickham, however, possessed too much social experience to retreat before cold civility alone.
“I had imagined Derbyshire might reclaim you entirely, sir,” he returned with an ease which several nearby listeners seemed already prepared to admire.
Mr. Bennet, perceiving perhaps more quickly than Wickham anticipated both the intention beneath the pleasantry and the increasing attention gathering around them, quietly entered the conversation before Darcy answered again.
“Meryton society,” Mr. Bennet said mildly, “is always ready to admire a new gentleman, though experience has occasionally taught us the wisdom of waiting a little before deciding how long the admiration ought to last.”
Wickham turned toward him at once with ready charm.
“Mr. Bennet, I believe? How remarkably fortunate to meet you again. I am in Meryton now for only four days, but I have frequently heard Hertfordshire described as fortunate in possessing your wit.”
“My wit, sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, “has survived chiefly because the neighbourhood is kind enough not to examine it very carefully.”
The answer produced sufficient laughter amongst those nearest them to soften, for a moment, the sharper edge beneath the exchange. Yet Elizabeth, who watched Wickham more attentively now than ever before, became increasingly persuaded that he had not entered the assembly merely from vanity or curiosity. There existed beneath his composure a species of impatience difficult to disguise entirely, as though he had reasons for impatience which even composure could not entirely conceal.
Mr. Bennet then turned with easy civility toward the gentleman beside him.
