“Then Netherfield must prove a remarkably economical establishment,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I had imagined it required rather more expense to maintain. It is all nonsense, Lady Lucas. I hardly know whether to attribute such inventions to malice, envy, or mere stupidity.”
Lady Lucas attempted a faint smile, though concern still predominated.
“I do not myself pretend to credit such things fully; yet they are repeated with increasing confidence throughout the room. I heard the same absurdities from several different groups.”
Before Mr. Bennet could answer, Mary Bennet appeared beside them with visible discomfort.
“Papa,” she said quietly, “I fear there is a great deal of improper conversation taking place amongst several ladies near the card tables.”
“My dear Mary,” said her father, “improper conversation forms the chief amusement of most assemblies. You must distinguish more carefully between vice and recreation.”
Mary coloured slightly, but persevered.
“They were speaking of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy in a manner I could not hear comfortably. One lady declared Mr. Darcy has previously attached himself to wealthy widows without ever forming serious intentions, while another seemed persuaded that his attentions to Lizzy are equally imprudent.”
Lady Lucas looked genuinely distressed now.
“And unfortunately,” Mary added with increasing uneasiness, “many persons seem inclined to believe these reports merely because so many different versions are circulating at once.”
Mr. Bennet became silent for several moments.
Across the room the music still continued uninterrupted; dancers moved through the figures with cheerful regularity; servants carried refreshments between crowded groups; laughter rose repeatedly from every side. Yet beneath all the ordinary animation of the evening there had unmistakably begun that subtle alteration of atmosphere by which society announces that scandal has entered the room and found welcome there.
At that moment Mrs. Bennet herself came hurrying toward them with an agitation too sincere to be mistaken even at a distance. She advanced toward her husband with an agitation so entirely beyond her usual fluttering excitement that even Mr. Bennet immediately perceived the difference. Her colour had risen unevenly into her cheeks, her fan moved with hurried irregularity in her hand, and though she attempted twice to address him before reaching his side, anxiety appeared for several moments to deprive her even of coherent expression.
“Mr. Bennet,” she said at last in a hurried whisper, scarcely waiting until Lady Lucas and Mary had withdrawn a little distance away, “something exceedingly dreadful is taking place in this ballroom, and I declare I shall not survive the evening if it continues another half hour.”
“My dear,” he replied calmly, “the assembly has already survived both two country dances and Mrs. Long’s singing. I cannot think the danger now likely to prove fatal.”
“This is not a subject for jesting,” Mrs. Bennet returned with almost tearful impatience. “You have no conception what people are saying. Everywhere I turn I hear some new horror concerning Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, and each person repeats it as though the whole thing were already established beyond dispute.”
Mr. Bennet now regarded her more attentively.
“What precisely has alarmed you so violently, my dear?”
“Everything!” cried Mrs. Bennet softly. “Some insist Mr. Darcy is ruined; others that he obtained his estate dishonourably; another woman hinted he has pursued rich widows before and never meant marriage at all. But worse than any of it—far worse—people are speaking of Lizzy as though she were already compromised.”
Her voice trembled visibly upon the last word.
“They say she was seen with him in London, in Kent, and at St. Albans, and now here again in public before the whole neighbourhood. Several ladies have already begun looking at her with that dreadful expression which means they believe something improper without yet knowing exactly what it is.”
Mr. Bennet’s countenance, though still outwardly composed, lost much of its earlier amusement.
Mrs. Bennet meanwhile continued with increasing distress.
“You know how society behaves in such matters. By tomorrow morning half Hertfordshire will decide Lizzy has encouraged attentions which may never lead to marriage at all, and if Mr. Darcy should withdraw now—or if these stories continue spreading unchecked—our daughter’s reputation will suffer in every drawing room for twenty miles around.”
She stopped abruptly, struggling for composure.
“I have often spoken foolishly,” Mrs. Bennet said more quietly after a moment, “and perhaps too eagerly where marriages are concerned; but Lizzy is my child, Mr. Bennet, and I cannot stand calmly by while people destroy her character before my eyes.”
There was in this declaration so much genuine maternal fear beneath all her ordinary nervous exaggeration that Mr. Bennet’s expression softened immediately.
“My dear,” he answered with considerably more gentleness than he generally permitted himself in moments of domestic agitation, “you may rely upon it that I shall not allow our daughter to become the evening’s sacrifice merely because Meryton has discovered a fresh appetite for invention.”
“But what can possibly be done now?” Mrs. Bennet whispered desperately. “The whole room already hums with it. Every dance seems to produce another tale more dreadful than the last. And some appear to have heard these rumours already in town during the last few days, so the mischief is not confined merely to this assembly.”
Mr. Bennet glanced slowly across the assembly toward the place where Darcy still stood in conversation, grave, composed, and entirely unaware perhaps of the full extent to which society had already begun arranging judgement around him.
