Page 28 of Near Pemberley

There had been moments in Hertfordshire when Wickham’s easy manners, his openness, his flattering attentions, and the readiness with which he appeared to understand her feelings had nearly persuaded her that his preference was sincere. Had his attentions continued uninterrupted – had his pursuit not so suddenly transferred itself elsewhere – she could no longer feel entirely certain how far her partiality might once have carried her. She had escaped his attentions only because of her small portion.

The thought alarmed her. She congratulated herself that when he turned his attentions elsewhere, her heart did not seem to be really touched.

What she had formerly mistaken for frankness, after Mr. Darcy’s letter, appeared dangerously like calculation. His charm, once so pleasing, revealed itself increasingly as something practised – something employed not from warmth of heart, but from habit, vanity, and self-interest. Even his intimacy of manner, which had once distinguished him so favourably from Darcy, now seemed less the mark of openness than of a man too accustomed to making himself agreeable whenever advantage required it.

Elizabeth turned away from the window and began walking slowly across the room.

The candle had burned lower than she realised.

She crossed to the dressing table and began removing the pins from her hair one by one. Several fell immediately into her lap; one disappeared altogether.

Ordinarily, she would have searched for it. Tonight, she scarcely noticed.

What must Mr. Darcy think of her now, if he remembered – as surely he must – the readiness with which she had once defended Wickham? The injustice of it appeared plainer every day. She who had accused Darcy of pride had been, in her own way, equally vain in trusting so completely to the quickness of her own judgement.

And yet what affected her most was not merely the error itself, but the contrast between what she had believed and what she now saw.

The man whom she had once thought incapable of generosity had exerted himself so naturally for the comfort of others. The sister whom she had unconsciously imagined proud and reserved had met her with openness, sweetness, and unaffected kindness – qualities which could hardly have flourished under the influence of a selfish or unfeeling brother. Even their attachment to one another – quiet, natural, wholly without display – contradicted every suspicion Wickham had once encouraged.

Elizabeth stopped at last beside the candle.

How differently she had understood them then. And how differently she wished now to be understood herself.

She thought of Darcy himself: of the effort so visible beneath his composure; of the seriousness with which he listened; of that altered manner which no longer seemed governed by pride, but by something far more difficult and far more affecting – humility. Or perhaps she no longer looked at him solely to find fault.

She remembered, too, his expression when she had said:

“So am I.”

She had not expected those simple words to affect him so.

She reached at last for the candle extinguisher.

Yet before lowering it, she found herself looking once more towards the dark outline of the hills beyond the window.

Tomorrow.

The thought returned immediately.

Tomorrow she would see Pemberley.

Tomorrow she would see him again.

She had once believed herself secure in her understanding of him. Now she understood nothing clearly except this: that tomorrow mattered far more to her than it ought. A conclusion which, had anyone attempted to suggest it to her only weeks before, she would have rejected with considerable indignation.

Chapter IX

The evening at Pemberley passed with all the outward propriety and elegance which Miss Bingley particularly valued in society, and which Darcy, on this occasion, more than most, found himself enduring rather than enjoying.

Tea had long since been removed. Georgiana sat near the instrument with her work neglected in her lap; Mrs. Hurst reclined indolently upon a sofa; Bingley, whose good humour no change of company could ever materially disturb, attempted conversation alternately with his sisters and with whoever seemed least inclined to answer him. Miss Bingley, having declared the evening intolerably dull unless music were introduced, had at last seated herself at the pianoforte.

Darcy occupied a chair somewhat apart from the others, a book open before him.

At least, it was open.

For some time, his eyes had rested upon the same page without advancing beyond it.

Miss Bingley played brilliantly. Of that there could be no question. Her execution was rapid, fashionable, and technically exact; every difficult passage was overcome with an ease intended very much to be observed. Under ordinary circumstances, Darcy would have acknowledged the performance politely and thought little more of it.