Chapter Text
We must be particularly careful how we allow infidelity or skepticism to take root in our hearts, for they are a soil more natural to the growth of evil, than of good. I believe, that all the ways of God to man are not only perfectly justifiable, but perfectly wise, just, and good: still there are mysteries I cannot develope. Conscience whispers, I am a worm of the dust; and God is the Almighty, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end of wisdom. And shall I scrutinize, shall I scan, or dare to judge between him and his works?
— Letter from Mrs. Harriet Backus, 1801; in The Christian's Magazine, volume IV, issue ii; 1811
Mr. Collins, in spite of his late heart-break, proved himself as great a proponent of punctuality in his departure, as he had at his arrival. He had no intention of taking himself off a moment sooner than he had planned; he was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay; and if his angry pride caused him to maintain at most times a resentful silence towards all other inhabitants of the house, he was no worse a companion for it than he had been before. Neither, however, was he a better one: and Charlotte Lucas, who had always intended to spend the day with them on Wednesday, and therefore arrived at about two o’clock that afternoon, had been invaluable, in drawing off much of his attention onto herself.
After breakfast on Thursday, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned from the business which had necessitated his absence from the Netherfield ball. He and his friend joined them on their entering the town, and it was soon evident that they meant to escort them the whole morning. Mr. Wickham offered Elizabeth his arm, and attended particularly to her; it was her to whom he principally spoke; it was to her alone that he acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed.
“As the day approached,” said he, “I found that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy—that forbearance was worth more, in this instance, than a blind courage, which might cause scenes to arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
Elizabeth gave some rote reply about discretion and valour, but her mind was really otherwise engaged; it was further opening to skepticism. Was this an admirable sacrifice on the part of her friend—giving up his own pleasure for an evening, in order to avoid laying himself open to the pity, and Mr. Darcy to the censure, of the room? Or was it not rather the consciousness of guilt, which would lead him to avoid a contest, of which he did not have the right side?
The possibilities, so far as she could arrange them before her own mind, were three: first, the accusation was false, and Wickham feared a denial; but how he could have lied in such a thoroughgoing manner, with names, facts, and everything mentioned, without demurral or ceremony—with such an air of candid, unconcerned truth—! It seemed impossible.
Second, the accusation was true, but the fault was on Wickham’s side. He had owned, himself, that Darcy had laid the charges of “extravagance” and “imprudence” at his feet; the extravagance might be real, and worse than what Elizabeth had any notion of. But, in this case, that Wickham could have communicated to her just criticisms of himself, that contained within them the explanation for the whole, seemed extraordinary! And he had such an air of sobriety, of earnestness, of propriety about him, that any charge of imprudence strained her credulity.
Third, the accusation was true, and the fault on Darcy’s side. He had persecuted Wickham without justice, from feelings of jealousy, or of disdain for Wickham’s descent; Wickham feared to meet him, because he could not trust himself to bear his company indefinitely, or because the mere reminder of his existence might remind Darcy to persecute him again. A week ago, no villainy had seemed to her too black to impute to Mr. Darcy; but now, it seemed strange that he could object so strenuously to Wickham as the son of a servant, and yet reconcile himself to addressing her, the granddaughter of an Indian merchant, with civility.
As these reflections continued to lead Elizabeth to no where in particular, she found herself again addressed by Mr. Wickham:
“I was very sorry to miss an opportunity for such an agreeable amusement—and among such amiable people, with such open, happy manners, as I have found in Meryton; but, I must own, that I was in particular sorry to have missed the opportunity to dance with you. However,” he smiled, “perhaps I am presumptuous—it is not to be supposed that you had a dance free.”
She had—because she had spent it standing out with Mr. Darcy, in such pointed conversation as had prevented any other gentleman’s approaching her. She set aside the guilt, which this remembrance occasioned, long enough to make a laughing reply to the effect that he would have needed to be sure of asking early enough in the evening; he replied in a similar style; and the conversation from there proceeded on indifferent matters. They continued to speak as Lydia and Kitty hailed every officer they passed, Jane purchased a handful of things as a favour to Mrs. Hill, and Lydia spent half the month’s pin-money on ribbons, a painted fan, and a new parasol, for all that it was autumn. All the while, Wickham was as gentle, well-bred, and winning as ever; and, if she could still have believed that the history of a particular incident might be revealed by taking anyone’s general character, her faith in his absolute innocence must have been certain.
When the gentlemen escorted them back to Longbourn, they were duly invited in for refreshments, and introduced to the master and mistress of the house. That Wickham delighted her mother, and amused her father, was evident to Elizabeth; but she was at some thing of a loss as to the reason for the latter sensation. Her friend’s great gentleness of address was, perhaps, not calculated to suit Mr. Bennet’s tastes.
Partway through the visit, Jane had had a letter from Miss Bingley; and, after Wickham and Denny had departed, she related its import to Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy would be in London for a week, or perhaps a little less; Mr. Hurst dined out with the officers; Jane and Elizabeth were therefore entreated to come and prevent boredom, disputation, and whatever other dire consequence Miss Bingley feared from an evening’s tête-à-tête between two ladies.
“I can readily believe,” said Elizabeth, who could not help herself, “that a close conference between two women must end in such a way, if Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are the women in question. Of course, we would not be half so welcome as we are, if the gentlemen were at home—and Miss Bingley has no compunction in telling us so.”
“I am sorry that you cannot like them, Lizzy; and I am sure that you have your reasons; I know that you never harbour any sentiment unjustly. But they have always been very kind to me—and I mean to see this note as a kind attention also.”
Jane could never quite be brought to admit that Elizabeth received different treatment on the basis of her personal appearance, than Jane received on the basis of her’s. Elizabeth—who had more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and whose judgement was unassailed by any complimentary attention to herself—perceived the distinction: the lesser degree of forbearance that was given to her; the comparative hesitation to offer her any of those little gallantries deemed necessary for a gentleman to pay a lady; the higher readiness to consider her to be angered or ill-humoured, which had taught her carefully to temper her every speech with a gay smile and a light sweetness of tone. That this sweetness of manner did not avail her with the Bingley sisters, was perfectly evident to her.
In truth, however, Elizabeth did not really wish for Jane to acknowledge the disparity. She had a tender, protective feeling towards her—a bit unwieldy in a younger sister, but no less earnest—that did not like to think of her being exposed to the world’s wickedness. She therefore dropt the subject, and consented to call the carriage to bring them to Netherfield. Throughout dinner, tea, and supper, as she busied herself with eating, working, and reading in silence, she took a wholesome happiness from Jane’s interest in her friends; and a rather less wholesome delight, in the fact that said friends had no idea what matrimonial mortifications were preparing for them.