Page 46 of Moments of Truth
“Constancy!” Bingley repeated, as though the very word were music. He bowed, murmured grateful nonsense that was all the better for being nonsense, and turned back to Jane with an expression that made Mrs. Gardiner sit very straight to conceal her delight.
The evening softened into that sweetest conversation which belongs to families who love one another and to lovers discovering they are allowed to hope.
Plans were half-formed and then modestly withdrawn; Mr. Gardiner promised a drive the next morning if business permitted; Mrs. Gardiner recollected a ribbon that must suit Jane exactly; Maria yawned and protested she was not the least tired as she went off to bed.
When the time at last came to part, Bingley lingered at the door in the way of men who wish to be sent away and called back in the same breath.
“Tomorrow, Miss Bennet?” he asked, almost whispering.
“Tomorrow,” Jane answered, and the promise shone between them like a small, steady flame.
Elizabeth, watching from the stair, pressed a hand to her heart. May every tomorrow be kinder than the last, she prayed , for them—and perhaps for me.
***
Next morning, Mr. Bingley arrived before the clock struck eleven, so radiantly punctual that Mrs. Gardiner pronounced herself quite charmed by young men who respected a household’s order.
A simple plan was proposed: a short drive for air, then back to Gracechurch Street for a light nuncheon, after which Mr. Gardiner must to his counting-house and Bingley would return his sisters’ carriage.
No one mentioned that the purpose of all plans was merely to keep two hearts within sight of one another.
They walked first, for the sun was agreeable and the pavements dry. Mr. Gardiner contrived, with a dexterity long practised, to fall a few steps behind with Elizabeth, leaving Jane and Bingley just before them. “Well, Lizzy?” he said, as if the scene were not eloquent enough.
“I believe,” she answered, smiling through a sudden mist, “that we shall be very merry in Hertfordshire by and by.”
“I believe we shall,” he returned. “And I will tell you what else I believe: that a certain niece of mine is learning to value a steady heart as much as a clever head.”
She laughed a little. “I hope so, sir.” Then, lower, as if speaking to herself, “I hope so very much.”
Before a window seller’s bright display, Jane and Bingley paused to admire a watercolour of a village green. “It reminds me of home,” he said.
“Of Longbourn—or of Netherfield?” Jane ventured.
“Of any place where I am permitted to call your neighbourhood,” he replied, colouring, and then, with a courage that astonished himself, “Miss Bennet—Jane—if I secure your father’s approbation, would you—could you—allow me to hope that Netherfield might be such a place again?”
She turned those candid blue eyes upon him, and the city noise fell away. “If my father approves, Mr. Bingley,” she said, “I will be—very happy.”
Elizabeth, who had paused before a milliner’s fan purely to give them one moment more, felt tears rise and did nothing to prevent them. Let this happiness stand; let nothing return to shake it .
Back at Gracechurch Street, over cold meats and excellent pickles, Mr. Bingley applied himself determinedly to pleasing Mr. Gardiner, and succeeded without effort.
He listened when anyone spoke, even when the speaker was Maria extolling a bonnet; he offered to convey a parcel to a mutual acquaintance; he praised the Gardiner children’s small watercolours with such sincere delight that Mrs. Gardiner’s heart capitulated entirely.
If this was a man easily persuaded by the strong will of others, it was not by selfishness but by good nature—and good nature, guided by love and steadied by purpose, may accomplish happy miracles.
When at last Mr. Gardiner must be off, he drew Bingley aside. “Sir, I am today at liberty to advise what I yesterday only hinted: you should write to Mr. Bennet and ask for a talk.”
Bingley’s face brightened promptly like a boy’s at a holiday. “At once! —that is, with your leave—”
“With our very warmest leave,” Mrs. Gardiner said, joining them. She laid a hand upon his arm, motherly and kind. “And if you wished, in addition, to ride down yourself before the post can carry your letter, I doubt there is anyone in this household who would call you rash.”
“Ride down—today?” His eyes flew to Jane, and then back. He mastered himself with an effort. “No—I will first secure Mr. Bennet’s permission with proper respect. But if his answer be favourable, I shall not lose an hour.”
When he took leave—no longer lingering, but with a cheerful resolution that became him even better—Jane stood very still, as if to steady the joy rising within her. Elizabeth slipped an arm about her waist. “He will do all he has said,” she whispered. “He is a man in love.”
“And I—” Jane’s voice shook; she smiled through it. “I, too, am very much in love, Lizzy.”
***
Later, when the house had resumed its ordinary quiet, Mrs. Gardiner drew Elizabeth to the window-seat. “My love,” she said gently, “your eyes are too thoughtful for such a morning. Tell me—are you content?”
Elizabeth looked down at her clasped hands. “I am more nearly content than I deserve to be. Jane’s happiness—oh, Aunt! —it is a salve to everything. And yet—” She hesitated, then chose candour. “I am not easy when I remember how unjust I have been—how proud in my own way.”
“Regret is a good beginning, but not a habitation,” Mrs. Gardiner said softly. “If there is a wrong to be set right, trust that Providence will grant you the occasion—and be ready when it comes.”
Elizabeth thought of a letter, grave and honourable; of a gentleman whose reserve had once offended and now, strangely, seemed to draw her by promising a truer depth. If such an occasion comes , she vowed silently, I will be honest. I will be just.