Page 48 of Moments of Truth
Bingley, however, though colouring deeply, met the elder gentleman’s gaze with the frank ardour that was his nature.
“Yes, sir. I cannot disguise it. My affection for Miss Bennet has never ceased, though I was—foolishly, culpably—persuaded to absent myself. It was the greatest error of my life, and I have felt its weight every day. If she can forgive my weakness—if you, sir, can credit my sincerity—I should count myself the most fortunate of men.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression softened, though his words retained a note of measured caution. “You speak handsomely, sir, but fine speeches are soon made. What assurance have I that you will not be swayed again, when sisters or friends whisper in your ear?”
Bingley’s eyes shone with a rare steadiness.
“Sir, I cannot undo the past. But I have learnt from it. Nothing—no argument, no influence—could move me now. My heart is my own, and it is given irrevocably to your daughter. All I ask is permission to prove it, by such attentions as are proper, until the time comes when I may hope for her hand.”
At this Jane raised her eyes, glistening with tears, and spoke in a voice trembling with tenderness. “Papa, I believe him. I know his heart.”
For a moment Mr. Bennet was silent, gazing from one to the other. His irony, that shield against too much feeling, wavered; what appeared instead was the look of a father moved by his daughter’s happiness.
“Very well,” he said at last, his tone softened almost to gravity. “You have my consent. But you must allow that courtship is not a race. Let the summer test your constancy. If, at the end of it, you remain of one mind, I shall give my blessing freely—and rejoice to do so.”
Bingley’s face lit with irrepressible joy. Rising, he bowed with fervour. “Sir, you will find me the happiest, the most grateful of men. Miss Bennet—Jane—” His voice broke, and he could only look at her with such devotion that no words were required.
Jane’s hand, resting lightly upon the sofa, was tremulous; yet her eyes, meeting his, conveyed a serenity so deep that it seemed to fill the little room with a quiet radiance.
Mr. Bennet, half-amused at the spectacle, half touched, waved his hand. “There, there. Enough protestations for one morning. Go and rejoin the others, before your mother imagines we are arranging settlements already.”
The young couple rose, their cheeks flushed with a happiness too evident to conceal.
Mr. Bennet regarded them with a softened look of a rare mingling of gentleness, serenity, and paternal contentment, and as Jane prepared to return to the parlour, he said with quiet composure, “My dear, be so good as to ask Mr. Darcy to step in here, and let Elizabeth accompany him to show the way. I believe it is time we spoke together.”
***
The little room, still bearing the atmosphere of Jane’s recent happiness, received Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth with its mingled scent of leather and ink.
Mr. Bennet rose to meet them, then resumed his chair, waving them to the sofa opposite.
He studied them in silence for a moment, his expression a rare blend of irony and gravity.
“Well, sir,” he began, “you have contrived to reach Longbourn this morning in very good company. Your friend has spoken for himself with tolerable fervour. I presume you have come on a business not entirely dissimilar?”
Darcy inclined his head. “You presume correctly, sir.” His voice, though even, carried an earnest weight.
“I will not affect indifference. My heart is engaged beyond recall. It is my wish, if Miss Elizabeth can approve, to lay before you a request for her hand. But I cannot, and will not, press it without first obtaining your consent.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught; the memory of his first, disastrous declaration at Hunsford rose before her, only to be dispelled by the profound humility that steadied his words now.
Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “A request for her hand—upon so brief an acquaintance as Hertfordshire afforded? You will forgive me if I ask how far you have considered the disadvantages of the connexion. My daughter brings little fortune, a host of ordinary connexions, and a neighbourhood not renowned for elegance. You, sir, are master of Pemberley.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “I have considered it fully. Fortune and connexions weigh nothing against her worth. I do not seek to raise her, but to be raised myself, if she will accept me. As for obstacles—none exist which I am not ready to meet, or remove, for her sake.”
Elizabeth coloured afresh at this declaration. Mr. Bennet, though visibly struck, retained his tone of irony.
“Very gallantly spoken. And yet, Mr. Darcy, gallantry is not constancy. My Lizzy is quick of wit, lively, apt to defy authority. You are grave, reserved, accustomed to command. Do you imagine such a pair would suit?”
Darcy’s lips curved slightly, though his eyes remained grave. “I imagine it precisely, sir. She has taught me humility, justice, and self-knowledge. If she never yielded to me in anything, I should still count myself the better man for being her husband. I would not have her other than she is.”
Elizabeth, unable to speak, pressed her clasped hands together in agitation. Mr. Bennet turned to her with sudden earnestness.
“Well, Lizzy? You hear him. He speaks like a man who knows his own mind. But I must have it from you. Do you love him? Have you at least that seed of affection which may, with time, grow into a true and lasting love? For unless your heart is wholly engaged, I cannot part with you. I would rather see you poor and single than rich and wretched.”
Elizabeth’s eyes, bright with unshed tears, met her father’s.
“Papa—once I thought him the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry. But I was unjust—too hasty. Since then I have learnt his true character. I cannot pretend indifference. I—” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “I believe I do love him.”
Mr. Bennet’s features softened into a rare tenderness. He looked from his daughter to Darcy, and for once allowed no jest to hide his feeling.
“Then, sir,” he said quietly, “you have my consent. Treat her well, Mr. Darcy, and I shall have nothing more to wish. But let us understand one another—there must first be courtship and then engagement, as rules and decorum demand. We may live in the heart of England, not in London’s whirl, yet propriety applies here as unmercifully as anywhere. ”
Darcy inclined his head, his voice steady. “Of course, Mr. Bennet. You have my gratitude.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted shrewdly. “Still, I had the impression you were in some haste. Marriage, like wine, requires its season. Why the impatience?”
Darcy coloured slightly, yet answered with candour.
“You judge me rightly, sir. I did indeed hope the matter might be concluded without long delay. The reason is simple enough: I made a promise, in return for a service lately rendered me by a gentleman of consequence. My pledge was that he should be invited to my wedding. He is three-and-sixty—hale, yet mortal—and I would not risk failing of my word.”
Mr. Bennet smiled faintly. “Ah! Now I almost dread to ask what favour weighed so heavily as to bring you here with such eagerness.”
Darcy met his eye without hesitation. “It is no secret, sir. You know Mr. Wickham, the officer quartered with the militia at Meryton. He is the son of Pemberley’s former steward and, indeed, was once the godson of my late father—a connexion that cannot be undone, though it has been long and grievously abused.
On my way hither I waited upon Lord Salisbury at Hatfield.
As Lord Lieutenant, he holds the power of decision, and he has promised to arrange Mr. Wickham’s transfer to Newcastle, where the man’s relations reside.
The arrangement will be decent, but decisive.
Mr. Wickham will trouble neither Elizabeth nor this neighbourhood much longer. ”
Elizabeth started, scarcely able to believe her ears.
Mr. Bennet regarded Darcy with new respect, his tone low and measured.
“Well, well. I have met his Lordship. Sir James Cecil, 1st Marquess of Salisbury, is a patriot, an honourable and fine man. So matters have been carried further than I supposed. You have not come unprepared, Mr. Darcy. That is to your credit.”
Darcy rose at once, bowing with a fervour that no formality could restrain. “Sir, you have conferred upon me the greatest honour of my life. I shall devote myself to deserving her.” His eyes then sought Elizabeth’s, and in their grave intensity she read a devotion that shook her very soul.
Mr. Bennet waved his hand with a half-smile.
“Enough of speeches, or I shall grow sentimental. Go—rejoin the others, before your mother suspects I have locked you up to sign settlements. Lizzy, remember what I told you: if you are not heartily attached, think not of accepting him. But if you are happy, my child, I am happy too.”
Darcy, rising, bowed low. “You have my deepest gratitude, sir. I will prove myself worthy of the trust you place in me.”
Mr. Bennet waved a hand, disguising his emotion with humour. “See that you do. She will keep you on your mettle, I promise you. Now, go—both of you. My nerves will not bear more sentiment today.”
Elizabeth, scarcely able to restrain her emotions, bent and kissed her father’s cheek. Darcy bowed once more, and together they quitted the room—two spirits transformed by a moment that promised to shape their lives forever.
Behind them, Mr. Bennet sat alone, shaking his head with a smile both rueful and proud.
***
At noon, when the household had retired to their customary occupations, Mr. Bennet beckoned his second daughter into his study. Elizabeth entered with some trepidation, for his countenance wore that mixture of amusement and gravity which meant he had been observing more closely than he had let on.
“Well, Lizzy,” said he, settling himself in his armchair and adjusting his spectacles, “I find myself in a predicament. Two young men have come to me in the space of a morning, each professing love for one of my daughters. What is a poor father to do? Shall I clap my hands at the prospect, or guard my purse in terror of dowries?”
Elizabeth, half laughing, half blushing, took the seat opposite. “You must do neither, sir, but rather rejoice in the prospect of your daughters’ happiness.”
“Ah—but happiness is a slippery article,” returned Mr. Bennet, eyeing her keenly.
“You know I have ever wished to see my girls well married. Yet the best of fortunes may be ruined if there is not sense enough on both sides. As for Bingley, he is amiable enough to make a lamb content; and Jane, being angelic by nature, will make a paradise of any parlour. I fear nothing there. But Darcy—Darcy is another matter. He is grave, reserved, and proud—yes, my dear, proud still. And you—you are lively, quick of wit, impatient of control. Tell me honestly, Lizzy: do you love him?”
Elizabeth coloured deeply and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“Papa—I once thought him the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry. I disliked him, and said so freely. But I was unjust—too hasty in my judgments. Since then, I have learnt much that alters my opinion. He entrusted me with a letter, setting forth explanations I could not disregard. He is proud, but he is also just; and I find—oh, I scarce know how to put it! —I find my heart engaged where once it was closed.”
Mr. Bennet regarded her with unusual seriousness.
“Engaged? Then I must speak plainly. If you are not heartily attached, do not think of accepting him. I could not part with you to a man you did not truly esteem. But if you do love him, Lizzy, then he is worthy of you. I never thought to say it, but there it is.”
Elizabeth rose impulsively and came to his side, kissing his cheek with a tenderness that startled him from his usual irony. “Thank you, Papa. Your blessing is more to me than any fortune.”
He smiled, his eyes softening. “Well, child, I hope he knows what he takes on. A clever tongue, a lively spirit—you will never be dull, that is certain. And if you are happy, Lizzy, I shall be happy too. Now go and leave me to my books. I am in danger of becoming sentimental.”
Elizabeth withdrew with a heart overflowing. Between her father’s tenderness, Jane’s joy, and the new hope that had begun to take root within her, she felt that Longbourn had never been more truly her home.
That night, when at last she sought the quiet of her chamber, her spirits could not be still.
The candles burned low as she sat by the window, gazing across the familiar fields silvered with moonlight.
Every corner of Longbourn seemed changed, touched by the prospect of what might soon come to pass.
Her father’s words echoed within her: If you are not heartily attached, do not think of accepting him.
Did she love Mr. Darcy? She could no longer deny it to herself.
What had begun in anger and prejudice had grown, through trial and reflection, into something deeper.
His constancy, his honesty, the humility of his letter—all had worked upon her heart until she could imagine no higher happiness than to share her life with him.
Yet mingled with hope was fear. Would he repent of his declaration? Would his family oppose him too strongly? Could she, Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, truly be mistress of Pemberley? The thought both daunted and thrilled her.
At last she blew out the light, whispering into the darkness, “If I am worthy of him—if Heaven allows it—I shall strive to be as just and true as he.” With that vow, her heart grew calm, and sleep, tender and expectant, stole over her.