Page 49 of Moments of Truth
The summer days that followed were of a kind Jane Bennet had scarcely dared to imagine in her most hopeful moments.
For if once she had resigned herself to silence and disappointment, she now awoke each morning to the knowledge that Mr. Bingley would come—early, cheerfully, without hesitation—and that his every look and word was meant for her.
Mrs. Bennet, in the first transports of delight, could hardly keep her seat.
She declared to anyone who would listen that she had always known Mr. Bingley’s attachment was deep and constant, that she had never doubted him for a moment, and that she was certain he would settle in Hertfordshire for life.
“La, Jane! four thousand a year and a house like Netherfield! You will be mistress there before the summer is out. I shall dance at both your weddings till I am quite giddy.”
Jane, blushing, sought to quiet her mother’s transports, but Mr. Bingley only smiled with unaffected joy, as though Mrs. Bennet’s extravagances were but music echoing his own heart. It soon reminded him to invite the Bennets as often as he could to dine at Netherfield.
Elizabeth observed the scene with mingled amusement and tenderness.
She had longed for her sister’s happiness, and now that it was within reach, her spirits were as light as if they themselves had been freed from bondage.
Yet even she marvelled at the openness with which Mr. Bingley’s devotion declared itself.
He seemed incapable of restraint: if Jane entered the room, his eyes followed her with unconcealed delight; if she spoke, he leaned forward with an eagerness that turned every syllable into wisdom.
Mary alone, from her corner with a volume of sermons upon her knee, looked on with a gravity beyond her years. At last, when Mrs. Bennet exclaimed yet again upon the felicity of seeing her eldest married, Mary shut the book and spoke with an air of solemn reflection.
“Mama, the felicity of marriage must not rest wholly upon income or houses. A faithful heart and a firm character are of greater worth than four thousand a year.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched at the unexpected reproof, but Mr. Bingley, far from being offended, turned to Mary with a warmth that surprised them all.
“Indeed, Miss Mary, I cannot agree more. I know I have been weak before—too easily swayed—but I hope my character will prove itself now by constancy. I intend never again to let go of what is most dear to me.”
Jane’s eyes glistened at this quiet avowal, and she bent her head lest her feelings be too plainly seen.
The courtship itself was carried on with a sweetness that seemed to belong to another world.
Morning often brought a walk in the garden, where Bingley would offer his arm with a timidity that soon gave way to happy assurance.
They spoke of small matters—weather, flowers, the brightness of summer days—but beneath each word lay a current of tenderness that no one could mistake.
“Every lilac reminds me of Hertfordshire,” Bingley said one morning, pausing to touch a branch with a kind of reverence. “Do you remember, Miss Bennet, how we walked after supper at Netherfield, and the scent was everywhere in the air?”
Jane smiled softly. “I remember. It was the night you praised my mother’s blancmange more highly than was, I think, its due.”
He laughed, the sound so full of delight that Elizabeth, trailing behind with Mrs. Gardiner, could not help but share it. “I believe you are right. But even blancmange has its merit when one eats it in such company.”
Their affection grew not in sudden bursts, but in a steady warmth that seemed to brighten all around them.
Jane’s serenity lent Bingley confidence; his open-hearted joy awakened in her a courage to show more than gentle acquiescence.
Elizabeth marvelled to see her sister not merely receiving devotion but returning it with her own.
At Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet hovered, fluttered, exclaimed, and contrived every excuse for the lovers to sit together.
“Jane, my love, you must show Mr. Bingley the new embroidery—no, not there, nearer the window, for the light is better. Lizzy, fetch the cushion for Mr. Bingley’s chair. La! How well you look together.”
“Indeed, Mama,” Jane murmured, mortified but unable to withdraw, while Bingley only bowed and expressed himself perfectly content with the arrangement.
Once, when Mrs. Bennet’s ecstasies grew too extravagant, Elizabeth contrived to lead her mother into another room, leaving the couple a few minutes’ peace.
“If they are to love each other properly, Mama,” she whispered with affectionate mischief, “you must not talk them into it. They will manage it very well without speeches.”
Mrs. Bennet, far from being abashed, pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and declared she was the happiest of women.
The days slipped by in such fashion, each marked by visits, walks, and the kind of conversation that strengthens attachment more than eloquence could do. Bingley never uttered a word of gallantry that was not heartfelt; Jane never smiled but it seemed a benediction upon his spirits.
And through it all, Elizabeth’s heart swelled with gratitude.
To see her dearest sister so beloved, so cherished, after all her quiet suffering—this was joy enough to repay her for many trials.
And yet, when her eyes wandered unbidden to Mr. Darcy, when she caught the restraint with which he held himself apart, her pulse quickened with a more private, searching hope.
But that tale belonged elsewhere. For now, Jane Bennet’s courtship unfolded with such sweetness that even Mary admitted, in a low tone to Elizabeth one evening, “I believe this union may prosper. Their affections appear sincere, and sincerity is no common blessing.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand and smiled. “No, Mary, it is not. But I think they will make it common between them—for a lifetime.”
***
Mr. Darcy’s first regular call at Longbourn, under Mr. Bennet’s newly stated regulations (no earlier than eleven, no later than four, and never without a proper chaperone), was conducted with so complete a propriety that even Mrs. Bennet—who preferred triumph to restraint—was half disposed to approve his punctuality.
She received him with a fluttering civility which, had it been a shade more composed, might almost have approached dignity.
Mary sat prepared at the pianoforte with a book of sonatas; Elizabeth, resolving to see as well as to judge, took her workbasket and a steadier breath than she possessed.
He entered without parade, bowed with a gravity that neither chilled nor presumed, and took the chair Mrs. Bennet recommended (after recommending two others).
His first enquiries concerned Mr. Bennet’s health and Mrs. Bennet’s nerves; his second, more quietly offered, sought to know whether Miss Elizabeth had found the May winds less unkind than April’s.
The turn of his voice—its guarded warmth—brought the faintest colour to her cheek.
Mrs. Bennet, who could not keep her transports buried for long, began upon the felicities of Hertfordshire in summer, the excellence of the asparagus, the obstinacy of their poultry, and the advantages of a gravel walk if only one could prevail upon the gardener to roll it twice weekly.
Darcy listened with an attention so patient that Elizabeth, who had once charged him with hauteur, felt the first stitch of her needle tighten with surprise and a most unlooked-for gratitude.
Mary was invited (by Mrs. Bennet, with great emphasis) to “oblige the company.” She played with conscientious care.
When the movement ended, Darcy rose and asked, not for praise, but for a second piece—naming one that seldom drew notice save from those who loved it.
Mary, startled into pleasure, obliged at once.
If ever a heart was won at Longbourn by the choice of a sonata, it was Mary’s that morning; and Elizabeth, catching her sister’s shy glow, thought that a man attentive to what others esteem had learned a better lesson than all the maxims in Fordyce.
When next he called, Mr. Bennet himself proposed a short turn in the garden; he placed Mary between them with her book, and took the path a few paces behind.
The air was soft; lilac and hawthorn breathed so sweetly that conversation needed no ornament beyond sincerity.
Darcy spoke less of himself than of what he admired—of Derbyshire’s hills, not Pemberley’s splendours; of his sister’s love of music, not her proficiency; of duties that were onerous, and how they might be discharged without making others sensible of their weight.
He asked for Elizabeth’s opinions with that quiet earnestness which makes a question feel like a confidence.
She, who once accused him of contempt for her judgment, felt a delicate reversal: that he sought it; that he was, in some inward place, eased by it.
A spray of hawthorn had bent across the walk; he held it aside for her to pass, and she was conscious—absurdly conscious—of the nearness of his hand, of a courtesy so simple it could never offend. “Thank you,” she said, and the words, hardly more than a breath, seemed to alter the day’s complexion.
Mrs. Bennet’s contrivances could not be wholly spared.
One afternoon she insisted that Mr. Darcy be shown the poultry-yard, “for a gentleman ought to know a fine Dorking when he sees one.” Elizabeth, rosy with amusement, led the way, Mary escorting the rear with an air of pious resignation.
Darcy bore the expedition with a composure that never once slipped; he asked after the price of feed, admired a broody hen with unexpected seriousness, and—most astonishing of all—endured a long dissertation from Mrs. Bennet on the profits of eggs in a wet spring.
When at last they emerged into the kitchen-garden, Elizabeth ventured, with a sparkle she could not hide, “You bear trials heroically, sir.”