Page 40 of Moments of Truth
Then he rose with a youthful suppleness, beckoned Hill to wait, and stepped into the hall. There he spoke in a voice unnecessarily loud—less from deafness than from a desire to be overheard by the young ladies in the library.
“Here is a coin for your service, my lad. You may tell the gentlemen that I gave you no written reply. Instead, you are to carry them my answer in one word — ‘yes.’ And now—God speed you on your way.”
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The morning sun lay fresh upon Longbourn’s lawns, gilding the dew into silver and throwing a cheerful brilliance across the gravel sweep. When the sound of wheels drew near, Jane’s hand faltered upon her ribbon-work, her face suffused with a colour at once delicate and betraying.
Elizabeth, who sat beside her, longed to shield her from such exposure, but there was no time for comfort; the door opened, and the visitors were announced.
Mr. Bingley entered first, bright and smiling, so entirely himself that the room seemed to warm at once. At his side came Mr. Darcy, whose bearing was graver, but whose courtesy was exact, his bow to Mrs. Bennet proper, his greeting to Jane respectful, and his glance at Elizabeth—brief, restrained, yet suffused with an intensity that stirred her very nerves.
Mrs. Bennet fluttered in high delight. “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! What an honour to see you both—what a charming morning for so welcome a call!” She insisted upon their seats with effusions that required Hill’s brisk assistance to bring more chairs.
The gentlemen complied with civility. Mr. Darcy accepted his place beside Elizabeth with measured composure, while Mr. Bingley, though perfectly polite to all, soon fixed his whole attention upon Jane. His enquiries after her health, his recollections of Hertfordshire’s happy days, his admiration for the beauty of the summer—all carried in them a warmth that no one in the room could mistake.
Jane, gentle and modest, replied with her accustomed sweetness, her voice low, her countenance touched with a glow more eloquent than any words.
For some minutes the talk flowed easily—of gardens, of the fine weather, of books Mrs. Gardiner had lately sent from town. Darcy spoke little, but when appealed to, his remarks were judicious and well-timed, giving Elizabeth the impression of a man resolved to present himself with steady propriety.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, was all smiles and attentions, divided between the triumph of seeing Mr. Bingley at her hearth once more and the awe that Mr. Darcy’s grave presence inspired.
At length, however, Mr. Bingley’s cheer took on a new earnestness. He rose slightly from his chair and addressed Mr. Bennet, who sat observing all with his customary air of half-amused vigilance.
“Mr. Bennet,” said he, colouring but determined, “might I entreat the favour of a private word with you? —and with Miss Bennet, if she will allow it.”
The request, though deferentially spoken, was so plain in its object that Mrs. Bennet could scarce restrain an exclamation of triumph. Elizabeth pressed her lips together to conceal a smile, while Jane, blushing rosily, looked to her father with mingled fear and hope.
Mr. Bennet, whose brow arched in ironic comprehension, rose with deliberate leisure. “Very well, Mr. Bingley,” he said. “If my daughter has no objection, we will repair to the library. Hill, see that no one disturbs us.”
Darcy, at this, inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging both the justice of Bingley’s precedence and the necessity of patience. Elizabeth felt the tremor of anticipation run through her, yet she schooled her countenance to composure as Jane, trembling, accepted her father’s arm and followed Bingley from the room.
The little library at Longbourn, though crowded with papers and volumes, had long served Mr. Bennet as his place of retreat; yet never had it been the stage of so momentous an interview. Mr. Bennet seated himself in his accustomed chair, gesturing for Jane and Bingley to take the sofa opposite.
“Well, young man,” he began with a dry smile, “you have sought a private audience. Let us dispense, then, with all but the plain truth. You have return to Nethefield and yourdecision argues something more than neighbourly civility. Am I to suppose that your attachment to my eldest daughter has revived?”
Jane’s eyes dropped at once to her clasped hands; her blush spoke all her delicacy could not utter.
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.”
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