“Mr. Darcy, words cannot express my gratitude for this condescension. To be conveyed in such style as far as London—most overwhelming, most gratifying! I shall endeavor to render the journey agreeable by every means in my power.”
Mr. Darcy acknowledged the effusion with a slight inclination of the head.
“The arrangement is mutually convenient, Mr. Collins. I trust we shall travel comfortably.”
Elizabeth, who had observed the exchange with affectionate raillery toward her cousin and a composed indifference toward the taller gentleman, ventured a light remark as the party moved toward the door.
“Your departure is well-timed, Mr. Darcy—the assembly is upon us, and we should not wish to detain you from more pressing engagements. The neighborhood will, I trust, survive until your return.”
Mr. Darcy met her eyes with a gravity that held a flicker of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or the stirrings of a challenge unmet.
“I anticipate finding it much as I left it, Miss Elizabeth.”
The farewells concluded with due politeness—Mrs. Bennet pressing invitations for future visits, the younger girls whispering of the assembly’s prospects, and Mr. Bennet offering a dry wish for a safe journey. Mr. Collins embraced the opportunity for repeated expressions of gratitude, while Mr. Darcy maintained his reserved courtesy to the last.
The two gentlemen ascended the carriage at length, the door closed with a decisive snap, and the equipage rolled smoothlydown the sweep, leaving the family upon the steps in a mixture of satisfaction and speculation.
Mrs. Bennet turned to her daughters with rapturous animation.
“Only think—he will return for the assembly! And Mr. Bingley remains—most gratifying, most gratifying indeed!”
Elizabeth smiled quietly, her thoughts dwelling with private curiosity upon the reserved gentleman who had promised to return, while the carriage bore its occupants toward London—and, for one at least, toward duties and reflections that Hertfordshire had rendered unexpectedly complex.
Eight
The assembly rooms at Meryton were filled with that agreeable confusion peculiar to a country ball of the first consequence, the air warm with the scent of beeswax candles, while the musicians upon the little dais struck up a lively country dance that set the floor in motion with spirited animation.
Ladies in muslins of every hue mingled with gentlemen in coats of blue or black, officers in scarlet adding a dash of military splendor to the scene, and the general hum of conversation and laughter promised an evening of unpretending pleasure, where the hopes of the young and the calculations of their elders might find equal scope for indulgence.
An immediate favorite wherever he appeared, Mr. Bingley had secured Miss Bennet for the first set of dances with an eagerness that drew many approving glances from the company,his countenance radiant with undisguised delight as he led her to the set, his thoughts already dwelling upon the felicity of finding himself in the presence of a lady whose gentle beauty and serene kindness seemed calculated to awaken the tenderest sentiments. With her customary serenity, Jane accepted the honor with a modest grace that only heightened her partner’s admiration, her gentle smiles and soft replies drawing him further into enchantment with every turn of the dance.
The same set included Mr. Collins and Elizabeth—his steps executed with earnest care, if not with perfect ease, and his conversation interspersed with warm compliments upon the pleasure of the evening and the felicity of finding himself once more among relations so dear to him. Though amused by his transparent satisfaction and reflecting privately upon the quiet contentment that prudence might secure, Elizabeth replied with her usual lively good humor, her eyes sparkling with affectionate raillery as she guided the discourse toward lighter topics.
Much apart from the dancers stood Mr. Darcy, his tall figure commanding attention even in silence, his appearance in public assemblies marked by that grave dignity which rendered him an object of curiosity rather than invitation. With an air of detached reflection, he observed the dancers, his thoughts dwelling upon the unexpected graces of the neighborhood he would once have dismissed too hastily—the gentle kindness of one sister, the lively intelligence of another—and upon the curious indifference with which the latter had treated his presence at Longbourn. The memory of her composed detachment, mingled with the warmth of the room and the press of unfamiliar society, stirred within him a resolve he had not anticipated: he would solicit Elizabeth Bennet’s hand for the next set, if only to ascertain whether her reserve proceeded from disdain or mere caprice.
As the current dance drew toward its conclusion, Mr. Collins, his countenance glowing with earnest gratification, bowed to Elizabeth with profound respect.
“My dear cousin,” he said, his voice rich with feeling, “nothing could afford me greater happiness than this opportunity to dance with you once more. Yet I perceive Miss Lucas—my betrothed—standing in need of a partner, and duty, as well as affection, calls me thither.”
Her eyes dancing with quiet amusement at his solemn declaration, Elizabeth curtseyed with graceful acceptance.
“Go to Charlotte, Cousin. She will be pleased to see you, and I would not detain you from such agreeable claims.”
With another bow, his heart full of tender anticipation, Mr. Collins made his way toward Miss Charlotte Lucas and Lady Lucas, both receiving him with pleasure, Charlotte’s composed smile holding the promise of mutual contentment.
Having led Jane from the floor with reluctant gallantry, Mr. Bingley returned her to Mrs. Bennet’s side with expressions of warm admiration, while Jane coloured faintly with modest pleasure.
His resolution now fixed, Mr. Darcy advanced with measured step toward Elizabeth, his mind occupied with the curious mixture of curiosity and challenge that her presence invariably provoked.
Having concluded her dance with Mr. Collins, Elizabeth had retired to the side of the room with Mary, who sat with her usual solemn composure, her hands folded in her lap as she observed the dancers with an air of thoughtful detachment.
Mr. Darcy, his determination strengthened rather than weakened by delay, advanced with measured step toward the sisters, his tall figure commanding attention even in silence. He bowed with grave politeness as he reached them, his gaze resting upon Elizabeth with a gravity that betrayed both curiosity and a faint challenge.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, his voice low yet distinct amid the general hum, “I hope I do not intrude. The next dance is forming—may I have the honour of your hand for it?”
Elizabeth, who had been conversing lightly with Mary upon the merits of the music, turned toward him with a composure that bordered upon deliberate coolness, her fine eyes meeting his for only a moment before she inclined her head with polite detachment.
“You are very kind, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her tone civil yet devoid of warmth, “but I am afraid I am already engaged for this set—with my sister Mary, who has kindly consented to stand up with me for the sake of practice.”
