“And one which, I think, requires more than confidence in its own justice.”
Darcy felt the reproof and knew that he deserved it. She had a right to demand more. Indeed, it was because he knew she would demand more, and would consider it honestly if it were given, that he had come to her at all. Yet the difficulty remained the same. To defend himself against Wickham required the disclosure of matters which had never passed his lips except under the strongest necessity.
Elizabeth, seeing perhaps that he did not immediately continue, said after a moment, “You must allow that Mr Wickham has described himself as having suffered materially through your interference.”
Darcy’s expression hardened despite his efforts to prevent it. “He has described himself falsely.”
She did not flinch from the firmness of his reply, but neither did she retreat from her ground. “He has said,” she answered, “that a provision intended for him was withheld. He spoke with regret, but not, I thought, with bitterness. If he has misrepresented the matter, you must admit he has done so with moderation.”
The injustice of that moderation, and of Wickham’s habitual success in appearing injured without seeming vindictive, struck Darcy with all its old force. Yet he knew that impatience would serve him ill with her.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, keeping his voice level with an effort, “there are few men in the world whose account of themselves I would trust less than George Wickham’s. His abilities render him particularly dangerous in just such a situation. He knows how to speak to be believed. He knows how to appear candid while concealing everything of consequence. It is for that reason, and not from any desire to govern your acquaintance, that I have taken the liberty of speaking.”
Elizabeth was silent for a few moments. They had now reached the end of the walk and turned again toward the house, though neither paid much attention to the route they followed. Her expression had lost some of its earlier certainty. She was listening still, but not yet convinced.
At length she said, “You must know that your speaking against him can only place me in a difficult position.”
“I know it.”
“And yet you chose to do it.”
“I did.”
She looked at him searchingly, and there was nothing careless in the scrutiny. “Then either you are very confident in your own cause, or you are very little aware how your conduct must appear.”
The observation was so exact that, hadcircumstances been different, it might have compelled his admiration even more strongly than before. As it was, admiration and frustration were too closely mingled to be separated.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I know very well how I must appear. I know also that, were my own comfort alone concerned, I should have remained silent.”
That answer seemed to strike her. The severity of her expression softened, though only slightly. “For whose comfort, then, have you chosen otherwise?” she asked.
Darcy hesitated. The truthful answer stood very near his lips and could not be given. He could not say that it was for hers, though it was. He could not say that the sight of her with Wickham had troubled him beyond endurance, though it had. What he could say, and what was at least a part of the truth, was sufficient for the present.
“For the sake of preventing, if I can, a greater evil than present embarrassment.”
Elizabeth said nothing to this, but her manner, though still reserved, had become less openly adverse. The first resistance had not wholly given way, yet neither had it remained untouched. She was considering him. Darcy saw it clearly, and the knowledge both encouraged and agitated him.
He drew a steadying breath. The most difficult part of the conversation still lay before them, and itcould no longer be deferred. If he had gone so far, he must now tell her enough that doubt would be impossible.
“I must ask your patience a little longer,” he said. “The history is not short, and it is not agreeable to me to relate. But if I am to speak at all, I must speak plainly.”
Elizabeth inclined her head and said, with a seriousness that had entirely replaced her earlier irony, “Then I will hear you plainly.”
That simple answer, soberly given, did more to strengthen his resolution than any argument he had offered himself that morning. He had trusted her discretion before coming. In that moment, he began to trust something more.
Darcy walked a few steps in silence after her answer, not from uncertainty regarding what he must say next, but from the effort required to begin it properly. The subject had never been one he spoke of willingly. Even now, though necessity pressed him forward, he wished he could accomplish his purpose without exposing the whole history.
Elizabeth, who seemed perfectly aware that he was arranging his thoughts, waited with impressive patience.
At length he said, “George Wickham was the son of a steward who served my father for many years. Several generations of his family have been inthe employment of mine, and my father’s regard for the man was so great that he took a particular interest in the welfare of his son.”
Elizabeth listened attentively. The seriousness of her expression suggested that she was prepared to discover something very different from the story she had already heard.
“From his earliest years,” Darcy continued, “Wickham was frequently in our household. My father encouraged his education and intended him for the church. There was a valuable living in the gift of the estate, and it was my father’s plan that Wickham should receive it when the position became vacant.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, Mr Wickham told me as much himself.”
“I should imagine so,” Darcy said. He felt no bitterness at the old injustice, only weariness. “Wickham has always seasoned his slander with the truth. This much, indeed, is so. My father believed Wickham would take orders and settle into a respectable profession. The provision was made openly, and though not legally required under his will, no one could have doubted my father’s intentions. Certainly, I did not.”
