“I did.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly, but her eyes searched his face. “You grow mysterious. It is not a habit I expected you to acquire in the country.”
Bingley, who had approached in time to catch only the last exchange, said cheerfully, “Darcy mysterious? That is an accusation I should like to hear proved.”
“Your friend has discovered hidden pleasures in Kent and refuses to enlighten us.”
“I am glad of it,” said Bingley. “If Kent has pleased him, the place has more merit than I supposed. For my part, I always think well of any place where one has friends.”
At this, Darcy’s thoughts moved at once toward Hertfordshire. With them, a vision of Elizabeth came so distinctly before his mind’s eye that for a moment the room, the conversation, and every other object lost some portion of their force. He saw again the brightness of her eyes when she was amused, the quick intelligence that animated her face, the frankness with which she listened, the easewith which she spoke. Nothing in the recollection was exaggerated, because nothing required it. She had never needed art to make herself felt. Her presence had distinguished itself without effort. It was that very ease, that freedom from design, which made every attempt at studied attraction appear poor beside it.
Miss Bingley continued to speak, though he heard her only in fragments.
“There is a concert next week,” she was saying. “And the Westerlys are expected back. Lady Mary was lamenting only yesterday that she had not seen your sister in an age. There will be no want of agreeable engagements if you choose to remain.”
“I do not intend to remain long in town.”
“No?” Her surprise was immediate and carefully managed. “Surely you do not mean to retreat again so soon. You have had no chance to enjoy yourself.”
“We are to go to Pemberley.”
“Well, for a time, perhaps. But you will return.”
“I do not know that we shall.”
She regarded him with a look that was meant to be playful, though it did not succeed. “Surely you do not mean to retreat to the countryside forever.”
“Not forever,” Darcy said. “But I cannot saywhen we may return.”
Miss Bingley was silent a moment, then turned the subject with what she meant to be grace. “I shall not attempt to compete with Pemberley. No one can. But I should be very sorry if you abandoned London entirely to people less qualified to enjoy it.”
Darcy inclined his head, but gave no encouragement beyond the civility of the motion.
At supper, she renewed the attempt with greater perseverance. She addressed him whenever the general conversation allowed, praised what he seemed most inclined to notice, contradicted him only where contradiction might prolong the exchange, and laughed more than was necessary at anything he said which admitted even the smallest pretence of wit. None of it produced the effect she intended. Her attentions, once flattering perhaps to vanity, now served only to remind him how wholly unlike Elizabeth she was.
Miss Bingley wished always to be agreeable and was seldom so.
Elizabeth had been so without ever appearing to consider whether she succeeded.
The distinction followed him throughout the evening. Where Miss Bingley calculated, Elizabeth had simply spoken. Where one sought admiration, the other had seemed scarcely aware that she inspired it. Even the differences in their manners ofaddressing him rose unbidden before his memory. Miss Bingley had always spoken to please and to secure a response. Elizabeth had spoken because she felt. Because truth or amusement or indignation moved her to it. He had never had reason to doubt her sincerity, and because he had once fully trusted it, his present uncertainty wounded him the more.
Bingley, entirely unconscious of his sister’s mortification or Darcy’s abstraction, preserved the general cheerfulness of the table by a sheer abundance of good humour. He drew Georgiana gently into conversation, spoke with her of music, books, and the prospect of Pemberley in a manner which put her at ease, and addressed Darcy with the affectionate frankness of long familiarity.
“You are very grave tonight,” he said at one point, smiling across the table. “I do not know whether to attribute it to London or to my company.”
“Perhaps to London. Never to yourself.”
“That is civilly answered, but not very reassuring. I had counted on being welcomed with greater warmth after so long an interval.”
“You are always welcome.”
“There. That is better. I shall be satisfied with that.”
Miss Bingley seized on the opening. “Mybrother requires very little encouragement. He is the easiest man in the world to please.”
“That is an excellent virtue,” Darcy told her, “and one that may make up for my own failing in letting my friends know how much regard I have for them. I admit it is a fault of mine to remain silent when I ought to speak.”
Bingley chuckled. “Never fear, old friend. I know.”
