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<header>
<h1>Pride and Prejudice</h1>
<div>
by Jane Austen
</div>
<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Pride and Prejudice
Author: Jane Austen
Release Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1342]
Last Updated: March 10, 2018
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***
Produced by Anonymous Volunteers, and David Widger
</pre>
</header>
<h2>
Chapter 1
</h2>
<p>
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of
a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
</p>
<p>
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
of some one or other of their daughters.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mr. Bennet,&rdquo; said his lady to him one day, &ldquo;have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But it is,&rdquo; returned she; &ldquo;for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told
me all about it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you not want to know who has taken it?&rdquo; cried his wife impatiently.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>You</i> want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was invitation enough.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by
a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down
on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted
with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take
possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the
house by the end of next week.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Bingley.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is he married or single?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How so? How can it affect them?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mr. Bennet,&rdquo; replied his wife, &ldquo;how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is that his design in settling here?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he <i>may</i>
fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as
he comes.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as
handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear, you flatter me. I certainly <i>have</i> had my share of beauty,
but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has
five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own
beauty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighbourhood.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is more than I engage for, I assure you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be
for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely
on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed
you must go, for it will be impossible for <i>us</i> to visit him if you
do not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad
to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty
consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must
throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving <i>her</i> the
preference.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They have none of them much to recommend them,&rdquo; replied he; &ldquo;they are all
silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Bennet, how <i>can</i> you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are
my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these
last twenty years at least.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Ah, you do not know what I suffer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
visit them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve,
and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been
insufficient to make his wife understand his character. <i>Her</i> mind
was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she
fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters
married; its solace was visiting and news.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 2
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his
wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid
she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner.
Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly
addressed her with:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We are not in a way to know <i>what</i> Mr. Bingley likes,&rdquo; said her
mother resentfully, &ldquo;since we are not to visit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you forget, mamma,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of
her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of
her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No more have I,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet; &ldquo;and I am glad to find that you do not
depend on her serving you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself,
began scolding one of her daughters.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,&rdquo; said her father; &ldquo;she times them
ill.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not cough for my own amusement,&rdquo; replied Kitty fretfully. &ldquo;When is
your next ball to be, Lizzy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To-morrow fortnight.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye, so it is,&rdquo; cried her mother, &ldquo;and Mrs. Long does not come back till
the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she
will not know him herself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to <i>her</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
myself; how can you be so teasing?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
fortnight. But if <i>we</i> do not venture somebody else will; and after
all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore,
as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
take it on myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, &ldquo;Nonsense,
nonsense!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?&rdquo; cried he. &ldquo;Do you
consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them,
as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you <i>there</i>. What say you,
Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great
books and make extracts.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;While Mary is adjusting her ideas,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;let us return to Mr.
Bingley.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sick of Mr. Bingley,&rdquo; cried his wife.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry to hear <i>that</i>; but why did not you tell me that before?
If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on
him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot
escape the acquaintance now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade
you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an
acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too,
that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till
now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet; and,
as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What an excellent father you have, girls!&rdquo; said she, when the door was
shut. &ldquo;I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so pleasant,
I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but for your
sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you <i>are</i> the
youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Lydia stoutly, &ldquo;I am not afraid; for though I <i>am</i> the
youngest, I'm the tallest.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return
Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 3
</h2>
<p>
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in
various ways&mdash;with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes
of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,&rdquo;
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, &ldquo;and all the others equally well married,
I shall have nothing to wish for.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten
minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard
much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate,
for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he
wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.
</p>
<p>
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had
Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to
accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so
soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he
might be always flying about from one place to another, and never settled
at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by
starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party
for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring
twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls
grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the day before
the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only six with him
from London&mdash;his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party
entered the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether&mdash;Mr.
Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young
man.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of
the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the
report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his
entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him
to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer
than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about
half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of
his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his
company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in
Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable
countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people
in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry
that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at
Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a
contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs.
Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other
lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room,
speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided.
He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody
hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent
against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was
sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her
daughters.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to
join it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Come, Darcy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing
about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly
acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be
insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in
the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I would not be so fastidious as you are,&rdquo; cried Mr. Bingley, &ldquo;for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my
life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
uncommonly pretty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>You</i> are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,&rdquo; said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of
her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare
say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Which do you mean?&rdquo; and turning round he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
&ldquo;She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt <i>me</i>; I am in no
humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by
other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for
you are wasting your time with me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
</p>
<p>
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party.
Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by
his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be,
though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard
herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to
be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at
a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the
village where they lived, and of which they were the principal
inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless
of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to
the event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He
had rather hoped that his wife's views on the stranger would be
disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story to hear.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,&rdquo; as she entered the room, &ldquo;we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane
was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she
looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her
twice! Only think of <i>that</i>, my dear; he actually danced with her
twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down
the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her
for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two
fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two
sixth with Lizzy, and the <i>Boulanger</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If he had had any compassion for <i>me</i>,&rdquo; cried her husband
impatiently, &ldquo;he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say
no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first
dance!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of
the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I can assure you,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting <i>his</i> fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not
at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!
Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to
have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 4
</h2>
<p>
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
much she admired him.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is just what a young man ought to be,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!&mdash;so much
ease, with such perfect good breeding!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is also handsome,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;which a young man ought
likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did
not expect such a compliment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us.
Compliments always take <i>you</i> by surprise, and <i>me</i> never. What
could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing
that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room.
No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable,
and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dear Lizzy!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in
your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what
I think.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I know you do; and it is <i>that</i> which makes the wonder. With <i>your</i>
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others!
Affectation of candour is common enough&mdash;one meets with it
everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design&mdash;to take
the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say
nothing of the bad&mdash;belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's
sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not&mdash;at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his
house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
neighbour in her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and
with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very
little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not
deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of
making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private
seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the
habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of
rank, and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of
themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the
north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories
than that their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by
trade.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand
pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did
not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made
choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the
liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the
easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his
days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
</p>
<p>
His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but, though
he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means
unwilling to preside at his table&mdash;nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his
house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age two
years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at
Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for half-an-hour&mdash;was
pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what
the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.
</p>
<p>
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion. In
understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient,
but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that
respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being
liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense.
</p>
<p>
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to
him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt
acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not
conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received
either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
but she smiled too much.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so&mdash;but still they admired
her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom
they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such
commendation to think of her as he chose.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 5
</h2>
<p>
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were
particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in
Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of
knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction
had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his
business, and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting
them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from
Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think
with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy
himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his
rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all
attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his
presentation at St. James's had made him courteous.
</p>
<p>
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable
neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a
sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's
intimate friend.
</p>
<p>
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball
was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the
former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>You</i> began the evening well, Charlotte,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet with
civil self-command to Miss Lucas. &ldquo;<i>You</i> were Mr. Bingley's first
choice.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be
sure that <i>did</i> seem as if he admired her&mdash;indeed I rather
believe he <i>did</i>&mdash;I heard something about it&mdash;but I hardly
know what&mdash;something about Mr. Robinson.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I
mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty
women in the room, and <i>which</i> he thought the prettiest? and his
answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,
beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed&mdash;that does seem as
if&mdash;but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>My</i> overhearings were more to the purpose than <i>yours</i>,
Eliza,&rdquo; said Charlotte. &ldquo;Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as
his friend, is he?&mdash;poor Eliza!&mdash;to be only just <i>tolerable</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a
misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat
close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you quite sure, ma'am?&mdash;is not there a little mistake?&rdquo; said
Jane. &ldquo;I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye&mdash;because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at being
spoke to.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bingley told me,&rdquo; said Jane, &ldquo;that he never speaks much, unless
among his intimate acquaintances. With <i>them</i> he is remarkably
agreeable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable,
he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody
says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow
that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a
hack chaise.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,&rdquo; said Miss Lucas, &ldquo;but I wish
he had danced with Eliza.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Another time, Lizzy,&rdquo; said her mother, &ldquo;I would not dance with <i>him</i>,
if I were you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you <i>never</i> to dance with
him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His pride,&rdquo; said Miss Lucas, &ldquo;does not offend <i>me</i> so much as pride
often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,
should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a <i>right</i>
to be proud.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is very true,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;and I could easily forgive <i>his</i>
pride, if he had not mortified <i>mine</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pride,&rdquo; observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
reflections, &ldquo;is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever
read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is
particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not
cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or
other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though
the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being
vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we
would have others think of us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,&rdquo; cried a young Lucas, who came with his
sisters, &ldquo;I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet;
&ldquo;and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 6
</h2>
<p>
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was
soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the
goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found
to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish
of being better acquainted with <i>them</i> was expressed towards the two
eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest pleasure,
but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,
hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their
kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in all
probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was
generally evident whenever they met, that he <i>did</i> admire her and to
<i>her</i> it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way
to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not
likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united, with
great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform
cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the
impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It may perhaps be pleasant,&rdquo; replied Charlotte, &ldquo;to be able to impose on
the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so
very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from
the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will
then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark.
There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that
it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all <i>begin</i> freely&mdash;a
slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have
heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out
of ten a women had better show <i>more</i> affection than she feels.
Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like
her, if she does not help him on.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can
perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to
discover it too.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it,
he must find it out.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they
always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every
moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore
make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention.
When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love
as much as she chooses.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your plan is a good one,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;where nothing is in
question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to
get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she
cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances
with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has
since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to
make her understand his character.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not as you represent it. Had she merely <i>dined</i> with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember
that four evenings have also been spent together&mdash;and four evenings
may do a great deal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both
like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading
characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Charlotte, &ldquo;I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she
were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of
happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth.
Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions
of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar
beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always
continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of
the person with whom you are to pass your life.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had
a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in
her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of
the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this
she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself
agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance
with.
</p>
<p>
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What does Mr. Darcy mean,&rdquo; said she to Charlotte, &ldquo;by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what
he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being
impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a
subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned
to him and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well
just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
Meryton?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady
energetic.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are severe on us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It will be <i>her</i> turn soon to be teased,&rdquo; said Miss Lucas. &ldquo;I am
going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!&mdash;always wanting
me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a
musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really
rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the
very best performers.&rdquo; On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added,
&ldquo;Very well, if it must be so, it must.&rdquo; And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy,
&ldquo;There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar
with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I shall keep mine to
swell my song.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or
two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she
would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the
family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
impatient for display.
</p>
<p>
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end
of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch
and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of
the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one
end of the room.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing
the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much
engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his
neighbour, till Sir William thus began:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is
nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first
refinements of polished society.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Sir William only smiled. &ldquo;Your friend performs delightfully,&rdquo; he continued
after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; &ldquo;and I doubt not that you
are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
you often dance at St. James's?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Never, sir.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have a house in town, I conclude?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy bowed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself&mdash;for I am fond
of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
London would agree with Lady Lucas.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to
make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck
with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me
to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot
refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.&rdquo; And, taking
her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though extremely
surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back,
and said with some discomposure to Sir William:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not
to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her
hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all
shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me
the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
for one half-hour.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy is all politeness,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, smiling.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we
cannot wonder at his complaisance&mdash;for who would object to such a
partner?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured
her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency,
when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I can guess the subject of your reverie.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should imagine not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner&mdash;in such society; and indeed I am quite of your
opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise&mdash;the
nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I
give to hear your strictures on them!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which
a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would
tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy
replied with great intrepidity:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Elizabeth Bennet.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Elizabeth Bennet!&rdquo; repeated Miss Bingley. &ldquo;I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?&mdash;and pray, when am I to wish
you joy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to
matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain
herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was
safe, her wit flowed long.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 7
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in
default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune,
though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the
deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had
left her four thousand pounds.
</p>
<p>
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their
father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London
in a respectable line of trade.
</p>
<p>
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient
distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or
four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's
shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and
Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were
more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk
to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish
conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in
general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At
present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by
the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to
remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.
</p>
<p>
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most interesting
intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the
officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,
and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips
visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of felicity
unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's
large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was
worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
</p>
<p>
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet
coolly observed:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of
the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am
now convinced.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and
her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next
morning to London.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am astonished, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;that you should be so ready
to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of
anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had
hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far
differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
foolish.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will
not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I
liked a red coat myself very well&mdash;and, indeed, so I do still at my
heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in
his regimentals.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mamma,&rdquo; cried Lydia, &ldquo;my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a
note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for
an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly
calling out, while her daughter read,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,
Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is from Miss Bingley,&rdquo; said Jane, and then read it aloud.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we
shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a
whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a quarrel.
Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen
are to dine with the officers.&mdash;Yours ever,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;CAROLINE BINGLEY&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With the officers!&rdquo; cried Lydia. &ldquo;I wonder my aunt did not tell us of <i>that</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dining out,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;that is very unlucky.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Can I have the carriage?&rdquo; said Jane.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
rain; and then you must stay all night.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That would be a good scheme,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;if you were sure that they
would not offer to send her home.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I had much rather go in the coach.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if you have got them to-day,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;my mother's purpose
will be answered.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad
day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained
hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The
rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly
could not come back.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet more than once,
as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next
morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note for Elizabeth:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAREST LIZZY,&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear
of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones&mdash;therefore
do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me&mdash;and,
excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with
me.&mdash;Yours, etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud,
&ldquo;if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness&mdash;if she
should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling
colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is
all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the
carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her
only alternative. She declared her resolution.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How can you be so silly,&rdquo; cried her mother, &ldquo;as to think of such a thing,
in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I shall be very fit to see Jane&mdash;which is all I want.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,&rdquo; said her father, &ldquo;to send for the horses?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing when
one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I admire the activity of your benevolence,&rdquo; observed Mary, &ldquo;but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We will go as far as Meryton with you,&rdquo; said Catherine and Lydia.
Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
together.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If we make haste,&rdquo; said Lydia, as they walked along, &ldquo;perhaps we may see
something of Captain Carter before he goes.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over
puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view
of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with
the warmth of exercise.
</p>
<p>
She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That
she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty
weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for
it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their
brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was
good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst
nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the
brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the
occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was thinking
only of his breakfast.
</p>
<p>
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well
enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed for
such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, however,
to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could
attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary
kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
</p>
<p>
When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude
they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his
patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold,
and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to
return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed
readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.
Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were the other ladies
often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in fact, nothing to do
elsewhere.
</p>
<p>
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very
unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern in
parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of
the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of
clothes.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 8
</h2>
<p>
At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then poured
in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much
superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very favourable
answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this,
repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it
was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill
themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference
towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to the
enjoyment of all her former dislike.
</p>
<p>
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard
with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions
to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much
an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very
little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy,
her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat,
he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards;
who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to
say to her.
</p>
<p>
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she
had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and
added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
looked almost wild.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
nonsensical to come at all! Why must <i>she</i> be scampering about the
country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in
mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide
it not doing its office.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,&rdquo; said Bingley; &ldquo;but this was all
lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when
she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my
notice.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>You</i> observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley; &ldquo;and I
am inclined to think that you would not wish to see <i>your</i> sister
make such an exhibition.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by
it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a
most country-town indifference to decorum.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,&rdquo; said
Bingley.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,&rdquo; observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, &ldquo;that
this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;they were brightened by the exercise.&rdquo; A short
pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very
sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with
such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is
no chance of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is capital,&rdquo; added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If they had uncles enough to fill <i>all</i> Cheapside,&rdquo; cried Bingley,
&ldquo;it would not make them one jot less agreeable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world,&rdquo; replied Darcy.
</p>
<p>
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations.
</p>
<p>
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on
leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She
was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late
in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it
seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs
herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo,
and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be
playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she
would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book.
Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you prefer reading to cards?&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;that is rather singular.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Eliza Bennet,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley, &ldquo;despises cards. She is a great
reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth; &ldquo;I am
<i>not</i> a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,&rdquo; said Bingley; &ldquo;and I
hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the table
where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others&mdash;all
that his library afforded.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit;
but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I
ever looked into.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in
the room.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am astonished,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley, &ldquo;that my father should have left so
small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at
Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It ought to be good,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;it has been the work of many
generations.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
these.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build <i>your</i> house, I wish it may
be half as delightful as Pemberley.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I wish it may.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
finer county in England than Derbyshire.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am talking of possibilities, Charles.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley
by purchase than by imitation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very little
attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the
card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest
sister, to observe the game.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?&rdquo; said Miss Bingley; &ldquo;will she
be as tall as I am?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so
much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for
her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is amazing to me,&rdquo; said Bingley, &ldquo;how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished as they all are.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net
purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I
never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
informed that she was very accomplished.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;has too
much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far
from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot
boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nor I, I am sure,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; observed Elizabeth, &ldquo;you must comprehend a great deal in your idea
of an accomplished woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! certainly,&rdquo; cried his faithful assistant, &ldquo;no one can be really
esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all
this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half-deserved.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;All this she must possess,&rdquo; added Darcy, &ldquo;and to all this she must yet
add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
extensive reading.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am no longer surprised at your knowing <i>only</i> six accomplished
women. I rather wonder now at your knowing <i>any</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
this?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe united.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Elizabeth Bennet,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,
&ldquo;is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the
other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Undoubtedly,&rdquo; replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
&ldquo;there is a meanness in <i>all</i> the arts which ladies sometimes
condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning
is despicable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue
the subject.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be
of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent
physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to
comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones
should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly
better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they
were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after
supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by
giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to
the sick lady and her sister.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 9
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note
sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own
judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its
contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two
youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
</p>
<p>
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not
alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that
Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I have, sir,&rdquo; was her answer. &ldquo;She is a great deal too ill to be
moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a
little longer on your kindness.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Removed!&rdquo; cried Bingley. &ldquo;It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
sure, will not hear of her removal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may depend upon it, Madam,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
&ldquo;that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she remains
with us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;if it was not for such good friends I do not know
what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast
deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the
way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have
ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to <i>her</i>.
You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over the
gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to
Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though
you have but a short lease.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Whatever I do is done in a hurry,&rdquo; replied he; &ldquo;and therefore if I should
resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At
present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,&rdquo; said Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You begin to comprehend me, do you?&rdquo; cried he, turning towards her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes&mdash;I understand you perfectly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
through I am afraid is pitiful.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate
character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy,&rdquo; cried her mother, &ldquo;remember where you are, and do not run on in
the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I did not know before,&rdquo; continued Bingley immediately, &ldquo;that you were a
studier of character. It must be an amusing study.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but intricate characters are the <i>most</i> amusing. They have at
least that advantage.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The country,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;can in general supply but a few subjects for
such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and
unvarying society.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, indeed,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a
country neighbourhood. &ldquo;I assure you there is quite as much of <i>that</i>
going on in the country as in town.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
victory over him, continued her triumph.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my
part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When I am in the country,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I never wish to leave it; and
when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye&mdash;that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman,&rdquo; looking at Darcy, &ldquo;seemed to think the country was nothing at
all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. &ldquo;You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
which you must acknowledge to be true.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with
many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods
larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards
Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying
something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since <i>her</i> coming away.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel
and easy! He has always something to say to everybody. <i>That</i> is my
idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very
important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did Charlotte dine with you?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
<i>my</i> daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I
assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte
so <i>very</i> plain&mdash;but then she is our particular friend.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She seems a very pleasant young woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has
often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my
own child, but to be sure, Jane&mdash;one does not often see anybody
better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure
he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not.
Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her,
and very pretty they were.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And so ended his affection,&rdquo; said Elizabeth impatiently. &ldquo;There has been
many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have been used to consider poetry as the <i>food</i> of love,&rdquo; said
Darcy.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is
strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am
convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane,
with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon
afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her
daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each
other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest
should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the
country to give a ball at Netherfield.
</p>
<p>
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and
good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection
had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits,
and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attention of the
officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own easy manners
recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal,
therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly
reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful
thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack
was delightful to their mother's ear:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your
sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the
ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lydia declared herself satisfied. &ldquo;Oh! yes&mdash;it would be much better
to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again. And when you have given <i>your</i> ball,&rdquo; she
added, &ldquo;I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of <i>her</i>, in spite
of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on <i>fine eyes</i>.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 10
</h2>
<p>
The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the
progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by
messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.
Hurst was observing their game.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in union with her opinion of each.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He made no answer.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You write uncommonly fast.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year!
Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have already told her so once, by your desire.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens
remarkably well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Thank you&mdash;but I always mend my own.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How can you contrive to write so even?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He was silent.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley's.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
present I have not room to do them justice.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to
determine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
ease, cannot write ill.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,&rdquo; cried her brother,
&ldquo;because he does <i>not</i> write with ease. He studies too much for words
of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My style of writing is very different from yours.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; cried Miss Bingley, &ldquo;Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them&mdash;by
which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my
correspondents.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your humility, Mr. Bingley,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;must disarm reproof.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nothing is more deceitful,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;than the appearance of humility.
It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect
boast.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And which of the two do you call <i>my</i> little recent piece of
modesty?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing,
because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and
carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least
highly interesting. The power of doing anything with quickness is always
prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the
imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning
that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in
five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to
yourself&mdash;and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance
which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real
advantage to yourself or anyone else?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; cried Bingley, &ldquo;this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I
believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment.
At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would
be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on
chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse,
a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay till next week,' you
would probably do it, you would probably not go&mdash;and at another word,
might stay a month.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have only proved by this,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, &ldquo;that Mr. Bingley did not
do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more
than he did himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am exceedingly gratified,&rdquo; said Bingley, &ldquo;by your converting what my
friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions as
atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but
which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand
according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the
friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of
his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in
favour of its propriety.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To yield readily&mdash;easily&mdash;to the <i>persuasion</i> of a friend
is no merit with you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
either.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one
readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one
into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with
the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange
with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain
to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the
parties?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;By all means,&rdquo; cried Bingley; &ldquo;let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
when he has nothing to do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
brother for talking such nonsense.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I see your design, Bingley,&rdquo; said his friend. &ldquo;You dislike an argument,
and want to silence this.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What you ask,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy
had much better finish his letter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
</p>
<p>
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for
an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the
pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way
which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated
herself.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books
that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on
her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because
he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however,
at last that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong
and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other
person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little
to care for his approbation.
</p>
<p>
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a
lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth,
said to her:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
opportunity of dancing a reel?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
surprise at her silence.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine
what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might
have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in
overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their
premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you,
that I do not want to dance a reel at all&mdash;and now despise me if you
dare.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I do not dare.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner
which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never
been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that
were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some
danger.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety
for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her
desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope,&rdquo; said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the
next day, &ldquo;you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check
that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your
lady possesses.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge.
They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for
your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for what painter
could do justice to those beautiful eyes?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour
and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth
herself.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I did not know that you intended to walk,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley, in some
confusion, lest they had been overheard.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You used us abominably ill,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Hurst, &ldquo;running away without
telling us that you were coming out.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by
herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and
immediately said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
laughingly answered:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to
uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth.
Good-bye.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as
to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
</p>
<p>
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<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 11
</h2>
<p>
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and
seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room,
where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of
pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were
during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers
of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment
with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their
acquaintance with spirit.
</p>
<p>
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss
Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something
to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to
Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a
slight bow, and said he was &ldquo;very glad;&rdquo; but diffuseness and warmth
remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The
first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer
from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side
of the fireplace, that she might be further from the door. He then sat
down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth, at work in the
opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
</p>
<p>
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table&mdash;but
in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish
for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She
assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole
party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore
nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.
Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst,
principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now
and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's
progress through <i>his</i> book, as in reading her own; and she was
perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could
not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, &ldquo;How pleasant it is
to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment
like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I
have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent
library.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her
brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him
and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some
among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you mean Darcy,&rdquo; cried her brother, &ldquo;he may go to bed, if he chooses,
before it begins&mdash;but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing;
and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my
cards.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should like balls infinitely better,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
the day.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at
whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation
of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to
Elizabeth, said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so
long in one attitude.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up.
He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down
the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would
interfere. &ldquo;What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
meaning?&rdquo;&mdash;and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
him?
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; was her answer; &ldquo;but depend upon it, he means to be severe
on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing
about it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in
anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two
motives.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,&rdquo; said he, as soon
as she allowed him to speak. &ldquo;You either choose this method of passing the
evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret
affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear
to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be completely
in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by
the fire.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! shocking!&rdquo; cried Miss Bingley. &ldquo;I never heard anything so abominable.
How shall we punish him for such a speech?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,&rdquo; said Elizabeth. &ldquo;We
can all plague and punish one another. Tease him&mdash;laugh at him.
Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But upon my honour, I do <i>not</i>. I do assure you that my intimacy has
not yet taught me <i>that</i>. Tease calmness of manner and presence of
mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not
expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject.
Mr. Darcy may hug himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;That is an uncommon
advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great
loss to <i>me</i> to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bingley,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;has given me more credit than can be. The wisest
and the best of men&mdash;nay, the wisest and best of their actions&mdash;may
be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth&mdash;&ldquo;there are such people, but I hope I
am not one of <i>them</i>. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, <i>do</i> divert me, I
own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are
precisely what you are without.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my
life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding
to ridicule.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Such as vanity and pride.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride&mdash;where there is a real
superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,&rdquo; said Miss Bingley;
&ldquo;and pray what is the result?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for. It is, I believe, too little yielding&mdash;certainly too little for
the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of
others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would
perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>That</i> is a failing indeed!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;Implacable resentment
<i>is</i> a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
really cannot <i>laugh</i> at it. You are safe from me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil&mdash;a natural defect, which not even the best education can
overcome.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And <i>your</i> defect is to hate everybody.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And yours,&rdquo; he replied with a smile, &ldquo;is willfully to misunderstand
them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do let us have a little music,&rdquo; cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share. &ldquo;Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened;
and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for it. He
began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 12
</h2>
<p>
In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her
daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would
exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with
pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not
to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent
them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday;
and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister
pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against
staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved&mdash;nor did
she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being
considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to
borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled
that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be
mentioned, and the request made.
</p>
<p>
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said
of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane;
and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry
that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one
sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
</p>
<p>
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
safe for her&mdash;that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm
where she felt herself to be right.
</p>
<p>
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence&mdash;Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked&mdash;and
Miss Bingley was uncivil to <i>her</i>, and more teasing than usual to
himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of
admiration should <i>now</i> escape him, nothing that could elevate her
with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea
had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material
weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely
spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
</p>
<p>
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see
her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly,
she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole
party in the liveliest of spirits.
</p>
<p>
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their father,
though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see
them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening
conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its
animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human
nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of
threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for
them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the
regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined
lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually
been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 13
</h2>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope, my dear,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast
the next morning, &ldquo;that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I
have reason to expect an addition to our family party.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in&mdash;and I hope <i>my</i>
dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at
home.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. &ldquo;A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
Bingley. But&mdash;good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to
be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell&mdash;I must speak to Hill
this moment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is <i>not</i> Mr. Bingley,&rdquo; said her husband; &ldquo;it is a person whom I
never saw in the whole course of my life.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.
</p>
<p>
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I
answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early
attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may
turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear,&rdquo; cried his wife, &ldquo;I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray
do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the
world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children;
and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do
something or other about it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They
had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs.
Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly
against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five
daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet, &ldquo;and nothing
can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you
will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his
manner of expressing himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of him
to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends.
Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did before
him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head,
as you will hear.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dear Sir,&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father
always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to
lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I
was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful
to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom it had
always pleased him to be at variance.&mdash;'There, Mrs. Bennet.'&mdash;My
mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received
ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by
the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of
Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the
valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to
demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, and be ever
ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the
Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote
and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my
influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures
are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the
entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not
lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than
concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg
leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to
make them every possible amends&mdash;but of this hereafter. If you should
have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the
satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by
four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the
Saturday se'ennight following, which I can do without any inconvenience,
as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a
Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of
the day.&mdash;I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your
lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;WILLIAM COLLINS&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,&rdquo;
said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. &ldquo;He seems to be a most
conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will
prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
indulgent as to let him come to us again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if he
is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
discourage him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Though it is difficult,&rdquo; said Jane, &ldquo;to guess in what way he can mean to
make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
credit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady
Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
his parishioners whenever it were required.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He must be an oddity, I think,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I cannot make him out.&mdash;There
is something very pompous in his style.&mdash;And what can he mean by
apologising for being next in the entail?&mdash;We cannot suppose he would
help it if he could.&mdash;Could he be a sensible man, sir?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In point of composition,&rdquo; said Mary, &ldquo;the letter does not seem defective.
The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is
well expressed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received
pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their
mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she
was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her
husband and daughters.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need
of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,
heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately,
and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he
complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he
had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen
short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all
in due time disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the
taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no
compliments, answered most readily.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove
so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must
confess. Not that I mean to find fault with <i>you</i>, for such things I
know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go
when once they come to be entailed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could
say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and
precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to
admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are
better acquainted&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;
and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart,
but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future
property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to
know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was owing.
But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some
asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her
daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having
displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all
offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 14
</h2>
<p>
During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine,
by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his
comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
he protested that &ldquo;he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a
person of rank&mdash;such affability and condescension, as he had himself
experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of
preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and
had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people
he knew, but <i>he</i> had never seen anything but affability in her. She
had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not
the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood
nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his
relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he
could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in
his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations
he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself&mdash;some
shelves in the closet up stairs.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;and I
dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in
general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive
property.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, &ldquo;then she is better off than
many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the
handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks
the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many
accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am
informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to
drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
court.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and
by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British
court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the
idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those
little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have
more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter
seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of
giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of
little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention
which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You judge very properly,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet, &ldquo;and it is happy for you that
you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether
these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are
the result of previous study?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give
them as unstudied an air as possible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as
he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in
his pleasure.
</p>
<p>
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to
take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over, glad
to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,
and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it
to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,
protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia
exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose
Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had,
with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him
with:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard;
and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself
on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and
to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of
a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I
confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as
instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.
Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption,
and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book;
but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no
ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated
himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 15
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been
but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life
having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father;
and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the
necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The
subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally
great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the
self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential
feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had
recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford
was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his
veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of
himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made
him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and
humility.
</p>
<p>
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a
wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them
as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This
was his plan of amends&mdash;of atonement&mdash;for inheriting their
father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility
and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
part.
</p>
<p>
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face confirmed
his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to
seniority; and for the first evening <i>she</i> was his settled choice.
The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an
hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation
beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of
his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced
from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a
caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. &ldquo;As to her <i>younger</i>
daughters, she could not take upon her to say&mdash;she could not
positively answer&mdash;but she did not <i>know</i> of any prepossession;
her <i>eldest</i> daughter, she must just mention&mdash;she felt it
incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth&mdash;and it was
soon done&mdash;done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth,
equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the
day before was now high in her good graces.
</p>
<p>
Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at
the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and
have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him
after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one
of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet,
with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings
discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure
of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to
meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the house, he was used
to be free from them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in
inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins,
being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely
pleased to close his large book, and go.
</p>
<p>
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins,
their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger
ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately
wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than
a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could
recall them.
</p>
<p>
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they
had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with
another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr.
Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and he
bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air, all
wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to
find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting
something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the
pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot.
Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce
his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from
town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps.
This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only
regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in
his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good
figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his
side by a happy readiness of conversation&mdash;a readiness at the same
time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still
standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses
drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street.
On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly
towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal
spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on
his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy
corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his
eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a
few moments, touched his hat&mdash;a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
</p>
<p>
In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr.
Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
invitation.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from
their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly
expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own
carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she
had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the street, who had told
her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because
the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr.
Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with her very best
politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his
intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not
help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship
to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was
quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of
one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about
the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they
already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was
to have a lieutenant's commission in the &mdash;&mdash;shire. She had been
watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street,
and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have
continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a
few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become
&ldquo;stupid, disagreeable fellows.&rdquo; Some of them were to dine with the
Phillipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call
on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from
Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with
unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
</p>
<p>
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or
both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such
behaviour than her sister.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.
Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady
Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for
she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even pointedly
included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly
unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his
connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in
the whole course of his life.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 16
</h2>
<p>
As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their aunt,
and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single
evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed
him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had
the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr.
Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in the house.
</p>
<p>
When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour
at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification;
but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was
its proprietor&mdash;when she had listened to the description of only one
of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone
had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment,
and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room.
</p>
<p>
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the
improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen
joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive listener,
whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who
was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could.
To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to
do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent
imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting appeared
very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and
when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither
been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest
degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the &mdash;&mdash;shire
were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them
were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in
person, countenance, air, and walk, as <i>they</i> were superior to the
broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing port wine, who followed them
into the room.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
interesting by the skill of the speaker.
</p>
<p>
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had
the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I know little of the game at present,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but I shall be glad to
improve myself, for in my situation in life&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Phillips was very
glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received
at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed
danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined
talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon
grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and
exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.
Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at
leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though
what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told&mdash;the
history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention
that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr.
Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was
from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating
manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;About a month,&rdquo; said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
drop, added, &ldquo;He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
understand.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Mr. Wickham; &ldquo;his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten
thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of
giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been
connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;As much as I ever wish to be,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth very warmly. &ldquo;I have spent
four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have no right to give <i>my</i> opinion,&rdquo; said Wickham, &ldquo;as to his
being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known
him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for <i>me</i>
to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
astonish&mdash;and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, I say no more <i>here</i> than I might say in any house in
the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
him more favourably spoken of by anyone.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot pretend to be sorry,&rdquo; said Wickham, after a short interruption,
&ldquo;that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but
with <i>him</i> I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded
by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing
manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should take him, even on <i>my</i> slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man.&rdquo; Wickham only shook his head.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, &ldquo;whether he is
likely to be in this country much longer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not at all know; but I <i>heard</i> nothing of his going away when I
was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the &mdash;&mdash;shire
will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! no&mdash;it is not for <i>me</i> to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
<i>he</i> wishes to avoid seeing <i>me</i>, he must go. We are not on
friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no
reason for avoiding <i>him</i> but what I might proclaim before all the
world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his
being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of
the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I
can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the
soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the
memory of his father.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had
yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very intelligible
gallantry.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;which was my chief inducement to enter the &mdash;&mdash;shire. I knew it
to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society,
I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits
will not bear solitude. I <i>must</i> have employment and society. A
military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now
made it eligible. The church <i>ought</i> to have been my profession&mdash;I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were
speaking of just now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the
best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to
me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
elsewhere.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth; &ldquo;but how could <i>that</i> be? How could
his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give
me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention,
but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it&mdash;or to treat it as a merely
conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
to it by extravagance, imprudence&mdash;in short anything or nothing.
Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I
was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may
have spoken my opinion <i>of</i> him, and <i>to</i> him, too freely. I can
recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of
men, and that he hates me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Some time or other he <i>will</i> be&mdash;but it shall not be by <i>me</i>.
Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose <i>him</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
ever as he expressed them.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But what,&rdquo; said she, after a pause, &ldquo;can have been his motive? What can
have induced him to behave so cruelly?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A thorough, determined dislike of me&mdash;a dislike which I cannot but
attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not
a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood&mdash;the sort
of preference which was often given me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this&mdash;though I have never
liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be
despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
this.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, &ldquo;I <i>do</i>
remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his
resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be
dreadful.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I will not trust myself on the subject,&rdquo; replied Wickham; &ldquo;I can hardly
be just to him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, &ldquo;To treat
in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!&rdquo; She
could have added, &ldquo;A young man, too, like <i>you</i>, whose very
countenance may vouch for your being amiable&rdquo;&mdash;but she contented
herself with, &ldquo;and one, too, who had probably been his companion from
childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
manner!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part
of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the
same amusements, objects of the same parental care. <i>My</i> father began
life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so
much credit to&mdash;but he gave up everything to be of use to the late
Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property.
He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential
friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest
obligations to my father's active superintendence, and when, immediately
before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of
providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of
gratitude to <i>him</i>, as of his affection to myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How strange!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;How abominable! I wonder that the very
pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better
motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest&mdash;for
dishonesty I must call it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It <i>is</i> wonderful,&rdquo; replied Wickham, &ldquo;for almost all his actions may
be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has
connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are
none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger
impulses even than pride.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
poor. Family pride, and <i>filial</i> pride&mdash;for he is very proud of
what his father was&mdash;have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his
family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of
the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also <i>brotherly</i>
pride, which, with <i>some</i> brotherly affection, makes him a very kind
and careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried
up as the most attentive and best of brothers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He shook his head. &ldquo;I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to
speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother&mdash;very,
very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely
fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she
is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home
has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
education.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be
in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know
Mr. Bingley?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not at all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want
abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his
while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very
different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never
deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere,
rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable&mdash;allowing something for
fortune and figure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success were
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;
but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured
her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance,
that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would
not make herself uneasy.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I know very well, madam,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that when persons sit down to a
card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am
not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are
undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little
matters.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a
few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was
very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lady Catherine de Bourgh,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;has very lately given him a
living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice,
but he certainly has not known her long.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were
sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
self-destined for another.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Collins,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I
suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I believe her to be both in a great degree,&rdquo; replied Wickham; &ldquo;I have not
seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her,
and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation
of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives
part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her
authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her nephew, who
chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of
the first class.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put
an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs.
Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody.
Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully.
Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing
but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but
there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for
neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly
of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and
Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips,
protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist,
enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he
crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the
carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 17
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham
and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how
to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard;
and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man
of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having
endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings;
and nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them both,
to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or
mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They have both,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;been deceived, I dare say, in some way or
other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on
behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
business? Do clear <i>them</i> too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
somebody.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion.
My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places
Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, one
whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of
common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be
capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in
him? Oh! no.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that
Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last
night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not
so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is difficult indeed&mdash;it is distressing. One does not know what to
think.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point&mdash;that Mr.
Bingley, if he <i>had</i> been imposed on, would have much to suffer when
the affair became public.
</p>
<p>
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had
been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal
invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for
the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear
friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked
what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest
of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as
possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others.
They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which
took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape
from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
</p>
<p>
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by
receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society
of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth
thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of
seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look and behaviour. The
happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single
event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth,
meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the
only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball.
And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for
it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;While I can have my mornings to myself,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it is enough&mdash;I
think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who
consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for
everybody.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did not
often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him
whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he did,
whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and
she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever
on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the
Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that a ball of
this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can
have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself,
that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in
the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting
yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference
which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to
any disrespect for her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins
instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help for
it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce delayed a
little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as good a grace as
she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea
it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that <i>she</i>
was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of
Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings,
in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to
conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and
heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and
though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her
charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the
probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to <i>her</i>.
Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that
a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might
never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about
him.
</p>
<p>
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this
time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there
was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once.
No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after&mdash;the very
shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the
improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a
dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 18
</h2>
<p>
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain
for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of
his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him
had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not
unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care,
and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained
unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in
the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion
of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the Bingleys'
invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the
absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom
Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to
go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding,
with a significant smile, &ldquo;I do not imagine his business would have called
him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman
here.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling
of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the
polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She
was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
</p>
<p>
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of
her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to
the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice.
The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising
instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it,
gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a
couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.
</p>
<p>
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her
so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing
what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she
was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to
console her:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I dare say you will find him very agreeable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Heaven forbid! <i>That</i> would be the greatest misfortune of all! To
find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such
an evil.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer,
and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was
arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in
her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood
for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their
silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not
to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater
punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight
observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause
of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:&mdash;&ldquo;It is <i>your</i>
turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and <i>you</i>
ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number
of couples.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
said.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But <i>now</i>
we may be silent.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of <i>some</i>,
conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of
saying as little as possible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
imagine that you are gratifying mine?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Both,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth archly; &ldquo;for I have always seen a great
similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn
disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that
will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the
eclat of a proverb.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,&rdquo;
said he. &ldquo;How near it may be to <i>mine</i>, I cannot pretend to say. <i>You</i>
think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must not decide on my own performance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the
dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to
Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the
temptation, added, &ldquo;When you met us there the other day, we had just been
forming a new acquaintance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of <i>hauteur</i> overspread his
features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said, &ldquo;Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
as may ensure his <i>making</i> friends&mdash;whether he may be equally
capable of <i>retaining</i> them, is less certain.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He has been so unlucky as to lose <i>your</i> friendship,&rdquo; replied
Elizabeth with emphasis, &ldquo;and in a manner which he is likely to suffer
from all his life.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that
moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through
the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he
stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing
and his partner.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior
dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first
circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her
sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow
in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:&mdash;but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that
young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he
turned to his partner, and said, &ldquo;Sir William's interruption has made me
forget what we were talking of.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We
have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are
to talk of next I cannot imagine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What think you of books?&rdquo; said he, smiling.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Books&mdash;oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the
same feelings.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
something else.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The <i>present</i> always occupies you in such scenes&mdash;does it?&rdquo;
said he, with a look of doubt.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, always,&rdquo; she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by
her suddenly exclaiming, &ldquo;I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that
you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its <i>being created</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am,&rdquo; said he, with a firm voice.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to
be secure of judging properly at first.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;May I ask to what these questions tend?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Merely to the illustration of <i>your</i> character,&rdquo; said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity. &ldquo;I am trying to make it out.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what is your success?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She shook her head. &ldquo;I do not get on at all. I hear such different
accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I can readily believe,&rdquo; answered he gravely, &ldquo;that reports may vary
greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
opportunity.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,&rdquo; he coldly replied.
She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for
in Darcy's breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her,
which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another.
</p>
<p>
They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with
an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your
sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand
questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr.
Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give
implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's using him
ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been
remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a
most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well
that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear
George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could
not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was
excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His
coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I
wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this
discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really, considering his descent,
one could not expect much better.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,&rdquo; said
Elizabeth angrily; &ldquo;for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than
of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of <i>that</i>, I can assure
you, he informed me himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
&ldquo;Excuse my interference&mdash;it was kindly meant.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Insolent girl!&rdquo; said Elizabeth to herself. &ldquo;You are much mistaken if you
expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in
it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.&rdquo; She then
sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make inquiries on the same
subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a
glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was
satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read
her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment
against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope of
Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I want to know,&rdquo; said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
sister's, &ldquo;what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
you may be sure of my pardon.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Jane, &ldquo;I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his
history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally
offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity,
and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has
deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am
sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no
means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and
has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am satisfied.
But what does he say of the living?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them
from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him <i>conditionally</i>
only.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,&rdquo; said Elizabeth warmly;
&ldquo;but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but since
he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the
rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of both
gentlemen as I did before.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in
it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to
Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner
she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her
with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most
important discovery.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have found out,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;by a singular accident, that there is now in
the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the
house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time
for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he
will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the
connection must plead my apology.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I
believe him to be Lady Catherine's <i>nephew</i>. It will be in my power
to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that
Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an
impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not
in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side; and that
if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to
begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined
air of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,
replied thus:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your
excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your understanding;
but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the
established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate
the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical
office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom&mdash;provided
that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You
must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this
occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty.
Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other
subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I
consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on
what is right than a young lady like yourself.&rdquo; And with a low bow he left
her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly
watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident.
Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not
hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of
his lips the words &ldquo;apology,&rdquo; &ldquo;Hunsford,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Lady Catherine de Bourgh.&rdquo;
It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing
him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him
time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins,
however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt
seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at
the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have no reason, I assure you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;to be dissatisfied with my
reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying
that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the train
of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to, made her
perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very
house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could
bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring
even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts she plainly saw
were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest
she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she
considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of
each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking
to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but
her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an
animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while
enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young
man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first
points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how
fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire
the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising
thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw
them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her
time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of
their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than
she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of
pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was
less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period
of her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might
soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing
there was no chance of it.
</p>
<p>
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper;
for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of
it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only
scolded her for being nonsensical.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure
we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing <i>he</i>
may not like to hear.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you
to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so
doing!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would
talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and
blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
steady gravity.
</p>
<p>
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.
Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she
had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but
in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting
was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed
on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her progress through
the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at
their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks of the table, the
hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after
the pause of half a minute began another. Mary's powers were by no means
fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected.
Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but
Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two
sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at
Darcy, who continued, however, imperturbably grave. She looked at her
father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night.
He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,
&ldquo;That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.
Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If I,&rdquo; said Mr. Collins, &ldquo;were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to
assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music,
for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a
parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement
for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his
patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not
be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his
dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as
possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have
attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards
those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;
nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of
testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.&rdquo; And
with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so
loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared&mdash;many smiled; but
no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife
seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and
observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever,
good kind of young man.
</p>
<p>
To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to expose
themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been
impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or finer success;
and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the
exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a
sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That
his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of
ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she could not determine
whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of
the ladies, were more intolerable.
</p>
<p>
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he
could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her power
to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her
greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
</p>
<p>
She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;
though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
</p>
<p>
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a
manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an
hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how
heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and
were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long
speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters
on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness
which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at
all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and
Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked
only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs.
Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more
than the occasional exclamation of &ldquo;Lord, how tired I am!&rdquo; accompanied by
a violent yawn.
</p>
<p>
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and
addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he
would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,
and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next
day for a short time.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the
delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four
months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
man and the match were quite good enough for <i>her</i>, the worth of each
was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 19
</h2>
<p>
The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his
leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no
feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the
moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding
Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after
breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course
of this morning?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet answered instantly, &ldquo;Oh dear!&mdash;yes&mdash;certainly. I am sure
Lizzy will be very happy&mdash;I am sure she can have no objection. Come,
Kitty, I want you up stairs.&rdquo; And, gathering her work together, she was
hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me.
He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going
away myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.&rdquo; And upon
Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
escape, she added: &ldquo;Lizzy, I <i>insist</i> upon your staying and hearing
Mr. Collins.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction&mdash;and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to
conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between
distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as
they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing
you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have
been less amiable in my eyes had there <i>not</i> been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of
my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my
attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I
entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life.
But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it
would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying&mdash;and,
moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a
wife, as I certainly did.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could not
use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he
continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of
matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add
very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly&mdash;which perhaps I ought to
have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
left Hunsford&mdash;between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson
was arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a
gentlewoman for <i>my</i> sake; and for your <i>own</i>, let her be an
active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a
small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon
as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages
in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can
describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her,
especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will
inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of
matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed towards
Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I can assure you there
are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to
inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however,
may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving
to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be
as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place&mdash;which,
however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has
been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me
in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the
most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am
perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your
father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that
one thousand pounds in the four per cents, which will not be yours till
after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On
that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure
yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are
married.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are too hasty, sir,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;You forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for
the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your
proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline
them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not now to learn,&rdquo; replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, &ldquo;that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, sir,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, &ldquo;your hope is a rather extraordinary
one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young
ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their
happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly
serious in my refusal. You could not make <i>me</i> happy, and I am
convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so.
Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would
find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,&rdquo; said Mr. Collins
very gravely&mdash;&ldquo;but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing
her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty,
economy, and other amiable qualification.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give
me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what
I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do
all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer,
you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my
family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls,
without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as
finally settled.&rdquo; And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the
room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I
shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me;
though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it
to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first
application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my
suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female
character.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Really, Mr. Collins,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth with some warmth, &ldquo;you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of
encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to
convince you of its being one.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is
unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be
any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with
the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the
effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore
conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose
to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according
to the usual practice of elegant females.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of
elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be
paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again
for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is
absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak
plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague
you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are uniformly charming!&rdquo; cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry;
&ldquo;and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both
your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no
reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he
persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in
such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be
mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 20
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to
watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door
and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the
breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on
the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and
returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to
relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he
trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his
cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful
modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
</p>
<p>
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been glad
to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by
protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could
not help saying so.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;that Lizzy shall be
brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very
headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will <i>make</i>
her know it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,&rdquo; cried Mr. Collins; &ldquo;but if she is
really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be
a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for
happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in
rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting
me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute
much to my felicity.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Sir, you quite misunderstand me,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. &ldquo;Lizzy is
only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library, &ldquo;Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are
wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy
marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not
make haste he will change his mind and not have <i>her</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on
her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her
communication.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have not the pleasure of understanding you,&rdquo; said he, when she had
finished her speech. &ldquo;Of what are you talking?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
marrying him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Come here, child,&rdquo; cried her father as she appeared. &ldquo;I have sent for you
on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an
offer of marriage. Is it true?&rdquo; Elizabeth replied that it was. &ldquo;Very well&mdash;and
this offer of marriage you have refused?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have, sir.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, or I will never see her again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again
if you do <i>not</i> marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if
you <i>do</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,
but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to <i>insist</i>
upon her marrying him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; replied her husband, &ldquo;I have two small favours to request.
First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
library to myself as soon as may be.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs.
Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed
and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her
interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and
Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful
gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her
determination never did.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He
thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin could
refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way.
His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
</p>
<p>
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the
day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her,
cried in a half whisper, &ldquo;I am glad you are come, for there is such fun
here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an
offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who
came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her
to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family.
&ldquo;Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,&rdquo; she added in a melancholy tone, &ldquo;for nobody
is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels
for my poor nerves.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye, there she comes,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;looking as unconcerned as
may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she
can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy&mdash;if you take it into
your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will
never get a husband at all&mdash;and I am sure I do not know who is to
maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep you&mdash;and
so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the
library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will
find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful
children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody.
People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great
inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always
so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any
attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with an
air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the
girls, &ldquo;Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues,
and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation together.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not
to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation:
&ldquo;Oh! Mr. Collins!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear madam,&rdquo; replied he, &ldquo;let us be for ever silent on this point. Far
be it from me,&rdquo; he presently continued, in a voice that marked his
displeasure, &ldquo;to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to
inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man
who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust
I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive
happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often
observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied
begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I
hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my dear madam,
by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter's favour, without
having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to
interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be
objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter's lips
instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly
meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an
amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of
all your family, and if my <i>manner</i> has been at all reprehensible, I
here beg leave to apologise.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 21
</h2>
<p>
The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her mother.
As for the gentleman himself, <i>his</i> feelings were chiefly expressed,
not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by
stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her,
and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself were
transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in
listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to
her friend.
</p>
<p>
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill
health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
</p>
<p>
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that
the necessity of his absence <i>had</i> been self-imposed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I found,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr.
Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many
hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might
arise unpleasant to more than myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed
on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to
Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His
accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it
offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of
introducing him to her father and mother.
</p>
<p>
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her
dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself
soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on
the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner
had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her
to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking
out the letter, said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their
way to town&mdash;and without any intention of coming back again. You
shall hear what she says.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of
their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and
of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house.
The next was in these words: &ldquo;I do not pretend to regret anything I shall
leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we
will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful
intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of
separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend
on you for that.&rdquo; To these highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with
all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their
removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not
to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr.
Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was
persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is unlucky,&rdquo; said she, after a short pause, &ldquo;that you should not be
able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are
certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles
gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined
on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant
hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there
for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had
any intention of making one of the crowd&mdash;but of that I despair. I
sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties
which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so
numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall
deprive you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is evident by this,&rdquo; added Jane, &ldquo;that he comes back no more this
winter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he <i>should</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own master.
But you do not know <i>all</i>. I <i>will</i> read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth, <i>we</i>
are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana
Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the
affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something
still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of her being
hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you
my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the country without
confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My
brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now
of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the
connection as much as his own; and a sister's partiality is not misleading
me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's
heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing
to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an
event which will secure the happiness of so many?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What do you think of <i>this</i> sentence, my dear Lizzy?&rdquo; said Jane as
she finished it. &ldquo;Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare
that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Most willingly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to
town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does
not care about you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane shook her head.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She is
not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy
for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is
this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she is the more
anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there
has been <i>one</i> intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving
a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it
would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest
Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her
brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less
sensible of <i>your</i> merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday,
or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being in
love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,&rdquo; replied Jane, &ldquo;your representation
of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust.
Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can
hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.
You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
elsewhere?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You must decide for yourself,&rdquo; said Elizabeth; &ldquo;and if, upon mature
deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
all means to refuse him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How can you talk so?&rdquo; said Jane, faintly smiling. &ldquo;You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
not hesitate.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider
your situation with much compassion.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required.
A thousand things may arise in six months!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so
totally independent of everyone.
</p>
<p>
She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the
subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's
temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the
diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would
return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
</p>
<p>
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but
even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she
bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go
away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting
it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley
would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion
of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited
only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 22
</h2>
<p>
The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. &ldquo;It keeps him in good
humour,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I am more obliged to you than I can express.&rdquo;
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that
it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very
amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any
conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any
return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such
was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when
they parted at night, she would have felt almost secure of success if he
had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did
injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to
escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and
hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to
avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him
depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not
willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known
likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte
had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the
adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering
kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards
the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But
little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her
there.
</p>
<p>
In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, everything
was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered
the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him
the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the
present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The
stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship
from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss
Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of
an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained.
</p>
<p>
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and
it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of
<i>coming out</i> a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in
general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor
agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be
imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and
however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the
age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the
good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the
surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued
beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably
would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her
feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her
the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he
returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before
any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully
given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity
excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on
his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same
time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his
prosperous love.
</p>
<p>
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said
how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his
engagements might allow him to visit them.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear madam,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;this invitation is particularly gratifying,
because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very
certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
so speedy a return, immediately said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good
sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending
your patroness.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; replied Mr. Collins, &ldquo;I am particularly obliged to you for
this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a
step without her ladyship's concurrence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her
displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied that <i>we</i> shall take no offence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from
me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard
during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence
may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the
liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin
Elizabeth.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She
rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a
solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means
so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve
himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very agreeable
companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done
away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference
with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
</p>
<p>
The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her friend
had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that
Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as she
could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so
great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not
help crying out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte&mdash;impossible!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained
her composure, and calmly replied:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for
it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their
relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all
imaginable happiness.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I see what you are feeling,&rdquo; replied Charlotte. &ldquo;You must be surprised,
very much surprised&mdash;so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was.
I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character,
connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of
happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the
marriage state.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth quietly answered &ldquo;Undoubtedly;&rdquo; and after an awkward pause, they
returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer,
and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a
long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable
a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage
within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She
had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like
her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into
action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly
advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a most humiliating
picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her
esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for
that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 23
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she
had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention it, when Sir
William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her
engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much
self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he
unfolded the matter&mdash;to an audience not merely wondering, but
incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,
protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and
often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without
anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried him through
it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his
information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most
forbearing courtesy.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a
situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning
her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a
stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters by the earnestness of
her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by
Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be
expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the
convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir
William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a
rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of
the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken
in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and
fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however,
were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real
cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously
misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during
the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her.
Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could
see Elizabeth without scolding her, a month passed away before she could
speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months
were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as
he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it
gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been
used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more
foolish than his daughter!
</p>
<p>
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said less
of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor
could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia
were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman;
and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at
Meryton.
</p>
<p>
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on
Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called
at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though
Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to
drive happiness away.
</p>
<p>
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real
confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in
Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose
rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and
for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been
gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return.
</p>
<p>
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the
days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of
thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and
written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in
the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that
head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his
happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour,
Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of
enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind
wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to
return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily
approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as
possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his
amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure
to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of
it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn
instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly
troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was
so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such
were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the
greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence.
</p>
<p>
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day
passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report
which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield
the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which
she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.
</p>
<p>
Even Elizabeth began to fear&mdash;not that Bingley was indifferent&mdash;but
that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she
was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and
of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and
the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for the strength
of his attachment.
</p>
<p>
As for Jane, <i>her</i> anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was
never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour
seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience
for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come
back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane's steady
mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and
luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a
great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at
Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make
an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of
anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and
wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss
Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her
with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she
concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she
spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking
of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters
out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly
of all this to her husband.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Mr. Bennet,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for <i>her</i>, and live to see her take her place in it!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better
things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of
making any answer, she went on as before.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
not for the entail, I should not mind it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What should not you mind?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should not mind anything at all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How
anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
Why should <i>he</i> have it more than anybody else?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I leave it to yourself to determine,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 24
</h2>
<p>
Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time
to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the
country.
</p>
<p>
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of
the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the
chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the
accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter.
She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an inmate of Mr.
Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with
regard to new furniture.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for
her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's assertion of
her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was
really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much
as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of
proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends,
and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness to the caprice of their
inclination. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he
might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought
best, but her sister's was involved in it, as she thought he must be
sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be
long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else;
and yet whether Bingley's regard had really died away, or were suppressed
by his friends' interference; whether he had been aware of Jane's
attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whatever were the
case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the
difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally
wounded.
</p>
<p>
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I
will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all
be as we were before.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
nothing.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You doubt me,&rdquo; cried Jane, slightly colouring; &ldquo;indeed, you have no
reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and
nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not <i>that</i> pain. A
little time, therefore&mdash;I shall certainly try to get the better.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
With a stronger voice she soon added, &ldquo;I have this comfort immediately,
that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
has done no harm to anyone but myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Jane!&rdquo; exclaimed Elizabeth, &ldquo;you are too good. Your sweetness and
disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I
feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the
praise on her sister's warm affection.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;this is not fair. <i>You</i> wish to think all the
world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want to
think <i>you</i> perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be
afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege
of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people whom I really
love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world,
the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of
the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence
that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have met with
two instances lately, one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte's
marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin
your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of
situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a large
family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to
believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like regard and
esteem for our cousin.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I
do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it
is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change
the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself
or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security
for happiness.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,&rdquo; replied Jane;
&ldquo;and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy together. But
enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned <i>two</i>
instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not
to pain me by thinking <i>that person</i> to blame, and saying your
opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves
intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always
so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity
that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And men take care that they should.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of
there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,&rdquo;
said Elizabeth; &ldquo;but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution, will
do the business.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And do you impute it to either of those?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I
think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, in conjunction with his friend.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only
wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure
it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may
wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
connections, and pride.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Beyond a doubt, they <i>do</i> wish him to choose Miss Darcy,&rdquo; replied
Jane; &ldquo;but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They
have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think herself
at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If
they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he
were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make
everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not
distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken&mdash;or,
at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel
in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light,
in the light in which it may be understood.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more,
and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it
clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less
perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not
believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of
a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but
though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had
the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that
Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. &ldquo;So, Lizzy,&rdquo; said he one day,
&ldquo;your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being
married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is
something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her
companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long
outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to
disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be <i>your</i>
man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;True,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet, &ldquo;but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
the most of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added
that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard,
his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now
openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to
know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known
anything of the matter.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any
extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of
Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances,
and urged the possibility of mistakes&mdash;but by everybody else Mr.
Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 25
</h2>
<p>
After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.
Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday.
The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by
preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason to hope,
that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed
that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations
at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins
health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of
thanks.
</p>
<p>
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her
brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at
Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by
trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred
and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs.
Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and
a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest
and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. They had
frequently been staying with her in town.
</p>
<p>
The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls
had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in
it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not blame Jane,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley
if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think that she
might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not been for her
own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused
him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter
married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much
entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They
are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is.
It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family,
and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else.
However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I
am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in
the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
conversation.
</p>
<p>
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. &ldquo;It
seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I am
sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as
you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a
few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that
these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;An excellent consolation in its way,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;but it will not do
for <i>us</i>. We do not suffer by <i>accident</i>. It does not often
happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
love with only a few days before.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so doubtful,
so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied
to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real,
strong attachment. Pray, how <i>violent was</i> Mr. Bingley's love?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they
met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two
or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him
twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms?
Is not general incivility the very essence of love?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes!&mdash;of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt.
Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not
get over it immediately. It had better have happened to <i>you</i>, Lizzy;
you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be of
service&mdash;and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
anything.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
of her sister's ready acquiescence.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope,&rdquo; added Mrs. Gardiner, &ldquo;that no consideration with regard to this
young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all
our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so
little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he
really comes to see her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And <i>that</i> is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a
part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
perhaps have <i>heard</i> of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
correspond with his sister? <i>She</i> will not be able to help calling.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She will drop the acquaintance entirely.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his
affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's attractions.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys
were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she hoped by
Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother, she might
occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him.
</p>
<p>
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement.
Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother
and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the
engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it&mdash;of
which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,
Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's warm commendation,
narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from what she saw, to
be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough
to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the
subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence
of encouraging such an attachment.
</p>
<p>
To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected
with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her
marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of
Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances
in common; and though Wickham had been little there since the death of
Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence
of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him
and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's reputed
disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident
at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly
spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 26
</h2>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on
the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly
telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you
are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly.
Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself or
endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would
make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against <i>him</i>; he is a
most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I
should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your
fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it.
Your father would depend on <i>your</i> resolution and good conduct, I am
sure. You must not disappoint your father.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself,
and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent
it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Elizabeth, you are not serious now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr.
Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the
most agreeable man I ever saw&mdash;and if he becomes really attached to
me&mdash;I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the
imprudence of it. Oh! <i>that</i> abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's
opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to
forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my
dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you
unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young
people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of
my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I
will do my best.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
often. At least, you should not <i>remind</i> your mother of inviting
him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;As I did the other day,&rdquo; said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: &ldquo;very
true, it will be wise in me to refrain from <i>that</i>. But do not
imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has
been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you
are satisfied.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
being given on such a point, without being resented.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by
the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his
arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now
fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it
inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she &ldquo;<i>wished</i>
they might be happy.&rdquo; Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday
Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave,
Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes,
and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they
went downstairs together, Charlotte said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>That</i> you certainly shall.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
come to Hunsford.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
visit.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My father and Maria are coming to me in March,&rdquo; added Charlotte, &ldquo;and I
hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
welcome as either of them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the
church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject
as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence
was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally
unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without
feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined
not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been,
rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good
deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would
speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy
she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were
read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point
exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed
surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not
praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her
taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It
was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and
Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the
rest.
</p>
<p>
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe
arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be
in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
</p>
<p>
Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
lost.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My aunt,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;is going to-morrow into that part of the town,
and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. &ldquo;I
did not think Caroline in spirits,&rdquo; were her words, &ldquo;but she was very glad
to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to
London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I
inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged
with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy
was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon
here.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident
only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.
</p>
<p>
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
prove what she felt.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive
in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no
pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before,
said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so
altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to
continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming
her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say
that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because
she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure
that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself
farther; and though <i>we</i> know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet
if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so
deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on
his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her
having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we
must have met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from
something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of
talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to
Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging
harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong
appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every
painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy&mdash;your
affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me
hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never
returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any
certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have
such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them,
with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.&mdash;Yours,
etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All
expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even
wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review
of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to
Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister,
as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had
thrown away.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning
that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send
as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent
partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of
some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could
see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but
slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that <i>she</i>
would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden
acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the
young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth,
less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte's, did not
quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary,
could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few
struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and
desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.
</p>
<p>
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
circumstances, she thus went on: &ldquo;I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I
have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and
elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him
all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards <i>him</i>;
they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate
her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good
sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been
effectual; and though I certainly should be a more interesting object to
all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say
that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be
purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to
heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open
to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something
to live on as well as the plain.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 27
</h2>
<p>
With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as
well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was
novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable
sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome
for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and,
in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any
delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled
according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William
and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was
added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be.
</p>
<p>
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and
who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told
her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
</p>
<p>
The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of
bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she
was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of
her&mdash;their opinion of everybody&mdash;would always coincide, there
was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him
with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and
pleasing.
</p>
<p>
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think
him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she
had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the
wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn
out, like his information.
</p>
<p>
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as
to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door,
Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they
entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking
earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever.
On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for
their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the
drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a
twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The
day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and
the evening at one of the theatres.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her
minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to
hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
acquaintance.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But my dear Elizabeth,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl
with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
what to think.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
made her mistress of this fortune.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain <i>my</i>
affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making
love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so
soon after this event.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If <i>she</i> does not object to
it, why should <i>we</i>?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>Her</i> not objecting does not justify <i>him</i>. It only shows her
being deficient in something herself&mdash;sense or feeling.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, &ldquo;have it as you choose. <i>He</i> shall be
mercenary, and <i>she</i> shall be foolish.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, Lizzy, that is what I do <i>not</i> choose. I should be sorry, you
know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a
tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We have not determined how far it shall carry us,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gardiner,
&ldquo;but, perhaps, to the Lakes.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance
of the invitation was most ready and grateful. &ldquo;Oh, my dear, dear aunt,&rdquo;
she rapturously cried, &ldquo;what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh
life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to
rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when
we <i>do</i> return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being
able to give one accurate idea of anything. We <i>will</i> know where we
have gone&mdash;we <i>will</i> recollect what we have seen. Lakes,
mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations;
nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin
quarreling about its relative situation. Let <i>our</i> first effusions be
less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 28
</h2>
<p>
Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen
her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the
prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
</p>
<p>
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
</p>
<p>
At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road,
the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared
at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a
short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole
party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight
of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest
pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she
found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her
cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was
just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to
hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They were then, with
no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken
into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them
a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and
punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help in
fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect
and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing
to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything
seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh
of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could
have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said
anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly
was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or
twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did
not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture
in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their
journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them
to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to
the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden was
one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command
of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the
exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading
the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the
most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the
country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect
of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park
nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building,
well situated on rising ground.
</p>
<p>
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took
her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to
have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's help. It was
rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up
and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave
Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was
really an air of great comfort throughout, and by Charlotte's evident
enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten.
</p>
<p>
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
in, observed:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de
Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be
delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt
not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service
is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and
my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your
stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at
Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her
ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I <i>should</i> say, one
of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,&rdquo; added
Charlotte, &ldquo;and a most attentive neighbour.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman
whom one cannot regard with too much deference.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and
telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was
all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass,
the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of
Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively
imagination soon settled it all.
</p>
<p>
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for
a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion;
and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up stairs in a
violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door and met
Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
haste, and come down this moment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more, and
down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of
this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden
gate.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And is this all?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;I expected at least that the pigs
were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
daughter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;La! my dear,&rdquo; said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, &ldquo;it is not Lady
Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other
is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who
would have thought that she could be so thin and small?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
Why does she not come in?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
when Miss de Bourgh comes in.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I like her appearance,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. &ldquo;She
looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make
him a very proper wife.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before
him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.
</p>
<p>
At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the
others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls
than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte
explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at
Rosings the next day.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 29
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing
it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady Catherine's
condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I confess,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that I should not have been at all surprised by her
ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an
invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately after your
arrival!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am the less surprised at what has happened,&rdquo; replied Sir William, &ldquo;from
that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my
situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they
were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so
splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
</p>
<p>
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes
herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of
your clothes is superior to the rest&mdash;there is no occasion for
anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being
simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who
had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
to his presentation at St. James's.
</p>
<p>
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile
across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house,
and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir
Lewis de Bourgh.
</p>
<p>
When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every moment
increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth's
courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that
spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and
the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could witness
without trepidation.
</p>
<p>
From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous
air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they followed the
servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her
daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great
condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it
with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was
performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks
which he would have thought necessary.
</p>
<p>
In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely awed
by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to
make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his
daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her
chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal
to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly.
Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,
which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was
her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their
inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever
she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her
self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind;
and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady
Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
</p>
<p>
When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she
soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little,
except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was
nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she
said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes.
</p>
<p>
After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and
Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking
at in the summer.
</p>
<p>
The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity;
and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who
was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner
which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine
seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious
smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them.
The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak
whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and
Miss de Bourgh&mdash;the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady
Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time. Mrs.
Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate,
pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Maria
thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but
eat and admire.
</p>
<p>
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done
but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission
till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so
decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgement
controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly
and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them
all; told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as
hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry.
Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady's attention,
which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the
intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of
questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose
connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a
very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how
many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself,
whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome,
where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had
been her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her
questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake,&rdquo;
turning to Charlotte, &ldquo;I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion
for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary
in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A little.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! then&mdash;some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to&mdash;&mdash;You shall
try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;One of them does.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs
all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you
draw?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, not at all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What, none of you?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not one.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Has your governess left you?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We never had any governess.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have
been quite a slave to your education.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
the case.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must
have been neglected.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished
to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and
had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle,
certainly might.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it
was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was
merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted
with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's calling yesterday
to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady Catherine,' said she,
'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss
Bennet?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma'am, all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
must be very young?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps <i>she</i> is full young to be
much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
as the first. And to be kept back on <i>such</i> a motive! I think it
would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of
mind.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; said her ladyship, &ldquo;you give your opinion very decidedly
for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With three younger sisters grown up,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, smiling, &ldquo;your
ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal
your age.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not one-and-twenty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were
placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to
quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls
had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their
table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did
not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of
Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too
little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine
was generally speaking&mdash;stating the mistakes of the three others, or
relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to
everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and
apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much.
He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names.
</p>
<p>
When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the
tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round
the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have
on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival
of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins's side
and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon as they had
driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her
opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte's sake,
she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though
costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he
was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise into his own hands.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 30
</h2>
<p>
Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough
to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of
her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met
with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to
driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went
away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth
was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the
alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now
passed by him either at work in the garden or in reading and writing, and
looking out of the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road.
The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first
rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for
common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant aspect;
but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did,
for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own
apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte
credit for the arrangement.
</p>
<p>
From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were
indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along,
and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he
never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every
day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes'
conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get
out.
</p>
<p>
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not
many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till
Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings to be
disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now
and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing
escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits.
She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised
them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the
furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted
any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that
Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate in
her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr.
Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be
quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village
to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into
harmony and plenty.
</p>
<p>
The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of
the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the
neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This, however,
was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along
the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice
sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she
felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
</p>
<p>
In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition
to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important.
Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected
there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her
acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one
comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be
amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were, by his
behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady
Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke
of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find
that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.
</p>
<p>
His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in
order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as
the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle Lord &mdash;&mdash;, and, to the great surprise of all the
party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte
had seen them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately
running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect,
adding:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never
have come so soon to wait upon me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who
led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address
most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to
look in Hertfordshire&mdash;paid his compliments, with his usual reserve,
to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend, met
her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him
without saying a word.
</p>
<p>
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness
and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin,
after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to
Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length,
however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after
the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a
moment's pause, added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the
Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
away.
</p>
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<h2>
Chapter 31
</h2>
<p>
Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and
the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of
their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither&mdash;for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost
a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by such an
attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there
in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady
Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage
more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen only at
church.
</p>
<p>
The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them
civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable
as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed
by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than to
any other person in the room.
</p>
<p>
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome
relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had moreover
caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so
agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of
new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well
entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit
and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as
of Mr. Darcy. <i>His</i> eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards
them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while,
shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple
to call out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of?
What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We are speaking of music, madam,&rdquo; said he, when no longer able to avoid a
reply.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must
have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are
few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music
than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should
have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed
her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully.
How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,&rdquo; said Lady Catherine;
&ldquo;and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does
not practice a good deal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I assure you, madam,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to
her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell
young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will
never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins
has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come
to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room.
She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made no
answer.
</p>
<p>
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient
pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? I will not be alarmed though your sister <i>does</i> play so well.
There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at
the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I shall not say you are mistaken,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;because you could not
really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had
the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great
enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your
own.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel
Fitzwilliam, &ldquo;Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and
teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in
meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of
the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit.
Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you
knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire&mdash;and, give me leave to say,
very impolitic too&mdash;for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not afraid of you,&rdquo; said he, smilingly.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,&rdquo; cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. &ldquo;I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You shall hear then&mdash;but prepare yourself for something very
dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must
know, was at a ball&mdash;and at this ball, what do you think he did? He
danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner.
Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?&rdquo; said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. &ldquo;Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I can answer your question,&rdquo; said Fitzwilliam, &ldquo;without applying to him.
It is because he will not give himself the trouble.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,&rdquo; said Darcy,
&ldquo;of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch
their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I
often see done.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My fingers,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have
always supposed it to be my own fault&mdash;because I will not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe <i>my</i> fingers
as capable as any other woman's of superior execution.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy smiled and said, &ldquo;You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what
they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady
Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to
Darcy:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and could
have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of
fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a
delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his cousin's
praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any
symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she
derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as
likely to marry <i>her</i>, had she been his relation.
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 32
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when
she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor.
As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady
Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her half-finished
letter that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the door
opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only,
entered the room.
</p>
<p>
He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
to be within.
</p>
<p>
They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed
in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary,
therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting <i>when</i>
she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what
he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all
after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before.
He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perfectly so, I thank you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
pause added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very
little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a
time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the
neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might
possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not
take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his
own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should not be surprised,&rdquo; said Darcy, &ldquo;if he were to give it up as soon
as any eligible purchase offers.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend;
and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble
of finding a subject to him.
</p>
<p>
He took the hint, and soon began with, &ldquo;This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins
first came to Hunsford.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I believe she did&mdash;and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of
the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him
happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding&mdash;though I
am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest
thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance
of her own family and friends.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a <i>very</i> easy distance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should never have considered the distance as one of the <i>advantages</i>
of the match,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;I should never have said Mrs. Collins was
settled <i>near</i> her family.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.
The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying
circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling
unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case <i>here</i>.
Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will
allow of frequent journeys&mdash;and I am persuaded my friend would not
call herself <i>near</i> her family under less than <i>half</i> the
present distance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, &ldquo;<i>You</i>
cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. <i>You</i>
cannot have been always at Longbourn.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you pleased with Kent?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm
and concise&mdash;and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and
her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised them.
Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss
Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to
anybody, went away.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What can be the meaning of this?&rdquo; said Charlotte, as soon as he was gone.
&ldquo;My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have
called us in this familiar way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even
to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they
could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of
finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year.
All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books,
and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in
the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or
of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from
this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various
times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now
and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel
Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion
which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by
her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident
admiration of her, of her former favourite George Wickham; and though, in
comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel
Fitzwilliam's manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind.
</p>
<p>
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to
understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten
minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it
seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice&mdash;a sacrifice to
propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated.
Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam's
occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally
different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as
she would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the
object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to
find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever
he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He certainly looked at her
friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It
was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were
much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of
mind.
</p>
<p>
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being
partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins
did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising
expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it
admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would vanish, if
she could suppose him to be in her power.
</p>
<p>
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 33
</h2>
<p>
More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly
meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should
bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever
happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite
haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd!
Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a
voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal
inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it
necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a great deal, nor
did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it
struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some
odd unconnected questions&mdash;about her pleasure in being at Hunsford,
her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's
happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly
understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into
Kent again she would be staying <i>there</i> too. His words seemed to
imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed,
if he meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that
quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find
herself at the gate in the pales opposite the Parsonage.
</p>
<p>
She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter, and
dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on
looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I did not know before that you ever walked this way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have been making the tour of the park,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;as I generally do
every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you
going much farther?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, I should have turned in a moment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?&rdquo; said she.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal.
He arranges the business just as he pleases.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He likes to have his own way very well,&rdquo; replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
&ldquo;But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than
many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either.
Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence?
When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you
chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;These are home questions&mdash;and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
they like.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my
rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is this,&rdquo; thought Elizabeth, &ldquo;meant for me?&rdquo; and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, &ldquo;And pray, what is
the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very
sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a
silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she
soon afterwards said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Colonel Fitzwilliam, &ldquo;that is an advantage which he must divide
with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may
like to have her own way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in
which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give
them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got
pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say
she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very
great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man&mdash;he
is a great friend of Darcy's.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes,&rdquo; said Elizabeth drily; &ldquo;Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy <i>does</i> take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is it you mean?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
unpleasant thing.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may depend upon my not mentioning it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley.
What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having
lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent
marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I
only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man
to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been
together the whole of last summer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what arts did he use to separate them?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He did not talk to me of his own arts,&rdquo; said Fitzwilliam, smiling. &ldquo;He
only told me what I have now told you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am thinking of what you have been telling me,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Your cousin's
conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,&rdquo; she
continued, recollecting herself, &ldquo;as we know none of the particulars, it
is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much
affection in the case.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is not an unnatural surmise,&rdquo; said Fitzwilliam, &ldquo;but it is a
lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr.
Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore,
abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until
they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as
their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that
she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be
meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the
world <i>two</i> men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless
influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate
Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to
Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own
vanity, however, did not mislead him, <i>he</i> was the cause, his pride
and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and still
continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for
the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say
how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There were some very strong objections against the lady,&rdquo; were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her having
one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in
London.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To Jane herself,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;there could be no possibility of
objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!&mdash;her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could
anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities,
has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which
he will probably never reach.&rdquo; When she thought of her mother, her
confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections
<i>there</i> had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was
convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his
friend's connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite
decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of
pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
</p>
<p>
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much as
possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could
not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased
by her staying at home.
</p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 34
</h2>
<p>
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention
which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful
boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense
of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his
visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next&mdash;and, a still
greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane
again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all
that affection could do.
</p>
<p>
She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his
cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that
he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to
be unhappy about him.
</p>
<p>
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the
evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this
idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected,
when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an
hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing
his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with
cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked
about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a
silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and
thus began:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and
the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately
followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the
heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of
tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority&mdash;of its being
a degradation&mdash;of the family obstacles which had always opposed to
inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the
consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
</p>
<p>
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the
compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not
vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer
him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all
his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing
his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As
he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable
answer. He <i>spoke</i> of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance
expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate
farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she
said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express
a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they
may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I
could <i>feel</i> gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot&mdash;I
have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it
most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has
been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short
duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the
acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it
after this explanation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on
her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise.
His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was
visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of
composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have
attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At length,
with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little <i>endeavour</i>
at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I might as well inquire,&rdquo; replied she, &ldquo;why with so evident a desire of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against
your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not
this some excuse for incivility, if I <i>was</i> uncivil? But I have other
provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you&mdash;had
they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that
any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means
of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted <i>there</i>. You dare
not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only
means of dividing them from each other&mdash;of exposing one to the
censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its
derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the
acutest kind.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with
an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even
looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Can you deny that you have done it?&rdquo; she repeated.
</p>
<p>
With assumed tranquillity he then replied: &ldquo;I have no wish of denying that
I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or
that I rejoice in my success. Towards <i>him</i> I have been kinder than
towards myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but
its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But it is not merely this affair,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;on which my dislike is
founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided.
Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months
ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what
imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what
misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,&rdquo; said Darcy, in
a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His misfortunes!&rdquo; repeated Darcy contemptuously; &ldquo;yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And of your infliction,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth with energy. &ldquo;You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty&mdash;comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him.
You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which
was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you
can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And this,&rdquo; cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
&ldquo;is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I
thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,&rdquo; added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, &ldquo;these offenses might have been overlooked,
had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that
had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations
might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my
struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by
unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by
everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed
of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me
to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?&mdash;to congratulate
myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly
beneath my own?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern
which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;From the very beginning&mdash;from the first moment, I may almost say&mdash;of
my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation
on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had
not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the
world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings,
and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for
having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your
health and happiness.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the
next moment open the front door and quit the house.
</p>
<p>
The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so
many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the
objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her sister,
and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case&mdash;was
almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride&mdash;his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane&mdash;his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his
cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity
which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She
continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine's
carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte's
observation, and hurried her away to her room.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 35
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she
turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park
paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the
gates into the ground.
</p>
<p>
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look
into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a
great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure
of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she
caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the
park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was
directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to
see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had
turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved
it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time
reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,
said, with a look of haughty composure, &ldquo;I have been walking in the grove
some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading
that letter?&rdquo; And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the
plantation, and was soon out of sight.
</p>
<p>
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite
through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full.
Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from
Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of
its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which,
for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort
which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should
have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand
it of your justice.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly
to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite
of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on
our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would
be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose
affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no
comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so
liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in
the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their
motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to
myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be
offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be
obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman
in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at
Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had
the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to your
sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke
of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From
that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then
perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever
witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were
open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar
regard, and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though
she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any
participation of sentiment. If <i>you</i> have not been mistaken here, <i>I</i>
must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make
the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to
inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I
shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's
countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a
conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to
be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
certain&mdash;but I will venture to say that my investigation and
decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not
believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on
impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to
the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there
were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and
existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be
stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though
objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety
so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three
younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains
me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest
relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it
give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as
to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally
bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense
and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what passed
that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every
inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my
friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield
for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the
design of soon returning.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon
discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching
their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We
accordingly went&mdash;and there I readily engaged in the office of
pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described,
and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have
staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would
ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the
assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference.
He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not
with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger
dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore,
that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him
against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given,
was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done
thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on
which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to
adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's
being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill
consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was
done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other
apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was
unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to you very
naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
connection with my family. Of what he has <i>particularly</i> accused me I
am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
than one witness of undoubted veracity.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years
the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the
discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to
him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore
liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at
Cambridge&mdash;most important assistance, as his own father, always poor
from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's
society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest
opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to
provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first
began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities&mdash;the
want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his
best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the
same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in
unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give
you pain&mdash;to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the
sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature
shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character&mdash;it adds even
another motive.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr.
Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that
his profession might allow&mdash;and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was
also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive
mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to
inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I
should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate
pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be
aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very
insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be
sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal.
I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was
therefore soon settled&mdash;he resigned all claim to assistance in the
church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive
it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between
us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to
Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me
again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me,
and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had
found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved
on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question&mdash;of
which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that
I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my
revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His
resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances&mdash;and
he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his
reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance
was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most
painfully obtruded on my notice.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the
guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About
a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her
in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to
Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for
there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her
connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose
affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as
a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent
to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and
after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge
of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of
grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father,
acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted.
Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure;
but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs.
Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object
was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds;
but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a
strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been
concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you
will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know
not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you;
but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you
previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in
your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I
was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be
revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near
relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the
executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every
particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of <i>me</i> should
make <i>my</i> assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same
cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility
of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting
this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add,
God bless you.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;FITZWILLIAM DARCY&rdquo; <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 36
</h2>
<p>
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her
feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she
first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and
steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give,
which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice
against everything he might say, she began his account of what had
happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her
power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next
sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one
before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly
resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to
the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He
expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style
was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
</p>
<p>
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham&mdash;when
she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if
true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore
so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself&mdash;her feelings
were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to
discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, &ldquo;This must be false! This
cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!&rdquo;&mdash;and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.
</p>
<p>
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing,
she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was
unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again
began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded
herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of
his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related
himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before
known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each
recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference
was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory,
and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that
there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few
moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she
read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately
following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his
receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again
was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every
circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality&mdash;deliberated on
the probability of each statement&mdash;but with little success. On both
sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more
clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any
contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less
than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely
blameless throughout the whole.
</p>
<p>
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the &mdash;&mdash;shire Militia, in which he had engaged at
the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing
had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real
character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once
in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of
goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might
rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance
of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour
to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many
years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see
him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could
remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the
neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in
the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more
continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on
Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between
Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she
was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself&mdash;from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.
</p>
<p>
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was <i>now</i>
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of
seeing Mr. Darcy&mdash;that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that <i>he</i>
should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very
next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had
quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that
after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no
reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had
assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing
the son.
</p>
<p>
How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His
attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His
behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either
been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his
vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but
allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his
blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners,
she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance&mdash;an
acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her
a sort of intimacy with his ways&mdash;seen anything that betrayed him to
be unprincipled or unjust&mdash;anything that spoke him of irreligious or
immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued&mdash;that
even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often
heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of
<i>some</i> amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham
represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly
have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person
capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was
incomprehensible.
</p>
<p>
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could
she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How despicably I have acted!&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;I, who have prided myself on my
discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often
disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in
useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how
just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more
wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with
the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the
very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and
ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this
moment I never knew myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
From herself to Jane&mdash;from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a
line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
<i>there</i> had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and
manner not often united with great sensibility.
</p>
<p>
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of
shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for
denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having
passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than
on hers.
</p>
<p>
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but
it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that
Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations,
and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such
impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever
known before.
</p>
<p>
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety
of thought&mdash;re-considering events, determining probabilities, and
reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so
important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at
length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing
cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as
must make her unfit for conversation.
</p>
<p>
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
leave&mdash;but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at
least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after
her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just <i>affect</i>
concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was
no longer an object; she could think only of her letter.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
Chapter 37
</h2>
<p>
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
having them all to dine with her.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she
chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future
niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her ladyship's
indignation would have been. &ldquo;What would she have said? how would she have
behaved?&rdquo; were questions with which she amused herself.
</p>
<p>
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. &ldquo;I assure
you, I feel it exceedingly,&rdquo; said Lady Catherine; &ldquo;I believe no one feels
the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to
these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were
excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied
his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most
acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings
certainly increases.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were
kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you
may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company,
I am sure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,&rdquo; replied
Elizabeth, &ldquo;but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next
Saturday.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you
to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be
no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you
for another fortnight.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another
<i>month</i> complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as
London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does
not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of
you&mdash;and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should
not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original
plan.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. &ldquo;Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of
two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You
must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world
to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and
attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana
went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two
men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of
Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a
different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must
send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me
to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to <i>you</i> to let
them go alone.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My uncle is to send a servant for us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have
somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh!
Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
attended to.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which
Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she
might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for
solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest
relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might
indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times
widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was
still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she had
condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and his
disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment
excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not
approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the
slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour,
there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy
defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were
hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would
never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest
daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was
entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane
in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while
they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there
be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely
under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and
Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They
were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they
would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn,
they would be going there forever.
</p>
<p>
Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to
have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could
attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous
then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect,
so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been
deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
</p>
<p>
When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
</p>
<p>
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her
stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and
her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their
journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so
urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria
thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the
morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
</p>
<p>
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a
good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and
Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand
to both.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 38
</h2>
<p>
On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying
the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I know not, Miss Elizabeth,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it.
The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how
little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of
living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the
world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself;
but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we
have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time
unpleasantly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had
spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make <i>her</i>
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
solemnity replied:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having
it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and, from our
connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home
scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot
have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's
family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which
few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually
we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the
disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding
in it an object of compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at
Rosings.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will be
able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you have
been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear that
your friend has drawn an unfortunate&mdash;but on this point it will be as
well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I
can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My
dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is
in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between
us. We seem to have been designed for each other.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed and
rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the
recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor
Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had
chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her
visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and
her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent
concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
</p>
<p>
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr.
Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with
his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the
kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments
to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria
followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly
reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten
to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;you will of course wish to have your humble respects
delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
while you have been here.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the
carriage drove off.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good gracious!&rdquo; cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, &ldquo;it seems but
a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A great many indeed,&rdquo; said her companion with a sigh.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
How much I shall have to tell!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth added privately, &ldquo;And how much I shall have to conceal!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
house, where they were to remain a few days.
</p>
<p>
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had
reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn
there would be leisure enough for observation.
</p>
<p>
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to
openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in
which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and
her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into
repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further.
</p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 39
</h2>
<p>
It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch Street for the town of &mdash;&mdash;, in
Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's
carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the
coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room
up stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily
employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard,
and dressing a salad and cucumber.
</p>
<p>
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out
with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, &ldquo;Is not
this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And we mean to treat you all,&rdquo; added Lydia, &ldquo;but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.&rdquo; Then, showing
her purchases&mdash;&ldquo;Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern,
&ldquo;Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have
bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will
be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this
summer, after the &mdash;&mdash;shire have left Meryton, and they are
going in a fortnight.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are they indeed!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and
I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too
of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; thought Elizabeth, &ldquo;<i>that</i> would be a delightful scheme
indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a
whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one
poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Now I have got some news for you,&rdquo; said Lydia, as they sat down at table.
&ldquo;What do you think? It is excellent news&mdash;capital news&mdash;and
about a certain person we all like!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he
is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my
news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There
is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She is gone
down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And Mary King is safe!&rdquo; added Elizabeth; &ldquo;safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,&rdquo; said Jane.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sure there is not on <i>his</i>. I will answer for it, he never
cared three straws about her&mdash;who could about such a nasty little
freckled thing?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness
of <i>expression</i> herself, the coarseness of the <i>sentiment</i> was
little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!
</p>
<p>
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered;
and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes,
work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and Lydia's
purchases, were seated in it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How nicely we are all crammed in,&rdquo; cried Lydia. &ldquo;I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let
us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And
in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you
went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I
was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you
came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost
three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married
before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands,
you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but <i>I</i>
do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! how I should like
to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to
all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at
Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs.
Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs.
Forster and me are <i>such</i> friends!) and so she asked the two
Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by
herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in
woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun! Not a
soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my
aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot
imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or
three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord!
how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And
<i>that</i> made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out
what was the matter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,
assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions
all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but
there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.
</p>
<p>
Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in
undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say
voluntarily to Elizabeth:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came
to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some
way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was
enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear
her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Mary,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was
nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had
not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very
handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon
in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too.
And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have
got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so
merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might
have heard us ten miles off!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
To this Mary very gravely replied, &ldquo;Far be it from me, my dear sister, to
depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for <i>me</i>&mdash;I
should infinitely prefer a book.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody
for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
</p>
<p>
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to
Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed
the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at
home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was
another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham
again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to <i>her</i>
of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a
fortnight they were to go&mdash;and once gone, she hoped there could be
nothing more to plague her on his account.
</p>
<p>
She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at
the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 40
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular
in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she
related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy
and herself.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You
do not blame me, however, for refusing him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Blame you! Oh, no.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you <i>will</i> know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
day.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so
much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though grateful
to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most
earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to
clear the one without involving the other.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This will not do,&rdquo; said Elizabeth; &ldquo;you never will be able to make both
of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
but you shall do as you choose.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not know when I have been more shocked,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Wickham so very
bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing of
his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full
of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing
every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me
saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light
as a feather.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance!
such an openness and gentleness in his manner!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the <i>appearance</i> of it as
you used to do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to
him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing at
a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the
matter as you do now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had!
Oh! how I wanted you!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in
speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they <i>do</i> appear wholly
undeserved.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one
point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or
ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham's
character.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, &ldquo;Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to
make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative
to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I
endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will
believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it
would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place
him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone;
and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. Some
time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their
stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about
it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to
talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of
which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half
of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had
been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this
last encumbrance of mystery. &ldquo;And then,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell
what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty
of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from
her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments
often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer
him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to
the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of
those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their
tranquillity.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, Lizzy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet one day, &ldquo;what is your opinion <i>now</i>
of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to
speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day.
But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
a very undeserving young man&mdash;and I do not suppose there's the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she
made no answer.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, Lizzy,&rdquo; continued her mother, soon afterwards, &ldquo;and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will
last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent
manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving
enough. There is nothing extravagant in <i>their</i> housekeeping, I dare
say.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, nothing at all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes, <i>they</i>
will take care not to outrun their income. <i>They</i> will never be
distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose,
they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look
upon it as quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It was a subject which they could not mention before me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 41
</h2>
<p>
The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the
last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the
neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The
elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and
pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they
reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was
extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the
family.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?&rdquo; would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. &ldquo;How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she
had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I cried for two days together when Colonel
Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sure I shall break <i>mine</i>,&rdquo; said Lydia.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If one could but go to Brighton!&rdquo; observed Mrs. Bennet.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes!&mdash;if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do <i>me</i> a great deal of good,&rdquo;
added Kitty.
</p>
<p>
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of
pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.
</p>
<p>
But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the
regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very
young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and
good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their
<i>three</i> months' acquaintance they had been intimate <i>two</i>.
</p>
<p>
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the
delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be
described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about
the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and
laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless
Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as
unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask <i>me</i> as well as Lydia,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;Though I am <i>not</i> her particular friend. I have just as
much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years
older.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her
resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for
the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known, she
could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She
represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the
little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as
Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with
such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than
at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you were aware,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;of the very great disadvantage to us
all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner&mdash;nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure
you would judge differently in the affair.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Already arisen?&rdquo; repeated Mr. Bennet. &ldquo;What, has she frightened away some
of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish
youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not
worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been
kept aloof by Lydia's folly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of
particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild
volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia's
character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father,
will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of
teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her
life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will
be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever
made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and
meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a
tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind,
wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her
rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is
comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle,
and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it
possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are
known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately
taking her hand said in reply:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you
must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage
for having a couple of&mdash;or I may say, three&mdash;very silly sisters.
We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let
her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of
any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to
anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt
than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their
notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own
insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without
authorising us to lock her up for the rest of her life.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in
her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She
was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable
evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
</p>
<p>
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of
fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She
saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at
present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp&mdash;its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw
herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.
</p>
<p>
Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.
</p>
<p>
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well
over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt
to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an
affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour
to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the
inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had
marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what
had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding
herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry;
and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof
contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his
attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her
preference secured at any time by their renewal.
</p>
<p>
On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry
as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned
Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at
Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.
</p>
<p>
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's recollection
and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and,
after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she
had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of
indifference he soon afterwards added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How long did you say he was at Rosings?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nearly three weeks.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And you saw him frequently?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, almost every day.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His manners are very different from his cousin's.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. &ldquo;And
pray, may I ask?&mdash;&rdquo; But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone,
&ldquo;Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of
civility to his ordinary style?&mdash;for I dare not hope,&rdquo; he continued
in a lower and more serious tone, &ldquo;that he is improved in essentials.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo; said Elizabeth. &ldquo;In essentials, I believe, he is very much what
he ever was.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice
over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her
countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious
attention, while she added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his
mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing
him better, his disposition was better understood.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look;
for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he
turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the <i>appearance</i> of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear
that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding,
is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and
judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I
know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his
wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he
has very much at heart.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the <i>appearance</i>, on his
side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.
</p>
<p>
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from
whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between
her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one
who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was
diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and
impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of
enjoying herself as much as possible&mdash;advice which there was every
reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous
happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of
her sisters were uttered without being heard.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 42
</h2>
<p>
Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not
have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman
whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their
marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and
confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness
were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort
for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of
those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or
their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes
had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little
otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his
amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general
wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are
wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and
decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children,
was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the
disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage,
nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a
direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at least have
preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of
enlarging the mind of his wife.
</p>
<p>
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around them
threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in
time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain
were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might
be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance
by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon
the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before,
that an event to which she had been looking with impatient desire did not,
in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It
was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement
of actual felicity&mdash;to have some other point on which her wishes and
hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation,
console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment.
Her tour to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was
her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the
discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she
have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been
perfect.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But it is fortunate,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can never
be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the
defence of some little peculiar vexation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to
her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had
attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her
quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would
have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent
hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp;
and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be
learnt&mdash;for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too
full of lines under the words to be made public.
</p>
<p>
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a
happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back
again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was
restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June,
Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears;
an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the
following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention
an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.
</p>
<p>
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived
from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed
its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out
till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a
month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see
so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and
comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and
substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan,
were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was
enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs.
Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had
formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a
few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the
celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was
her business to be satisfied&mdash;and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.
</p>
<p>
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. &ldquo;But surely,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I may enter his county with impunity, and
rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness
of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way&mdash;teaching
them, playing with them, and loving them.
</p>
<p>
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next
morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment
was certain&mdash;that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which
comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences&mdash;cheerfulness
to enhance every pleasure&mdash;and affection and intelligence, which
might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
</p>
<p>
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor
of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay;
Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently
known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the
little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and
where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent
their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country;
and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that
Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a
mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before,
Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr.
Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her
approbation.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so
much?&rdquo; said her aunt; &ldquo;a place, too, with which so many of your
acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley,
and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own
that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she
really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. &ldquo;If it were merely a fine house richly
furnished,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I should not care about it myself; but the grounds
are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth said no more&mdash;but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and thought
it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk.
But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it
could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the absence of the
family were unfavourably answered.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether
Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its proprietor?
and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A
most welcome negative followed the last question&mdash;and her alarms now
being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see
the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and
she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of
indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To
Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 43
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in
at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
</p>
<p>
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a
beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the
road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building,
standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;
and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into
greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither
formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a
place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so
little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in
their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of
Pemberley might be something!
</p>
<p>
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall;
and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder
at her being where she was.
</p>
<p>
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine,
and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her
into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room,
handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a
window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had
descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a
beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked
on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the
winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they
passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but
from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and
handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor;
but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy
nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than
the furniture of Rosings.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And of this place,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;I might have been mistress! With these
rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them
as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to
them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,&rdquo;&mdash;recollecting herself&mdash;&ldquo;that
could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not
have been allowed to invite them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was a lucky recollection&mdash;it saved her from something very like
regret.
</p>
<p>
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
Reynolds replied that he was, adding, &ldquo;But we expect him to-morrow, with a
large party of friends.&rdquo; How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey
had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
</p>
<p>
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over
the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The
housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up
by him at his own expense. &ldquo;He is now gone into the army,&rdquo; she added; &ldquo;but
I am afraid he has turned out very wild.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And that,&rdquo; said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, &ldquo;is
my master&mdash;and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other&mdash;about eight years ago.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have heard much of your master's fine person,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; &ldquo;it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation
of her knowing her master.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth coloured, and said: &ldquo;A little.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, very handsome.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will
see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be
then. He was very fond of them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?&rdquo; said Mrs. Gardiner.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes&mdash;the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!&mdash;She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
a new instrument just come down for her&mdash;a present from my master;
she comes here to-morrow with him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by
pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master
and his sister.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Except,&rdquo; thought Elizabeth, &ldquo;when she goes to Ramsgate.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If your master would marry, you might see more of him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sir; but I do not know when <i>that</i> will be. I do not know who
is good enough for him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, &ldquo;It is very
much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,&rdquo;
replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, &ldquo;I have
never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
since he was four years old.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
grateful to her uncle for saying:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not
meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was
always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth almost stared at her. &ldquo;Can this be Mr. Darcy?&rdquo; thought she.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;His father was an excellent man,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gardiner.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him&mdash;just
as affable to the poor.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of
the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture,
in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to
which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led
again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they
proceeded together up the great staircase.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is the best landlord, and the best master,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that ever
lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him
a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
like other young men.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In what an amiable light does this place him!&rdquo; thought Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This fine account of him,&rdquo; whispered her aunt as they walked, &ldquo;is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps we might be deceived.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is not very likely; our authority was too good.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give
pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at
Pemberley.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is certainly a good brother,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter the
room. &ldquo;And this is always the way with him,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Whatever can give
his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing
he would not do for her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all
that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings; but
Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.
</p>
<p>
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
her&mdash;and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
lifetime.
</p>
<p>
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was
of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an
intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered
how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!&mdash;how much of
pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!&mdash;how much of good or
evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the
housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the
canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she
thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had
ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its
impropriety of expression.
</p>
<p>
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
</p>
<p>
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to
look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was
conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
</p>
<p>
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and
spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of
perfect civility.
</p>
<p>
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received
his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his
first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been
examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr.
Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master,
must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was
talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift
her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil
inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since
they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her
embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there
recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some
of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;
when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he
repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of
her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as
plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
</p>
<p>
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments
without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
</p>
<p>
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus
come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner,
they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was
plain that he was that moment arrived&mdash;that moment alighted from his
horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness
of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered&mdash;what could
it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!&mdash;but to speak
with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she
seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such
gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to
his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand!
She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
</p>
<p>
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every
step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the
woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before
Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically
to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her
eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the
scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what
at the moment was passing in his mind&mdash;in what manner he thought of
her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him.
Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there
had been <i>that</i> in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had
felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he
certainly had not seen her with composure.
</p>
<p>
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
</p>
<p>
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With
a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled
the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them
again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of
the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple
bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less
adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted
into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst
the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its
windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their
distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could
go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as
possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their
way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest
direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom
able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water,
and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst
wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and
Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by
the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The
walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them
to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least
more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to
speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few
moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other
path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their
view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she
saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but
she had not got beyond the words &ldquo;delightful,&rdquo; and &ldquo;charming,&rdquo; when some
unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley
from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she
said no more.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This
was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could
hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some
of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to
herself. &ldquo;What will be his surprise,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;when he knows who they
are? He takes them now for people of fashion.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was <i>surprised</i> by
the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could
not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some
relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.
</p>
<p>
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite
him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while
he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him
with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where
there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm
with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said
nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for
herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she
repeating, &ldquo;Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be
for <i>me</i>&mdash;it cannot be for <i>my</i> sake that his manners are
thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as
this. It is impossible that he should still love me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink
of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there
chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who,
fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate
to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took
her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short
silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been
assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began
by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected&mdash;&ldquo;for your
housekeeper,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;informed us that you would certainly not be here
till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that
you were not immediately expected in the country.&rdquo; He acknowledged the
truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned
his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he
had been travelling. &ldquo;They will join me early to-morrow,&rdquo; he continued,
&ldquo;and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you&mdash;Mr.
Bingley and his sisters.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, <i>his</i>
mind was not very differently engaged.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There is also one other person in the party,&rdquo; he continued after a pause,
&ldquo;who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do
I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your
stay at Lambton?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for
her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that
whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be
the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.
</p>
<p>
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was
not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased.
His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest
kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the
carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
</p>
<p>
He then asked her to walk into the house&mdash;but she declared herself
not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly&mdash;and her
patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was
over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they
parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies
into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly
towards the house.
</p>
<p>
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
&ldquo;He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,&rdquo; said her uncle.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There <i>is</i> something a little stately in him, to be sure,&rdquo; replied
her aunt, &ldquo;but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
have seen nothing of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than
civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;To be sure, Lizzy,&rdquo; said her aunt, &ldquo;he is not so handsome as Wickham; or,
rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are perfectly
good. But how came you to tell me that he was so disagreeable?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,&rdquo; replied her
uncle. &ldquo;Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at
his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his
grounds.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
said nothing.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;From what we have seen of him,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Gardiner, &ldquo;I really should
not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody
as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the
contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And
there is something of dignity in his countenance that would not give one
an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who
showed us his house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly
help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and
<i>that</i> in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as
guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his
relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her
authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the
charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her
husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything
else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they had no sooner
dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the
evening was spent in the satisfactions of a intercourse renewed after many
years' discontinuance.
</p>
<p>
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but
think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above all, of
his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 44
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But
her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at
Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with
some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress
themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage
drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle
driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery,
guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her
relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her
uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as
she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the
circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the
business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there
was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter
than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born
notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth's
feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own
discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the
partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and,
more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every
power of pleasing would fail her.
</p>
<p>
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up
and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
</p>
<p>
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took
place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was
at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she
had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a
very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She
found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
</p>
<p>
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute
and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.
</p>
<p>
They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was
also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step
was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
</p>
<p>
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than
to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them,
indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen
of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards each with
an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries
the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of
the lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the
gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and to
make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared
most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was
ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
</p>
<p>
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh! how
ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like
manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former
occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he
looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this
might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss
Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either
side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that
could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon
satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted,
which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane not
untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to
the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the
others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real
regret, that it &ldquo;was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of
seeing her;&rdquo; and, before she could reply, he added, &ldquo;It is above eight
months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all
dancing together at Netherfield.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took
occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether <i>all</i>
her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in
the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them
meaning.
</p>
<p>
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but,
whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from
<i>hauteur</i> or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the
improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary
its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him
thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with
whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace&mdash;when
she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations
whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in
Hunsford Parsonage&mdash;the difference, the change was so great, and
struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her
astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear
friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she
seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending
reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his
endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions
were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both
of Netherfield and Rosings.
</p>
<p>
Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to
depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their
wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at
Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how
<i>she</i>, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
</p>
<p>
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make
after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into
a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this
account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left
them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction,
though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to
be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she
stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of
Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
</p>
<p>
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it
was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
</p>
<p>
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as
their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be
untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character from their
own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference to any other
account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have
recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in
believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the
authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and
whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily
rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their
Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing
to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would
certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the
family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal
man, and did much good among the poor.
</p>
<p>
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him,
which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
</p>
<p>
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards <i>one</i> in that mansion;
and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had
almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that
could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable
qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased
to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of
a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and
bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday
had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive
within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;
gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still
well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in
rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection.
He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,
seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the
acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any
peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was
soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known
to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only
astonishment but gratitude&mdash;for to love, ardent love, it must be
attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be
encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly
defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a
real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she
wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for
the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy
told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of his
addresses.
</p>
<p>
It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the very
day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late
breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some
exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be
highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They
were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked
herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some
of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 45
</h2>
<p>
Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
</p>
<p>
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
</p>
<p>
In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London.
Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the
embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing
wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief
of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did
her justice, and pitied her.
</p>
<p>
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short
sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her from
trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient
distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much.
Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some
of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the
master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or
feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner
a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was
roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the health of her
family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the other
said no more.
</p>
<p>
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance
of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits
in season; but this did not take place till after many a significant look
and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her
of her post. There was now employment for the whole party&mdash;for though
they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of
grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.
</p>
<p>
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings
which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment
before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret
that he came.
</p>
<p>
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only
on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana
that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be
perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be
made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the
suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there
was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came
into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly
marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread her
face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet
made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over.
Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk,
and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get
acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at
conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in
the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with
sneering civility:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the &mdash;&mdash;shire Militia removed from
Meryton? They must be a great loss to <i>your</i> family.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress; but
exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently
answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an
involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion,
earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and
unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then
giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the
hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing
forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her
betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and,
perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which
some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had
ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had
it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and
from all Bingley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to
conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to
him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a
plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate
him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his
lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as
Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to
speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed
them on her more and more cheerfully.
</p>
<p>
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him
some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,&rdquo; she cried;
&ldquo;I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter.
She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we
should not have known her again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;For my own part,&rdquo; she rejoined, &ldquo;I must confess that I never could see
any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy;
and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character&mdash;there
is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of
the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so
fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp,
shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there
is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '<i>She</i>
a beauty!&mdash;I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards
she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty
at one time.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, &ldquo;but <i>that</i>
was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit&mdash;of everything but
himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
beginning the subject.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 46
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the
third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of
two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been
missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written
the direction remarkably ill.
</p>
<p>
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle
and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The
one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago.
The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and
engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half,
which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more
important intelligence. It was to this effect:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most
unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you&mdash;be
assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An
express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from
Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one
of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To
Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very
sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the
best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and
indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice
over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly
grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let
them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves.
They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not
missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly.
My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel
Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines
for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I
cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to
make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what
she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the other,
and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been
written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and
it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and
our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken
place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to
Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day
before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to
Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green,
something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never
intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to
Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to
trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further;
for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and
dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after
this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what
to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel
F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the
turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success&mdash;no
such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he
came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most
creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but
no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very
great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill
of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be
married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if <i>he</i>
could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia's connections,
which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible!
I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon
their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he
feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and
keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but this is
not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so
affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but
as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad,
dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing
scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for
your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if
inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told
you I would not; but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly
begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and
aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still
something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with
Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I
am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to
pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is
obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! where, where is my uncle?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as
she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a
moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened
by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner
made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in
whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily
exclaimed, &ldquo;I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr.
Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an
instant to lose.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good God! what is the matter?&rdquo; cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, &ldquo;I will not detain you a minute;
but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not
well enough; you cannot go yourself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the
servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress
home instantly.
</p>
<p>
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, &ldquo;Let
me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present
relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, I thank you,&rdquo; she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. &ldquo;There is
nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some
dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not
speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something
indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At
length she spoke again. &ldquo;I have just had a letter from Jane, with such
dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has
left all her friends&mdash;has eloped; has thrown herself into the power
of&mdash;of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. <i>You</i>
know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
nothing that can tempt him to&mdash;she is lost for ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. &ldquo;When I consider,&rdquo; she added in a yet
more agitated voice, &ldquo;that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he
was. Had I but explained some part of it only&mdash;some part of what I
learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all&mdash;all too late now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am grieved indeed,&rdquo; cried Darcy; &ldquo;grieved&mdash;shocked. But is it
certain&mdash;absolutely certain?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
nothing can be done&mdash;I know very well that nothing can be done. How
is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When <i>my</i> eyes were opened to his real character&mdash;Oh! had I
known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not&mdash;I was afraid
of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
was sinking; everything <i>must</i> sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was,
on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes;
and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now,
when all love must be vain.
</p>
<p>
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia&mdash;the
humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up
every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth
was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes,
was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her
companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke
likewise restraint, said, &ldquo;I am afraid you have been long desiring my
absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real,
though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either
said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But
I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask
for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's
having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent
business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as
it is possible, I know it cannot be long.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her
distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason
to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one
serious, parting look, went away.
</p>
<p>
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked
their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective
glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and
varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now
have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its
termination.
</p>
<p>
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise&mdash;if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a
first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained a
hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of
her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter
remained in her mind, she was all surprise&mdash;all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of
marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor
her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
</p>
<p>
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia wanted
only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer,
sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them
in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating but never
without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards
such a girl&mdash;oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
</p>
<p>
She was wild to be at home&mdash;to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of
the last with trembling energy.&mdash; Though Lydia had never been a favourite
with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not
Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations
of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his
power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of
gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating
to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as
possible. &ldquo;But what is to be done about Pemberley?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Gardiner.
&ldquo;John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. <i>That</i>
is all settled.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is all settled?&rdquo; repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. &ldquo;And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be
written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained
to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning,
found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed,
seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 47
</h2>
<p>
&ldquo;I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,&rdquo; said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; &ldquo;and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form
such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless,
and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly
inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step
forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such
an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the
risk!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gardiner, &ldquo;I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham.
Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable
of it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect
I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not
hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In the first place,&rdquo; replied Mr. Gardiner, &ldquo;there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a
presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, then&mdash;supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It
is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh, no, no&mdash;this is not likely. His most
particular friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never
intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some
money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia&mdash;what
attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make
him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying
well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps
might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge;
for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as
to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed
to give to what was going forward in his family, that <i>he</i> would do
as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in such a
matter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as
to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, &ldquo;that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such a
point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps
I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never been
taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for
a twelvemonth&mdash;she has been given up to nothing but amusement and
vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and
frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since
the &mdash;&mdash;shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater&mdash;what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which
are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm
of person and address that can captivate a woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you see that Jane,&rdquo; said her aunt, &ldquo;does not think so very ill of
Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense
of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false
and deceitful as he is insinuating.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And do you really know all this?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as
to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do indeed,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, colouring. &ldquo;I told you, the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with
such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty&mdash;which it is not worth while
to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must
know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you and
Jane seem so well to understand?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes!&mdash;that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and
saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the &mdash;&mdash;shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case,
neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to
make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any
one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should
then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with
Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never
occurred to me. That <i>she</i> could be in any danger from the deception
never entered my head. That such a consequence as <i>this</i> could ensue,
you may easily believe, was far enough from my thoughts.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side;
and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours
is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered
the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every
girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two
months; but he never distinguished <i>her</i> by any particular attention;
and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild
admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who
treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.&rdquo;
</p>
<hr />
<p>
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
</p>
<p>
They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night on
the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort
to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long
expectations.
</p>
<p>
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on
the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage
drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and
displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and
frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried
into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her mother's
apartment, immediately met her.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard
of the fugitives.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; replied Jane. &ldquo;But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
everything will be well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is my father in town?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And have you heard from him often?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
again till he had something of importance to mention.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And my mother&mdash;how is she? How are you all?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven, are quite well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you&mdash;how are you?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth. &ldquo;You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the
whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them
both, with alternate smiles and tears.
</p>
<p>
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had
already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found
that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however,
which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she
still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would
bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their
proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If I had been able,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;to carry my point in going to Brighton,
with all my family, <i>this</i> would not have happened; but poor dear
Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go
out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on
their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And
now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become of
us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and
if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do not give way to useless alarm,&rdquo; added he; &ldquo;though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It
is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may
gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, and
have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As
soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home
with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what
is to be done.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear brother,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;that is exactly what I could
most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever
they may be; and if they are not married already, <i>make</i> them marry.
And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia
she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are
married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a
dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits&mdash;and have
such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me&mdash;such spasms in my
side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no
rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any
directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know
which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you
will contrive it all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in
the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her
hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till dinner
was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the
housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
</p>
<p>
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that <i>one</i> only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
</p>
<p>
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in
either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which
she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness
than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough
of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave
reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other the balm of sisterly consolation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
&ldquo;Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one false
step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less brittle
than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in her
behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind
of moral extractions from the evil before them.
</p>
<p>
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the
opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of
this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet
could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
subject, by saying, &ldquo;But tell me all and everything about it which I have
not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Forster
say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place?
They must have seen them together for ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He <i>was</i>
coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea
of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got
abroad, it hastened his journey.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; but, when questioned by <i>him</i>, Denny denied knowing anything of
their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying&mdash;and from <i>that</i>, I
am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a
little uneasy&mdash;a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in
marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right.
My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a
match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing
more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared her
for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each
other, many weeks.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But not before they went to Brighton?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, I believe not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he
know his real character?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
but I hope this may be false.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this
could not have happened!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps it would have been better,&rdquo; replied her sister. &ldquo;But to expose
the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He brought it with him for us to see.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR HARRIET,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing
myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am
going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you
a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an
angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off.
You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like
it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and
sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke it will be! I can hardly
write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my
engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse
me when he knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball
we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to
Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my
worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to
Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your affectionate friend,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;LYDIA BENNET.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. &ldquo;What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But
at least it shows that <i>she</i> was serious on the subject of their
journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
side a <i>scheme</i> of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such
confusion!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Jane,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, &ldquo;was there a servant belonging to it who did
not know the whole story before the end of the day?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very
difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give
her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I
might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took
from me my faculties.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well.
Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety upon
yourself alone.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty
is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose
should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday,
after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with
me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been
very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and
offered her services, or any of her daughters', if they should be of use
to us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She had better have stayed at home,&rdquo; cried Elizabeth; &ldquo;perhaps she <i>meant</i>
well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of
one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let
them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He meant I believe,&rdquo; replied Jane, &ldquo;to go to Epsom, the place where they
last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could be made
out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the
hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from
London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's
removing from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make
inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the
coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make inquiries
there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and
number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had
formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly
discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 48
</h2>
<p>
The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His
family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send;
but even of <i>that</i> they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to
prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the
great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security
for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days
longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her
nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great
comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited
them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and
heartening them up&mdash;though, as she never came without reporting some
fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went
away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
</p>
<p>
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the
title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and
everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance
of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what
was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister's
ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became
almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they
had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of,
they must in all probability have gained some news of them.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did
not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in
it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennet seemed
wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised to write again
very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible,
from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham
has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part
of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could
apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of
essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel
Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this
head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations
he has now living, better than any other person.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of
whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his
companions in the &mdash;&mdash;shire might be able to give more
information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the
application was a something to look forward to.
</p>
<p>
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part
of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the
grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever of
good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day
was expected to bring some news of importance.
</p>
<p>
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their
father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had
received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she
accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters
always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR SIR,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life,
to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering
under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire.
Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise
with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which
must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no
time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can
alleviate so severe a misfortune&mdash;or that may comfort you, under a
circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's
mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison
of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to
suppose as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of
behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of
indulgence; though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and
Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be
naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early
an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which
opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady
Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree
with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be
injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine
herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?
And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented
satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for had it been
otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let
me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to
throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her
to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am, dear sir, etc., etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It
was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up
any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His
former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the
militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship
with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as
likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his
fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he
had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel
Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to
clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts
of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to
conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with
horror. &ldquo;A gamester!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;This is wholly unexpected. I had not an
idea of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for
continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not
express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what
her anxiety for his life had been before.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and
the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet came
from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey,
and brought its master back to Longbourn.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.
</p>
<p>
The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the
lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be fairly
conjectured from <i>that</i>, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that,
had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia's
infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one
sleepless night out of two.
</p>
<p>
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit
of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it
was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it.
</p>
<p>
It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, &ldquo;Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You must not be too severe upon yourself,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to
fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been
to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will
pass away soon enough.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Do you suppose them to be in London?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And Lydia used to want to go to London,&rdquo; added Kitty.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is happy then,&rdquo; said her father drily; &ldquo;and her residence there will
probably be of some duration.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Then after a short silence he continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me
last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's tea.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is a parade,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my
library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I
can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not going to run away, papa,&rdquo; said Kitty fretfully. &ldquo;If I should
ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>You</i> go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you
will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house
again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely
prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten
minutes of every day in a rational manner.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 49
</h2>
<p>
Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, &ldquo;I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dear madam,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, &ldquo;don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
this half-hour, and master has had a letter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran
through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library;
their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him up
stairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little
copse.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,
and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing
his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
</p>
<p>
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came
up with him, and eagerly cried out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, papa, what news&mdash;what news? Have you heard from my uncle?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes I have had a letter from him by express.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, and what news does it bring&mdash;good or bad?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What is there of good to be expected?&rdquo; said he, taking the letter from
his pocket. &ldquo;But perhaps you would like to read it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Read it aloud,&rdquo; said their father, &ldquo;for I hardly know myself what it is
about.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR BROTHER,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon
the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on
Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they
were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they
are discovered. I have seen them both&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Then it is as I always hoped,&rdquo; cried Jane; &ldquo;they are married!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth read on:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any
intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements
which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long
before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your
daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds
secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister;
and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your
life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which,
considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I
thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no
time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend,
from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so
hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived
in that respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,
even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition
to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full
powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will
immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper
settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to
town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence
and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to
write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married
from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day.
I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours,
etc.,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;EDW. GARDINER.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is it possible?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. &ldquo;Can it be
possible that he will marry her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,&rdquo; said her sister.
&ldquo;My dear father, I congratulate you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And have you answered the letter?&rdquo; cried Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No; but it must be done soon.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he
wrote.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear father,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;come back and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is in such a case.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Let me write for you,&rdquo; said Jane, &ldquo;if you dislike the trouble yourself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I dislike it very much,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;but it must be done.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And may I ask&mdash;&rdquo; said Elizabeth; &ldquo;but the terms, I suppose, must be
complied with.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And they <i>must</i> marry! Yet he is <i>such</i> a man!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your
uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay
him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Money! My uncle!&rdquo; cried Jane, &ldquo;what do you mean, sir?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a
temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is very true,&rdquo; said Elizabeth; &ldquo;though it had not occurred to me
before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it
must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said her father; &ldquo;Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing
less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,
in the very beginning of our relationship.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the
library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And they are really to be married!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were
by themselves. &ldquo;How strange this is! And for <i>this</i> we are to be
thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I comfort myself with thinking,&rdquo; replied Jane, &ldquo;that he certainly would
not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle
has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children
of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand
pounds?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,&rdquo; said
Elizabeth, &ldquo;and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not
sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be
requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years
of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with
them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never
deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,&rdquo; said
Jane: &ldquo;I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry
her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Their conduct has been such,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;as neither you, nor I,
nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make
it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly
replied:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Just as you please.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Take whatever you like, and get away.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs
together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married,
her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance.
She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been
fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be
married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor
humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear, dear Lydia!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;This is delightful indeed! She will be
married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good,
kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything!
How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the
wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly.
Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give
her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will
put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall be
together when we meet!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;For we must attribute this happy conclusion,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;in a great
measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to
assist Mr. Wickham with money.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; cried her mother, &ldquo;it is all very right; who should do it but her
own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must
have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have ever
had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy! In a
short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it
sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a
flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you write
for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but
the things should be ordered immediately.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,
would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so
obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I will go to Meryton,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on
Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An
airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all
have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
</p>
<p>
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no
worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking
forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly
expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only two
hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 50
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the
better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He
now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia
need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit
could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of
the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might then
have rested in its proper place.
</p>
<p>
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone
should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was
determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to
discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
</p>
<p>
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in
cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and
younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late
to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband's love
of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
</p>
<p>
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms
of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that,
could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with
so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would
scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid
them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual
presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's
expenses had been very little within that sum.
</p>
<p>
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as
little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of
rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he
naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in
its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was
indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message
to her.
</p>
<p>
The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of
conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest
alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But
there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured
wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful
old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of
circumstances, because with such an husband her misery was considered
certain.
</p>
<p>
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this
happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits
oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The
marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes
since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her
thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials,
fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching
through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,
without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many
as deficient in size and importance.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Haye Park might do,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if the Gouldings could quit it&mdash;or
the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants
remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: &ldquo;Mrs. Bennet,
before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let
us come to a right understanding. Into <i>one</i> house in this
neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the
impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon
led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her
husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He
protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever
on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger
could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse
his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem
valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the
disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's
nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with
Wickham a fortnight before they took place.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her
sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper
termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable
beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot.
</p>
<p>
She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few
people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at
the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty
would have mortified her so much&mdash;not, however, from any fear of
disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate, there
seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded
on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy
would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would
now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man
whom he so justly scorned.
</p>
<p>
From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish
of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in
Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this.
She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of
what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to
be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least
chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been
happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.
</p>
<p>
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,
there must be a triumph.
</p>
<p>
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was
an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and
liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and
from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have
received benefit of greater importance.
</p>
<p>
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.
</p>
<p>
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she
could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a
couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger
than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on
quitting the militia.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It was greatly my wish that he should do so,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;as soon as his
marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering
the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and
my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars; and
among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to
assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General
&mdash;&mdash;'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage
to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I
hope among different people, where they may each have a character to
preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel
Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he
will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton,
with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And
will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his
creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his
information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not
deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a
week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to
Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very
desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South. She is well, and
begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother.&mdash;Yours, etc.,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;E. GARDINER.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the &mdash;&mdash;shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.
Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the
North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,
for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a
pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
with everybody, and had so many favourites.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it will be quite shocking to
send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes
very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General &mdash;&mdash;'s
regiment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted
into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first
an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for
the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be
noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so
rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as
soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they
thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of
knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the
neighbourhood before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote
again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come;
and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should
proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham
should consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own
inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of her
wishes.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 51
</h2>
<p>
Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet
them at &mdash;&mdash;, and they were to return in it by dinner-time.
Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more
especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself,
had she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her
sister must endure.
</p>
<p>
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive
them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to
the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.
</p>
<p>
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to
Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity
which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
</p>
<p>
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was
shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and
fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed,
with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
</p>
<p>
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were
always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly
what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their
relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before
believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving
within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent
man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused
their confusion suffered no variation of colour.
</p>
<p>
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of
them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth,
began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good
humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They
seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of
the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects
which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Only think of its being three months,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;since I went away; it
seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough
happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no
more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it
would be very good fun if I was.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which
she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, &ldquo;Oh! mamma, do the people
hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we
overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should
know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my
glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might
see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the
dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to
her eldest sister, &ldquo;Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits
increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their
other neighbours, and to hear herself called &ldquo;Mrs. Wickham&rdquo; by each of
them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and
boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, mamma,&rdquo; said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, &ldquo;and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am
sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good
luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands.
What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at
all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, lord! yes;&mdash;there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall
be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls,
and I will take care to get good partners for them all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should like it beyond anything!&rdquo; said her mother.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind
you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is
over.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I thank you for my share of the favour,&rdquo; said Elizabeth; &ldquo;but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his
regiment at the end of a fortnight.
</p>
<p>
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and
she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and
having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.
</p>
<p>
Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to find
it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present
observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their
elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by
his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he
chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight
was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the
case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a
companion.
</p>
<p>
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing
best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first
of September, than any body else in the country.
</p>
<p>
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy, I never gave <i>you</i> an account of my wedding, I believe. You
were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No really,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth; &ldquo;I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were
to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a
fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it
off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt,
all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was
reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was
thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he
would be married in his blue coat.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be
over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were
horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I
did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not
one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but,
however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage
came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid
man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is
no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my
uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be
married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time,
and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had
been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might
have done as well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy!&rdquo; repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes!&mdash;he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious
me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If it was to be secret,&rdquo; said Jane, &ldquo;say not another word on the subject.
You may depend upon my seeking no further.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! certainly,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; &ldquo;we will
ask you no questions.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Lydia, &ldquo;for if you did, I should certainly tell you all,
and then Wickham would be angry.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.
</p>
<p>
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it
was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her
sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where
he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as
to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was
satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct
in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such
suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to
her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were
compatible with the secrecy which had been intended.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may readily comprehend,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;what my curiosity must be to
know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking)
a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time.
Pray write instantly, and let me understand it&mdash;unless it is, for
very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think
necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not that I <i>shall</i>, though,&rdquo; she added to herself, as she finished
the letter; &ldquo;and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
out.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth
privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;&mdash;till
it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had
rather be without a confidante.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 52
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than,
hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be
interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy;
for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a
denial.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR NIECE,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to
answering it, as I foresee that a <i>little</i> writing will not comprise
what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your
application; I did not expect it from <i>you</i>. Don't think me angry,
however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such
inquiries to be necessary on <i>your</i> side. If you do not choose to
understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as
I am&mdash;and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really
innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most
unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
dreadfully racked as <i>yours</i> seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and
that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after
ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The
motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that
Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it
impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He
generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he
had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the
world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his
duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been
brought on by himself. If he <i>had another</i> motive, I am sure it would
never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more
than <i>we</i> had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for
his resolving to follow us.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess
to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of
disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in
Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This
Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went
to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two
or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not
betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she
really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone
to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive
them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At
length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They
were in &mdash;&mdash; street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on
seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to
persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his
assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved
on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted
no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they
should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when.
Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and
expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham,
he easily learnt had never been <i>his</i> design. He confessed himself
obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which
were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of
Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission
immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very
little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he
knew he should have nothing to live on.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though
Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do
something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage.
But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the
hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other
country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
against the temptation of immediate relief.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of
course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be
reasonable.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Every thing being settled between <i>them</i>, Mr. Darcy's next step was
to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen,
and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with
him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to
be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore
readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He
did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a
gentleman had called on business.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and,
as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They met again on Sunday, and then <i>I</i> saw him too. It was not all
settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
accused of many faults at different times, but <i>this</i> is the true
one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure
(and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it),
your uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the
gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was
forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,
was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which
went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this
morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that
would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was
due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people.
His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than
a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon <i>her</i>,
and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by
him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character had
been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received and
noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in <i>this</i>; though I
doubt whether <i>his</i> reserve, or <i>anybody's</i> reserve, can be
answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear
Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have
yielded, if we had not given him credit for <i>another interest</i> in the
affair.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were
still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London
once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to
receive the last finish.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you
tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford
you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant admission
to the house. <i>He</i> was exactly what he had been, when I knew him in
Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with
her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's
letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh
pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing
to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness
she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I
am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I
recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience
with her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended
the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on
Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I
take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say
before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect,
been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and
opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and
<i>that</i>, if he marry <i>prudently</i>, his wife may teach him. I
thought him very sly;&mdash;he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
slyness seems the fashion.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish
me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I
have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of
ponies, would be the very thing.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
hour.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yours, very sincerely,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;M. GARDINER.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in
which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid,
and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all
this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did
whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by
other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was
insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her&mdash;for a
woman who had already refused him&mdash;as able to overcome a sentiment so
natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of
Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to
be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a
reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of
belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had
liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and though she would
not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe
that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause
where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful,
exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person
who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her
character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every
ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had
ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud
of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able
to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him
again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
</p>
<p>
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's approach;
and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by
Wickham.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?&rdquo; said he,
as he joined her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You certainly do,&rdquo; she replied with a smile; &ldquo;but it does not follow that
the interruption must be unwelcome.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and
now we are better.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;True. Are the others coming out?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you
have actually seen Pemberley.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She replied in the affirmative.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me.
But of course she did not mention my name to you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, she did.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And what did she say?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had&mdash;not turned
out well. At such a distance as <i>that</i>, you know, things are
strangely misrepresented.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced
him; but he soon afterwards said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,&rdquo; said Elizabeth.
&ldquo;It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes; he introduced us to his sister.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And do you like her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very much.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or
two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you
liked her. I hope she will turn out well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did you go by the village of Kympton?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not recollect that we did.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most
delightful place!&mdash;Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me
in every respect.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How should you have liked making sermons?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the
exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;&mdash;but,
to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the
retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness!
But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance,
when you were in Kent?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have heard from authority, which I thought <i>as good</i>, that it was
left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have. Yes, there was something in <i>that</i>; I told you so from the
first, you may remember.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I <i>did</i> hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not
so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had
been compromised accordingly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what
I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to
get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him, she
only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us
quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he
hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 53
</h2>
<p>
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he
never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by
introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had
said enough to keep him quiet.
</p>
<p>
The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced
to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into
her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at
least a twelvemonth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! my dear Lydia,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;when shall we meet again?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Write to me very often, my dear.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
writing. My sisters may write to <i>me</i>. They will have nothing else to
do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He is as fine a fellow,&rdquo; said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the
house, &ldquo;as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I
am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to
produce a more valuable son-in-law.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I often think,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that there is nothing so bad as parting with
one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,&rdquo; said
Elizabeth. &ldquo;It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
single.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but
only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had
been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly
relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an
article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at
Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master,
who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks.
Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and
shook her head by turns.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,&rdquo; (for Mrs.
Phillips first brought her the news). &ldquo;Well, so much the better. Not that
I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure <i>I</i>
never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to
Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what <i>may</i> happen? But
that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may depend on it,&rdquo; replied the other, &ldquo;for Mrs. Nicholls was in
Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth;
but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I
<i>should</i> be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect
me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of <i>myself</i>,
but I dread other people's remarks.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no
other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there
<i>with</i> his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without
it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yet it is hard,&rdquo; she sometimes thought, &ldquo;that this poor man cannot come
to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this
speculation! I <i>will</i> leave him to himself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
more unequal, than she had often seen them.
</p>
<p>
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;you will
wait on him of course.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I
went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
Netherfield.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;'Tis an etiquette I despise,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;If he wants our society, let him
seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running
after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I am
determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make
thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's
incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours
might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before <i>they</i> did.
As the day of his arrival drew near,&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,&rdquo; said Jane to her sister. &ldquo;It
would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she
says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I wish I could say anything to comfort you,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth; &ldquo;but it
is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction of
preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so
much.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the
days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless
of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in
Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the
paddock and ride towards the house.
</p>
<p>
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to
the window&mdash;she looked,&mdash;she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat
down again by her sister.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There is a gentleman with him, mamma,&rdquo; said Kitty; &ldquo;who can it be?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;La!&rdquo; replied Kitty, &ldquo;it looks just like that man that used to be with him
before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!&mdash;and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend
of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must
say that I hate the very sight of him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of
their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which
must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after
receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough.
Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother
talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to
him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them.
But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by
Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's
letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he
could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she
had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the
person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits,
and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at
least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her
astonishment at his coming&mdash;at his coming to Netherfield, to
Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she
had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire.
</p>
<p>
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute
with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes,
as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must
still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Let me first see how he behaves,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;it will then be early enough
for expectation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her
sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler
than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,
she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
not an improbable, conjecture.
</p>
<p>
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her
curtsey and address to his friend.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the
preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt
and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.
</p>
<p>
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He
was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it
had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends, when he
could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the
sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of
curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found him looking
at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More
thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were
plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry with herself for being
so.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Could I expect it to be otherwise!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Yet why did he come?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him
she had hardly courage to speak.
</p>
<p>
She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet.
</p>
<p>
He readily agreed to it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People <i>did</i>
say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I
hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the
neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And
one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must
have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;
though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a syllable
said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was my
brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such
an awkward business of it. Did you see it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared
not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,&rdquo;
continued her mother, &ldquo;but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard
to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a
place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know
how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his
leaving the &mdash;&mdash;shire, and of his being gone into the regulars.
Thank Heaven! he has <i>some</i> friends, though perhaps not so many as he
deserves.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery
of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however,
the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done
before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the
country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,&rdquo; said her mother,
&ldquo;I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet's
manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all
the best of the covies for you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt that
years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of
such painful confusion.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The first wish of my heart,&rdquo; said she to herself, &ldquo;is never more to be in
company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that
will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or
the other again!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how
much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former
lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every
five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her
as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected,
though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be
perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much
as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know
when she was silent.
</p>
<p>
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn
in a few days time.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;for when you
went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as
soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was
very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your
engagement.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there
that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think
anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she
had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had
ten thousand a year.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
Chapter 54
</h2>
<p>
As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or
in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must
deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;did he come at all?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he
was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no
longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no
more about him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of
her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her better
satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy.
I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his
coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen
that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, very indifferent indeed,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, laughingly. &ldquo;Oh, Jane,
take care.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
you as ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<hr />
<p>
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the
meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour
and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived.
</p>
<p>
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who
were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as
sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room,
Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place,
which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister.
Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to
sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane
happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed
himself by her.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore
it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had
received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise
turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
</p>
<p>
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an
admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his own,
would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no
cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could
divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a
situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she
could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was
their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness, made the
sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind; and she
would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him that his
kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family.
</p>
<p>
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and
uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen
came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She
looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of
pleasure for the evening must depend.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If he does not come to me, <i>then</i>,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I shall give him up
for ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered
her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss
Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a
confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit
of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of the girls moved
closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
do we?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough
to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for being
so silly!
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Is your sister at Pemberley still?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
these three weeks.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with
her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some
minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering to
Elizabeth again, he walked away.
</p>
<p>
When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies
all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all
her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's
rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the
rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were
confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope,
but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to
make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper;
but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she
had no opportunity of detaining them.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well girls,&rdquo; said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, &ldquo;What say
you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I
assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison
was roasted to a turn&mdash;and everybody said they never saw so fat a
haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases'
last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were
remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at
least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.
Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you
think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield
at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as
ever lived&mdash;and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at
all handsome: I like them prodigiously.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not
seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It has been a very agreeable day,&rdquo; said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. &ldquo;The
party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
may often meet again.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth smiled.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I
assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any
design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with
greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing,
than any other man.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are very cruel,&rdquo; said her sister, &ldquo;you will not let me smile, and are
provoking me to it every moment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How hard it is in some cases to be believed!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And how impossible in others!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me;
and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 55
</h2>
<p>
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten
days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good
spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Next time you call,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I hope we shall be more lucky.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would
give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Can you come to-morrow?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
accepted with alacrity.
</p>
<p>
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them
dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown,
and with her hair half finished, crying out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come&mdash;Mr. Bingley is
come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's
hair.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We will be down as soon as we can,&rdquo; said Jane; &ldquo;but I dare say Kitty is
forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
Where is your sash, my dear?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
without one of her sisters.
</p>
<p>
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the
evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom,
and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being
thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and
Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them.
Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very
innocently said, &ldquo;What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me
for? What am I to do?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.&rdquo; She then sat still five
minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly
got up, and saying to Kitty, &ldquo;Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,&rdquo;
took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which
spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that <i>she</i>
would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the
door and called out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was forced to go.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We may as well leave them by themselves you know;&rdquo; said her mother, as
soon as she was in the hall. &ldquo;Kitty and I are going up stairs to sit in my
dressing-room.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly
in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the
drawing-room.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of
countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
</p>
<p>
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away,
an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means,
for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
</p>
<p>
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the
happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
concurrence.
</p>
<p>
Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the
morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or
folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the other
had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in
the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body
away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went
into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others
were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract
her mother's schemes.
</p>
<p>
But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both,
as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have
told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but <i>hers</i> she
thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well
as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to
her sister, ran out of the room.
</p>
<p>
Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;'Tis too much!&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why
is not everybody as happy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a
delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness
was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself
to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the
present.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must go instantly to my mother;&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I would not on any account
trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from
anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know
that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family!
how shall I bear so much happiness!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card
party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
previous months of suspense and vexation.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And this,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
father had been short and to the purpose.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Where is your sister?&rdquo; said he hastily, as he opened the door.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and
affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her
delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great
cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen to all
he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in
spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations
of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the
excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a
general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself.
</p>
<p>
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak
her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she
talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet
joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really
happy he was.
</p>
<p>
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor
took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his
daughter, and said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are a good girl;&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;and I have great pleasure in thinking
you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well
together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so
complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every
servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your
income.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be
unpardonable in me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,&rdquo; cried his wife, &ldquo;what are you
talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely
more.&rdquo; Then addressing her daughter, &ldquo;Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
which she might in future be able to dispense.
</p>
<p>
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
</p>
<p>
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
obliged to accept.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else; but
she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of
separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always
attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and
when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He has made me so happy,&rdquo; said she, one evening, &ldquo;by telling me that he
was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed
it possible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I suspected as much,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth. &ldquo;But how did he account for it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as
I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to
be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be
what we once were to each other.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is the most unforgiving speech,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;that I ever heard
you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe
of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he
really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of <i>my</i> being
indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
modesty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the
little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to
find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though
Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it
was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!&rdquo; cried
Jane. &ldquo;Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above
them all! If I could but see <i>you</i> as happy! If there <i>were</i> but
such another man for you!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you.
Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips, and she
ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in
Meryton.
</p>
<p>
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they
had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 56
</h2>
<p>
One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the
lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open
and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
</p>
<p>
They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment
was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty,
though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth
felt.
</p>
<p>
She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the
head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name
to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
introduction had been made.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your mother.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And <i>that</i> I suppose is one of your sisters.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, madam,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine. &ldquo;She
is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my
eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man who, I
believe, will soon become a part of the family.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have a very small park here,&rdquo; returned Lady Catherine after a short
silence.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I assure
you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in summer;
the windows are full west.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then
added:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
Mrs. Collins well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
will favour me with your company.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Go, my dear,&rdquo; cried her mother, &ldquo;and show her ladyship about the
different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended
her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady
Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and
pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked
on.
</p>
<p>
Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and
disagreeable.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How could I ever think her like her nephew?&rdquo; said she, as she looked in
her face.
</p>
<p>
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
manner:&mdash;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
come.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
for the honour of seeing you here.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bennet,&rdquo; replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, &ldquo;you ought to know,
that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere <i>you</i> may
choose to be, you shall not find <i>me</i> so. My character has ever been
celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment
as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming
nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was
on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss
Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to
my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I <i>know</i> it must be a
scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this
place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you believed it impossible to be true,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, colouring with
astonishment and disdain, &ldquo;I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far.
What could your ladyship propose by it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,&rdquo; said Elizabeth
coolly, &ldquo;will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is
in existence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report
is spread abroad?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I never heard that it was.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may
ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason.
But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made
him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have
drawn him in.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,
ever induce me to be explicit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
make an offer to me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of <i>his</i>
mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union:
and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be
accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the
family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety
and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he
was destined for his cousin?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no
other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept
from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de
Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its
completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor
inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice?
And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss
Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be
censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your
alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any
of us.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;These are heavy misfortunes,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth. &ldquo;But the wife of Mr.
Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score?
Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with
the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded
from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not
been in the habit of brooking disappointment.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>That</i> will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
but it will have no effect on me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew
are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal side, from
the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable,
and ancient&mdash;though untitled&mdash;families. Their fortune on both
sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every
member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart
pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is
this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of
your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have
been brought up.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
equal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;True. You <i>are</i> a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who
are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Whatever my connections may be,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;if your nephew does not
object to them, they can be nothing to <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
moment's deliberation:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am not.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I will make no promise of the kind.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I
will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance
I require.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And I certainly <i>never</i> shall give it. I am not to be intimidated
into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to
marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make
their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me,
would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his
cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you
have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as
the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if
you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;
but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no
stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement.
I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up
business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to
be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's
steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!&mdash;of what are you
thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You can now have nothing further to say,&rdquo; she resentfully answered. &ldquo;You
have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the
house.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back.
Her ladyship was highly incensed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are then resolved to have him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference
to <i>you</i>, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims
of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the
opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,&rdquo; replied Elizabeth, &ldquo;have any
possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either
would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
<i>were</i> excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
concern&mdash;and the world in general would have too much sense to join
in the scorn.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I
shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your ambition
will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable;
but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of the
carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, &ldquo;I take no leave of you,
Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such
attention. I am most seriously displeased.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her ladyship
to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She heard the
carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother impatiently met
her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not
come in again and rest herself.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She did not choose it,&rdquo; said her daughter, &ldquo;she would go.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.
She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton,
thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing
particular to say to you, Lizzy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 57
</h2>
<p>
The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth
into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many hours, learn
to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had
actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole
purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a
rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of their engagement
could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected
that <i>his</i> being the intimate friend of Bingley, and <i>her</i> being
the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one
wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not
herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them
more frequently together. And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore
(for through their communication with the Collinses, the report, she
concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had only set that down as almost
certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some
future time.
</p>
<p>
In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent
their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an
application to her nephew; and how <i>he</i> might take a similar
representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
that he thought much higher of her ladyship than <i>she</i> could do; and
it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with <i>one</i>,
whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and
ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
</p>
<p>
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often
seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle
every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his
friend within a few days,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;I shall know how to understand it.
I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If
he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my
affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all.&rdquo;
</p>
<hr />
<p>
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind
of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth
was spared from much teasing on the subject.
</p>
<p>
The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father,
who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I was going to look for you; come into my room.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell
her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be
from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent
explanations.
</p>
<p>
She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then
said,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly.
As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did
not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let
me congratulate you on a very important conquest.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and
she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself
at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself;
when her father continued:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
as these; but I think I may defy even <i>your</i> sagacity, to discover
the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;From Mr. Collins! and what can <i>he</i> have to say?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping
Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus
offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this
happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of
which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may
be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in
this land.'
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? 'This young
gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
mortal can most desire,&mdash;splendid property, noble kindred, and
extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my
cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a
precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you
will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.'
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine
that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a
friendly eye.'
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;<i>Mr. Darcy</i>, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I <i>have</i>
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within
the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more
effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman
but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! It
is admirable!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
little agreeable to her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Are you not diverted?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes. Pray read on.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to
give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her
noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily
into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr. Collins
moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business
has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living
together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I
must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from
declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into
your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice;
and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have
opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them, as a Christian, but never
to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your
hearing.' That is his notion of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his
letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation
of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it.
You are not going to be <i>missish</i>, I hope, and pretend to be
affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for
our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; cried Elizabeth, &ldquo;I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;<i>that</i> is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any
other man it would have been nothing; but <i>his</i> perfect indifference,
and <i>your</i> pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I
abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for
any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his
repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings
appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would
rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he
said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at
such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing
too little, she might have fancied too much.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 58
</h2>
<p>
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with
him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit.
The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him
of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary
dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all
walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of
walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off
together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip
them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to
entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much
afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate
resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
</p>
<p>
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria;
and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when
Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for
her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she
immediately said:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of
my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,&rdquo; replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and
emotion, &ldquo;that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken
light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so
little to be trusted.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me
that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not
rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the
name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to
take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of
discovering them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;If you <i>will</i> thank me,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;let it be for yourself alone.
That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your <i>family</i>
owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her
companion added, &ldquo;You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings
are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. <i>My</i>
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me
on this subject for ever.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his
situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very
fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so
material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her
receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness
which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;
and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a
man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to
encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of
heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she
could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in
proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment
more valuable.
</p>
<p>
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such
a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her
nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its
effect had been exactly contrariwise.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It taught me to hope,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to
hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you
been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, &ldquo;Yes, you know enough of my
frankness to believe me capable of <i>that</i>. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to
you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I
cannot think of it without abhorrence.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
evening,&rdquo; said Elizabeth. &ldquo;The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in
civility.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;&mdash;though it was some
time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a
way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way that would induce you to accept me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Darcy mentioned his letter. &ldquo;Did it,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;did it soon make you think
better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
former prejudices had been removed.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I knew,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power
of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make
you hate me.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;When I wrote that letter,&rdquo; replied Darcy, &ldquo;I believed myself perfectly
calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful
bitterness of spirit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of
the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely
different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance
attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy.
Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude
which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being
all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught
what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given
good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by
my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that
was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be
selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to
think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think
meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from
eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you,
dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a
lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was
properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You
showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman
worthy of being pleased.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
wishing, expecting my addresses.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you.
I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.
How you must have hated me after <i>that</i> evening?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a
proper direction.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at
Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Your surprise could not be greater than <i>mine</i> in being noticed by
you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness,
and I confess that I did not expect to receive <i>more</i> than my due.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My object then,&rdquo; replied Darcy, &ldquo;was to show you, by every civility in my
power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain
your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your
reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced
themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I
had seen you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to the
cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there
had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
comprehend.
</p>
<p>
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
each, to be dwelt on farther.
</p>
<p>
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it
was time to be at home.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!&rdquo; was a wonder which introduced
the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their
engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must ask whether you were surprised?&rdquo; said Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.&rdquo; And
though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
the case.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;On the evening before my going to London,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I made a confession
to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all
that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and
impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest
suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in
supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as
I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no
doubt of their happiness together.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
friend.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Did you speak from your own observation,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;when you told him
that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which
I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented
his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance
on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which
for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to
conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I
had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger,
I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your
sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it
was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 59
</h2>
<p>
&ldquo;My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?&rdquo; was a question which
Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room, and from
all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply,
that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She
coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a
suspicion of the truth.
</p>
<p>
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and
Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather <i>knew</i> that she was happy
than <i>felt</i> herself to be so; for, besides the immediate
embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what
would be felt in the family when her situation became known; she was aware
that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it
was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
</p>
<p>
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from
Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!&mdash;engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,
no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I
am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in
earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
engaged.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Jane looked at her doubtingly. &ldquo;Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You know nothing of the matter. <i>That</i> is all to be forgot. Perhaps
I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these,
a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember
it myself.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,&rdquo; cried
Jane. &ldquo;My dear, dear Lizzy, I would&mdash;I do congratulate you&mdash;but
are you certain? forgive the question&mdash;are you quite certain that you
can be happy with him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we
are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane?
Shall you like to have such a brother?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes! You will only think I feel <i>more</i> than I ought to do, when
I tell you all.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid
you will be angry.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dearest sister, now <i>be</i> serious. I want to talk very seriously.
Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
how long you have loved him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But
I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at
Pemberley.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired
effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of
attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
further to wish.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Now I am quite happy,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;for you will be as happy as myself. I
always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I
must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of
it to another, not to you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to
mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her
equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal
from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the
night spent in conversation.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
&ldquo;Good gracious!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, &ldquo;if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with our
dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming
here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or other,
and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you
must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was
really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet.
</p>
<p>
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook
hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he
soon afterwards said aloud, &ldquo;Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bennet, &ldquo;to walk to
Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never
seen the view.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;It may do very well for the others,&rdquo; replied Mr. Bingley; &ldquo;but I am sure
it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?&rdquo; Kitty owned that she had
rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view
from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went up stairs to
get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to
him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would
take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be
enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were
violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was
certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her
sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first
raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr.
Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be
made unhappy; and that it should be through her means&mdash;that <i>she</i>,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her&mdash;was a
wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again,
when, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few
minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and,
while pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, &ldquo;Go to your father,
he wants you in the library.&rdquo; She was gone directly.
</p>
<p>
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. &ldquo;Lizzy,&rdquo;
said he, &ldquo;what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting
this man? Have not you always hated him?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but
they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion, of her
attachment to Mr. Darcy.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. But
will they make you happy?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Have you any other objection,&rdquo; said Elizabeth, &ldquo;than your belief of my
indifference?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I do, I do like him,&rdquo; she replied, with tears in her eyes, &ldquo;I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know
what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such
terms.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lizzy,&rdquo; said her father, &ldquo;I have given him my consent. He is the kind of
man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to <i>you</i>, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your
disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up
to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest
danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and
misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing <i>you</i> unable to
respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of
her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of him
had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not
the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months' suspense, and
enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her
father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; said he, when she ceased speaking, &ldquo;I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble and
economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and <i>would</i> have paid
him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own way. I
shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love
for you, and there will be an end of the matter.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her at
last to go&mdash;saying, as she quitted the room, &ldquo;If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join the
others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for gaiety,
but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer anything
material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would come
in time.
</p>
<p>
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter
a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend
what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for the
advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of
them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get
up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you
will have! Jane's is nothing to it&mdash;nothing at all. I am so pleased&mdash;so
happy. Such a charming man!&mdash;so handsome! so tall!&mdash;Oh, my dear
Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope he
will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is
charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What
will become of me. I shall go distracted.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, soon
went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, her
mother followed her.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My dearest child,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand
a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a special
licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But my
dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I
may have it to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations' consent,
there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much
better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her
intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was
in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his
opinion.
</p>
<p>
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Wickham, perhaps, is
my favourite; but I think I shall like <i>your</i> husband quite as well
as Jane's.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 60
</h2>
<p>
Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy
to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. &ldquo;How could you
begin?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had
once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew
that I <i>had</i> begun.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners&mdash;my
behaviour to <i>you</i> was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and
I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now
be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;For the liveliness of your mind, I did.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and
looking, and thinking for <i>your</i> approbation alone. I roused, and
interested you, because I was so unlike <i>them</i>. Had you not been
really amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains
you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just;
and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There&mdash;I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me&mdash;but nobody
thinks of <i>that</i> when they fall in love.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
ill at Netherfield?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to
exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to
find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be;
and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to
come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;But I was embarrassed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And so was I.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;A man who had felt less, might.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I
should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you <i>would</i>
have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you <i>would</i>
have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of thanking you for
your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. <i>Too much</i>, I am
afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a
breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This
will never do.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to your
eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait
for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I
was determined at once to know every thing.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? or
had you intended any more serious consequence?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;My real purpose was to see <i>you</i>, and to judge, if I could, whether
I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley, and
if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
befall her?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought
to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done
directly.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire
the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have
an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy had
been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's long
letter; but now, having <i>that</i> to communicate which she knew would be
most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had
already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
But <i>now</i> suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject
will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot
greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal
more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not
going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of
the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the
happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before,
but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only
smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can
spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours, etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply to
his last.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;DEAR SIR,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon be
the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can. But, if
I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yours sincerely, etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to
Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former
professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and
though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much
kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
</p>
<p>
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was
as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.
</p>
<p>
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations to
Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the Collinses
were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was
soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the
contents of her nephew's letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the
match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a
moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth,
though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the
pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading
and obsequious civility of her husband. He bore it, however, with
admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he
complimented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and
expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with
very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir
William was out of sight.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in too
much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good humour
encouraged, yet, whenever she <i>did</i> speak, she must be vulgar. Nor
was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely to
make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the
frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to herself,
and to those of her family with whom he might converse without
mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this
took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the
hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to the time when
they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all
the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
Chapter 61
</h2>
<p>
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she
afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed.
I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of
her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children
produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky
for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so
unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably
silly.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a
vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to <i>his</i>
easy temper, or <i>her</i> affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
</p>
<p>
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper
as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she became,
by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and
less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's society she was of
course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to
come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her
father would never consent to her going.
</p>
<p>
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she
could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no longer
mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own, it was
suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much
reluctance.
</p>
<p>
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from the
marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and
falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every thing, was
not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his
fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on
her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by
himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;MY DEAR LIZZY,
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I
am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not think
we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any place
would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak
to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
</p>
<p>
&ldquo;Yours, etc.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
As it happened that Elizabeth had <i>much</i> rather not, she endeavoured
in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice of
what might be called economy in her own private expences, she frequently
sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income as
theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants,
and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support;
and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or herself were sure
of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their
bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace
dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always
moving from place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always
spending more than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into
indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and in spite of her youth and
her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage
had given her.
</p>
<p>
Though Darcy could never receive <i>him</i> at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
</p>
<p>
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to
Elizabeth.
</p>
<p>
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was
exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other
even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the
world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an
astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking
to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which
almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry.
Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By
Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take
liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a
sister more than ten years younger than himself.
</p>
<p>
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and
as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply
to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so
very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse
was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed
on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little
further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way,
either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife
conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in
spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the
presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the
city.
</p>
<p>
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as
well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of
the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into
Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
</p>
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