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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>
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            </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">
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            </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>
            <p>
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            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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>
            <p>
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            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
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            </p>
            <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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            </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>
            <p>
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            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </div>
            <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>
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            <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>
            <p>
            <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
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            </p>
            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
            <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </p>
            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
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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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            </p>
            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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>
            <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>
            <p>
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            </p>
            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            </p>
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            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </div>
            <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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            <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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            </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>
            <p>
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            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            </div>
            <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>
            <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>
            <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>
            <p>
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            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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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            </div>
            <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>
            <p>
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            <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>
            <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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041">
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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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043">
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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>
            <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045">
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            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </p>
            <div style="height: 4em;">
            <br /><br /><br /><br />
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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>
            <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </p>
            <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>
            <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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">
            <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
            </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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            <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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            </p>
            <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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