Pride and Prejudice

By Jane Austen

Chapter 1

      It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
      possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

      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 as the rightful property of some one or other of their
      daughters.

      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you
      heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

      Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

      “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and
      she told me all about it.”

      Mr. Bennet made no answer.

      “Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife
      impatiently.

      “_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

      This was invitation enough.

      “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.”

      “What is his name?”

      “Bingley.”

      “Is he married or single?”

      “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!”

      “How so? how can it affect them?”

      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so
      tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of
      them.”

      “Is that his design in settling here?”

      “Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely
      that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
      must visit him as soon as he comes.”

      “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 might like you
      the best of the party.”

      “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ 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.”

      “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

      “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he
      comes into the neighbourhood.”

      “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”

      “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 _us_ to visit him, if you do not.”

      “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.”

      “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 _her_ the preference.”

      “They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;
      “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has
      something more of quickness than her sisters.”

      “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?
      You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor
      nerves.”

      “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 twenty years at least.”

      “Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

      “But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men
      of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”

      “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you
      will not visit them.”

      “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will
      visit them all.”

      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. _Her_ 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.




Chapter 2

      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,

      “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”

      “We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her
      mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”

      “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him
      at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.”

      “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.”

      “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that
      you do not depend on her serving you.”

      Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain
      herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

      “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little
      compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

      “Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she
      times them ill.”

      “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.
      “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”

      “To-morrow fortnight.”

      “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “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.”

      “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and
      introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.”

      “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
      with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”

      “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 _we_ 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.”

      The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
      “Nonsense, nonsense!”

      “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.
      “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that
      is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you
      _there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep
      reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”

      Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

      “While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return
      to Mr. Bingley.”

      “I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.

      “I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so
      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.”

      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.

      “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.”

      “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.
      Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the
      raptures of his wife.

      “What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the
      door was shut. “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
      acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do
      anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare
      say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”

      “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
      youngest, I’m the tallest.”

      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.




Chapter 3

      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; 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.

      “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
      Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the
      others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”

      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.

      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 had brought only six with him from
      London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered
      the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether; Mr.
      Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another
      young man.

      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.

      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.

      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 overhear a
      conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance
      for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.

      “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
      standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
      better dance.”

      “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.”

      “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley,
      “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.”

      “_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said
      Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

      “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.”

      “Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at
      Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
      said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and 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.”

      Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and
      Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She
      told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for
      she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in
      anything ridiculous.

      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
      to be never 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 all his wife’s views on the stranger would be
      disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story
      to hear.

      “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “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 _that_,
      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 enquired 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
      _Boulanger_—”

      “If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband
      impatiently, “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!”

      “Oh! my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “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—”

      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.

      “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much
      by not suiting _his_ 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.”




Chapter 4

      When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been
      cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her
      sister how very much she admired him.

      “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
      good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so
      much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

      “He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man
      ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is
      thereby complete.”

      “I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second
      time. I did not expect such a compliment.”

      “Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference
      between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_
      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.”

      “Dear Lizzy!”

      “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 my life.”

      “I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always
      speak what I think.”

      “I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With
      _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and
      nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough;—one
      meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or
      design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it
      still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.
      And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners
      are not equal to his.”

      “Certainly not; 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.”

      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 judgment 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
      being agreeable where 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.

      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.

      His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own;
      but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley
      was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, 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, was pleased with the
      situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
      said in its praise, and took it immediately.

      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 judgment 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 offence.

      The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
      sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with
      pleasanter 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.

      Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they
      admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
      and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
      was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
      authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose.




Chapter 5

      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, 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.

      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.

      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.

      “_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with
      civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first
      choice.”

      “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”

      “Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.
      To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather
      believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know
      what—something about Mr. Robinson.”

      “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 _which_ 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.’”

      “Upon my word! Well, that was very decided indeed—that does seem
      as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”

      “_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,”
      said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as
      his friend, is he?—Poor Eliza!—to be only just _tolerable_.”

      “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.”

      “Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said
      Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”

      “Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and
      he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very
      angry at being spoke to.”

      “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much
      unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is
      remarkably agreeable.”

      “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.”

      “I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas,
      “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”

      “Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with
      _him_, if I were you.”

      “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with
      him.”

      “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ 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 _right_ to be proud.”

      “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily
      forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”

      “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of
      her reflections, “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.”

      “If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came
      with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would
      keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.”

      “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said
      Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away
      your bottle directly.”

      The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare
      that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.




Chapter 6

      The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The
      visit was 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 _them_ 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 _did_ admire
      her; and to _her_ 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.

      “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “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 _begin_ freely—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 woman had better show _more_ 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.”

      “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.”

      “Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you
      do.”

      “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to
      conceal it, he must find it out.”

      “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 leisure for falling in love as
      much as she chooses.”

      “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “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
      in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make
      her understand his character.”

      “Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she
      might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but
      you must remember that four evenings have been also spent
      together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”

      “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.”

      “Well,” said Charlotte, “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.”

      “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.”

      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 had hardly 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.

      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.

      “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening
      to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”

      “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”

      “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.”

      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,

      “Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
      well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a
      ball at Meryton?”

      “With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady
      energetic.”

      “You are severe on us.”

      “It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am
      going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

      “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—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.” On
      Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it
      must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “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.”

      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.

      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.

      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 own thoughts to perceive that Sir
      William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.

      “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 societies.”

      “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
      amongst the less polished societies of the world.—Every savage
      can dance.”

      Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
      continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I
      doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr.
      Darcy.”

      “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

      “Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the
      sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”

      “Never, sir.”

      “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

      “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid
      it.”

      “You have a house in town, I conclude?”

      Mr. Darcy bowed.

      “I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself—for I am
      fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that
      the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”

      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 notion of doing a very
      gallant thing, and called out to her,

      “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you 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.” 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,

      “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.”

      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.

      “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.”

      “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.

      “He is, indeed—but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss
      Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object
      to such a partner?”

      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,

      “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

      “I should imagine not.”

      “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
      evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of
      your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet
      the noise; the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all
      these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”

      “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.”

      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,

      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all
      astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray
      when am I to wish you joy?”

      “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.”

      “Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
      absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law,
      indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with
      you.”

      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.




Chapter 7

      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.

      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.

      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.

      Their visits to Mrs. Philips 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. Philips visited them all, and this
      opened to his nieces a source 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.

      After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,
      Mr. Bennet coolly observed,

      “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.”

      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.

      “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “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.”

      “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of
      it.”

      “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”

      “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.”

      “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—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.”

      “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “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.”

      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,

      “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.”

      “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.

      “MY DEAR FRIEND,—
      “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 _tête-à-tête_ between two women
      can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the
      receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with
      the officers.—Yours ever,

      “CAROLINE BINGLEY”

      “With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell
      us of _that_.”

      “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”

      “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.

      “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems
      likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”

      “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure
      that they would not offer to send her home.”

      “Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to
      Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”

      “I had much rather go in the coach.”

      “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.
      They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?”

      “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”

      “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s
      purpose will be answered.”

      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.

      “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” 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:

      “MY DEAREST LIZZY,—
      “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 home till I am better. They insist also
      on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should
      hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and
      headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, &c.”

      “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the
      note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of
      illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it
      was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”

      “Oh! I am not at all 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.”

      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.

      “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such
      a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when
      you get there.”

      “I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”

      “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
      horses?”

      “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.”

      “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but
      every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my
      opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is
      required.”

      “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and
      Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young
      ladies set off together.

      “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we
      may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”

      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.

      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.

      Her enquiries 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
      beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness
      she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 8

      At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past
      six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries
      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 original dislike.

      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 prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
      had nothing to say to her.

      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 taste, no beauty.
      Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,

      “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.”

      “She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.
      Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering
      about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so
      untidy, so blowsy!”

      “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.”

      “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “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.”

      “_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley;
      “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your
      sister_ make such an exhibition.”

      “Certainly not.”

      “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.”

      “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”
      said Bingley.

      “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half
      whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration
      of her fine eyes.”

      “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.”
      A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.

      “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.”

      “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
      Meryton.”

      “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”

      “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed
      heartily.

      “If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried
      Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”

      “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men
      of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.

      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.

      With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired 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 asleep, and when it appeared 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.

      “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather
      singular.”

      “Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a
      great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”

      “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried
      Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
      many things.”

      “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said
      Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her
      quite well.”

      Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a
      table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to
      fetch her others; all that his library afforded.

      “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.”

      Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with
      those in the room.

      “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have
      left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library
      you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”

      “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
      generations.”

      “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always
      buying books.”

      “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days
      as these.”

      “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the
      beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_
      house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”

      “I wish it may.”

      “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.”

      “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will
      sell it.”

      “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”

      “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
      Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

      Elizabeth was so much caught by 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.

      “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley;
      “will she be as tall as I am?”

      “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s
      height, or rather taller.”

      “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.”

      “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have
      patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

      “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you
      mean?”

      “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,
      and net purses. I scarcely know any one 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.”

      “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,
      “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.”

      “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

      “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in
      your idea of an accomplished woman.”

      “Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

      “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “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.”

      “All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she
      must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of
      her mind by extensive reading.”

      “I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished
      women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”

      “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility
      of all this?”

      “_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and
      taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”

      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.

      “Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed
      on her, “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.”

      “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly
      addressed, “there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies
      sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears
      affinity to cunning is despicable.”

      Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
      continue the subject.

      Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was
      worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s
      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 possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her
      sister.




Chapter 9

      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 enquiries 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
      judgment 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.

      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.

      “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “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.”

      “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister,
      I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”

      “You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold
      civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention
      while she remains with us.”

      Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

      “I am sure,” she added, “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 ever met with. I often tell
      my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room
      here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that 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.”

      “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “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.”

      “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said
      Elizabeth.

      “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards
      her.

      “Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”

      “I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily
      seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”

      “That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate
      character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”

      “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not
      run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

      “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you
      were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

      “Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have
      at least that advantage.”

      “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few
      subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in
      a very confined and unvarying society.”

      “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new
      to be observed in them for ever.”

      “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of
      mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite
      as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.”

      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.

      “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 not it, Mr. Bingley?”

      “When I am in the country,” he replied, “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.”

      “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that
      gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was
      nothing at all.”

      “Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for
      her mother. “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 town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

      “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.”

      Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep
      his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her
      eye 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 _her_ coming away.

      “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 so easy! He has always something to say to
      everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons
      who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths,
      quite mistake the matter.”

      “Did Charlotte dine with you?”

      “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; _my_ daughters are brought up
      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 _very_
      plain—but then she is our particular friend.”

      “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.

      “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—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 gentleman 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.”

      “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “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!”

      “I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said
      Darcy.

      “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.”

      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.

      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 attentions 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.

      “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 while
      she is ill.”

      Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—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
      _your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one
      also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he
      does not.”

      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 _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms
      on _fine eyes_.




Chapter 10

      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.

      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 unison with her
      opinion of each.

      “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”

      He made no answer.

      “You write uncommonly fast.”

      “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

      “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!”

      “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to
      yours.”

      “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

      “I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

      “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I
      mend pens remarkably well.”

      “Thank you—but I always mend my own.”

      “How can you contrive to write so even?”

      He was silent.

      “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.”

      “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
      again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”

      “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?”

      “They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not
      for me to determine.”

      “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter
      with ease, cannot write ill.”

      “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
      brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too
      much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

      “My style of writing is very different from yours.”

      “Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless
      way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the
      rest.”

      “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by
      which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my
      correspondents.”

      “Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm
      reproof.”

      “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
      humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes
      an indirect boast.”

      “And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of
      modesty?”

      “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 much prized 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 on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in
      five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of
      compliment to yourself—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 any one else?”

      “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all
      the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon
      my honour, I believed 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.”

      “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—and, at another word, might stay a month.”

      “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr.
      Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown
      him off now much more than he did himself.”

      “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “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
      the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat
      denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

      “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original
      intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”

      “Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must
      speak for himself.”

      “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.”

      “To yield readily—easily—to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no
      merit with you.”

      “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the
      understanding of either.”

      “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?”

      “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?”

      “By all means,” cried Bingley; “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.”

      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.

      “I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an
      argument, and want to silence this.”

      “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.”

      “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and
      Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”

      Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

      When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and
      Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
      with 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.

      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 a something about her 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.

      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—

      “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such
      an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

      She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with
      some surprise at her silence.

      “Oh!” said she, “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—and now despise me if you dare.”

      “Indeed I do not dare.”

      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.

      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.

      She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by
      talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in
      such an alliance.

      “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the
      shrubbery the next day, “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 the 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.”

      “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”

      “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips 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 attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to
      those beautiful eyes?”

      “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but
      their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine,
      might be copied.”

      At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
      Elizabeth herself.

      “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in
      some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

      “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away
      without telling us that you were coming out.”

      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,—

      “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go
      into the avenue.”

      But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with
      them, laughingly answered,

      “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.”

      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.




Chapter 11

      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.

      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 “very glad;” 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.

      When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
      card-table—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.

      Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching
      Mr. Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own;
      and she was perpetually either making some enquiry, 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, “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.”

      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:

      “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.”

      “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
      chooses, before it begins—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.”

      “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “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.”

      “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would
      not be near so much like a ball.”

      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:

      “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.”

      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. “What
      could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
      meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
      him?

      “Not at all,” was her answer; “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.”

      Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy
      in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation
      of his two motives.

      “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,
      as soon as she allowed him to speak. “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.”

      “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
      abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

      “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said
      Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease
      him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to
      be done.”

      “But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy
      has not yet taught me _that_. 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.”

      “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
      uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it
      would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I
      dearly love a laugh.”

      “Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
      The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their
      actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object
      in life is a joke.”

      “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope
      I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and
      good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_
      divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,
      I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

      “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.”

      “Such as vanity and pride.”

      “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a
      real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good
      regulation.”

      Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

      “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss
      Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”

      “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He
      owns it himself without disguise.”

      “No,” said Darcy, “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—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.”

      “_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable
      resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your
      fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”

      “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
      particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best
      education can overcome.”

      “And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”

      “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to
      misunderstand them.”

      “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
      conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not
      mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”

      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.




Chapter 12

      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—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.

      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.

      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—that she was not enough recovered; but
      Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

      To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at
      Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and
      Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to
      himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
      sign of admiration should _now_ 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.

      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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 13

      “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
      breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner
      to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family
      party.”

      “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am
      sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope
      _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often
      sees such at home.”

      “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”

      Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “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—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a
      bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I
      must speak to Hill this moment.”

      “It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom
      I never saw in the whole course of my life.”

      This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of
      being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at
      once.

      After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus
      explained:

      “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.”

      “Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “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.”

      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.

      “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “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.”

      “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?”

      “Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on
      that head, as you will hear.”

      “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15_th October_.

      “Dear Sir,—
      “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.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—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—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.—I remain, dear
      sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your
      well-wisher and friend,

      “WILLIAM COLLINS”

      “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making
      gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “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.”

      “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.”

      “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can
      mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is
      certainly to his credit.”

      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.

      “He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
      out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can
      he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot
      suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man,
      sir?”

      “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.”

      “In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
      defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly
      new, yet I think it is well expressed.”

      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.

      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.

      “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.”

      “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”

      “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 _you_, 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.”

      “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—”

      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.




Chapter 14

      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 “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour
      in a person of rank—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 _he_ 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—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”

      “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,
      “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?”

      “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by
      a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”

      “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”

      “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
      extensive property.”

      “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off
      than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she
      handsome?”

      “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.”

      “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the
      ladies at court.”

      “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.”

      “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “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?”

      “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.”

      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.

      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:

      “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.”

      Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but
      Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:

      “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.”

      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.




Chapter 15

      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.

      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—of
      atonement—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.

      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 _she_ was
      his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an
      alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ 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.
      “As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to
      say—she could not positively answer—but she did not _know_ of any
      prepossession; her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention—she
      felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon
      engaged.”

      Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was
      soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.
      Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded
      her of course.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquire, 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—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 enquire 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—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.

      In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have
      noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

      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.

      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 enquiries 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 ——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 “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” 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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 16

      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.

      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—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.

      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 ——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 _they_ were
      superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing
      port wine, who followed them into the room.

      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.

      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.

      “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be
      glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs.
      Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for
      his reason.

      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—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 enquired how
      far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her
      answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been
      staying there.

      “About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the
      subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in
      Derbyshire, I understand.”

      “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “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.”

      Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

      “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?”

      “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I
      have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him
      very disagreeable.”

      “I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “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 _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion
      of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not
      express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your
      own family.”

      “Upon my word, I say no more _here_ 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.”

      “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
      interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated
      beyond their deserts; but with _him_ 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.”

      “I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
      ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.

      “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,
      “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”

      “I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away
      when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the
      ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

      “Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
      _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, 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 _him_ 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.”

      Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
      listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
      further enquiry.

      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.

      “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he
      added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——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 _must_ have employment and society. A
      military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances
      have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my
      profession—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.”

      “Indeed!”

      “Yes—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.”

      “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How
      could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal
      redress?”

      “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—or to
      treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert
      that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
      imprudence—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 _of_ him, and _to_ 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.”

      “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

      “Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_.
      Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”

      Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
      handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

      “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?
      What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

      “A thorough, determined dislike of me—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—the sort of preference which was
      often given me.”

      “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—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.”

      After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
      remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the
      implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving
      temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”

      “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_
      can hardly be just to him.”

      Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,
      “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite
      of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like
      _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being
      amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had
      probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,
      as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

      “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. _My_ father began life in the profession which
      your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—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 _him_, as of his
      affection to myself.”

      “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “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—for dishonesty I must call it.”

      “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “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.”

      “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

      “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 _filial_ pride—for he is
      very proud of what his father was—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 _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_
      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.”

      “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”

      He shook his head. “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—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.”

      After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth
      could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:

      “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?”

      “Not at all.”

      “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know
      what Mr. Darcy is.”

      “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—allowing something for fortune and figure.”

      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 enquiries 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.

      “I know very well, madam,” said he, “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.”

      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.

      “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “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.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      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.

      “Mr. Collins,” said she, “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.”

      “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “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 of her nephew, who chooses that
      everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the
      first class.”

      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.




Chapter 17

      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.

      “They have both,” said she, “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.”

      “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 _them_ too, or we shall be
      obliged to think ill of somebody.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what
      to think.”

      “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”

      But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr.
      Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer
      when the affair became public.

      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.

      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.

      “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is
      enough—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.”

      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.

      “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “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.”

      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
      _she_ 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 _her_.
      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.

      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—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.




Chapter 18

      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, “I do not imagine his business
      would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to
      avoid a certain gentleman here.”

      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 enquiries
      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.

      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.

      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:

      “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”

      “Heaven forbid! _That_ 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.”

      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:—“It is _your_ turn to say
      something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_
      ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the
      number of couples.”

      He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say
      should be said.

      “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 _now_ we may be silent.”

      “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”

      “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 _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as
      that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

      “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do
      you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”

      “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “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 _éclat_ of a proverb.”

      “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am
      sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend
      to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”

      “I must not decide on my own performance.”

      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, “When you met us there
      the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

      The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ 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, “Mr. Wickham is
      blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_
      friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is
      less certain.”

      “He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied
      Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to
      suffer from all his life.”

      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.

      “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:—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.”

      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, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we
      were talking of.”

      “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.”

      “What think you of books?” said he, smiling.

      “Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the
      same feelings.”

      “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.”

      “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full
      of something else.”

      “The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said
      he, with a look of doubt.

      “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for
      her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
      afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “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 _being created?_”

      “I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

      “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

      “I hope not.”

      “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their
      opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”

      “May I ask to what these questions tend?”

      “Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she,
      endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it
      out.”

      “And what is your success?”

      She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such
      different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

      “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “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.”

      “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
      opportunity.”

      “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” 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.

      They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her,
      and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:

      “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.”

      “His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the
      same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him
      of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,
      and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”

      “I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a
      sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”

      “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “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.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had
      undertaken to make enquiries 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.

      “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling
      than her sister’s, “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.”

      “No,” replied Jane, “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.”

      “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”

      “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”

      “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
      satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”

      “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 _conditionally_ only.”

      “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth
      warmly; “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.”

      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
      enquiry 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.

      “I have found out,” said he, “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.”

      “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”

      “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it
      earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will
      be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well
      yesterday se’nnight.”

      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:

      “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—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.” 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 “apology,”
      “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” 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.

      “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “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.”

      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.

      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.

      “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 _he_ may not like to hear.”

      “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!”

      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.

      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,
      “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long
      enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”

      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.

      “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “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.” 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—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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.

      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.

      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 _her_, the worth of each was
      eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.




Chapter 19

      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:

      “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?”

      Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise,
      Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am
      sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no
      objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her
      work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:

      “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.”

      “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”
      And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed
      looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your
      staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”

      Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—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.

      “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 _not_ 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—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with
      the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

      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:

      “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—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—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 _my_ sake; and for your _own_,
      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—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.”

      It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

      “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “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.”

      “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave
      of the hand, “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.”

      “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “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 _me_ 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.”

      “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr.
      Collins very gravely—“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.”

      “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.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have
      quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:

      “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.”

      “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “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.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
      gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the
      express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals
      will not fail of being acceptable.”

      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.




Chapter 20

      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.

      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.

      “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “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 _make_ her know it.”

      “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “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.”

      “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.
      “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.”

      She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to
      her husband, called out as she entered the library, “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 _her_.”

      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.

      “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she
      had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”

      “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.”

      “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless
      business.”

      “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon
      her marrying him.”

      “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”

      Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
      library.

      “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “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?” Elizabeth
      replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you
      have refused?”

      “I have, sir.”

      “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon
      your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”

      “Yes, or I will never see her again.”

      “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 _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will
      never see you again if you _do_.”

      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.

      “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised
      me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.”

      “My dear,” replied her husband, “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.”

      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.

      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.

      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, “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.”

      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. “Pray do, my dear Miss
      Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my
      side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels
      for my poor nerves.”

      Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and
      Elizabeth.

      “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “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—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—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—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.”

      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, “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.”

      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 enquiries 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: “Oh!
      Mr. Collins!”

      “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this
      point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice
      that marked his displeasure, “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
      _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to
      apologise.”




Chapter 21

      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, _his_
      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.

      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.

      After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to enquire 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 _had_ been self-imposed.

      “I found,” said he, “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.”

      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.

      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:

      “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—and without any intention of coming
      back again. You shall hear what she says.”

      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:
      “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.” 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.

      “It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “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.”

      “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
      Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”

      “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—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.”

      “It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more
      this winter.”

      “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he
      _should_.”

      “Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
      master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage
      which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”

      “Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the
      truth, _we_ 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?”

      “What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane
      as she finished it. “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?”

      “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear
      it?”

      “Most willingly.”

      “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.”

      Jane shook her head.

      “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
      _one_ 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 _your_ 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.”

      “If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “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.”

      “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.”

      “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?”

      “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “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.”

      “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know
      that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their
      disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”

      “I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot
      consider your situation with much compassion.”

      “But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
      required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”

      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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 22

      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.
      “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged
      to you than I can express.” 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.

      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.

      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 _coming out_ 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.

      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.

      “My dear madam,” he replied, “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.”

      They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means
      wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:

      “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.”

      “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “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.”

      “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 _we_ shall
      take no offence.”

      “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.”

      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.

      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:

      “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”

      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:

      “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?”

      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.

      “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be
      surprised, very much surprised—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.”

      Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” 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.




Chapter 23

      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—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:

      “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not
      you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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!

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—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.

      As for Jane, _her_ 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.

      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.

      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.

      “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “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 _her_, and live to see her take
      her place in it!”

      “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.”

      This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore,
      instead of making any answer, she went on as before.

      “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If
      it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”

      “What should not you mind?”

      “I should not mind anything at all.”

      “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
      insensibility.”

      “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 _he_ have it more than
      anybody else?”

      “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.




Chapter 24

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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:

      “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.”

      Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but
      said nothing.

      “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “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
      _that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to
      get the better.”

      With a stronger voice she soon added, “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.”

      “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “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.”

      Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw
      back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.

      “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all
      the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.
      _I_ only want to think _you_ 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!”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”
      replied Jane; “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 _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you,
      but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that
      person_ 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.”

      “And men take care that they should.”

      “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.”

      “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to
      design,” said Elizabeth; “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.”

      “And do you impute it to either of those?”

      “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.”

      “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”

      “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied
      Jane; “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—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.”

      Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr.
      Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

      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.

      Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he
      one day, “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 your man. He is a
      pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

      “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We
      must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

      “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “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.”

      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.

      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—but
      by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.




Chapter 25

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “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.”

      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.

      When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the
      subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for
      Jane,” said she. “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.”

      “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it
      will not do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. 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.”

      “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 _violent
      was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?”

      “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?”

      “Oh, yes!—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
      _you_, 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—and perhaps a little relief
      from home may be as useful as anything.”

      Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt
      persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.

      “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “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.”

      “And _that_ 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 _heard_ 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.”

      “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does
      not Jane correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to
      help calling.”

      “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”

      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.

      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.

      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—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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 26

      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:

      “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 _him_; 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 _your_ resolution and
      good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”

      “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”

      “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”

      “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.”

      “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”

      “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—and if he becomes
      really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should
      not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ 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.”

      “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so
      very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of
      inviting him.”

      “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:
      “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. 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.”

      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.

      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 “_wished_
      they might be happy.” 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:

      “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”

      “_That_ you certainly shall.”

      “And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”

      “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”

      “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,
      therefore, to come to Hunsford.”

      Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in
      the visit.

      “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte,
      “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza,
      you will be as welcome as either of them.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of
      the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in
      Grosvenor Street.”

      She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss
      Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,
      “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 enquired 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.”

      Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
      accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in
      town.

      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.

      “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 _we_ 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—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.—Yours, etc.”

      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.

      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 _she_ 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.

      All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating
      the circumstances, she thus went on: “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 _him_; 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.”




Chapter 27

      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.

      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.

      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—their opinion of everybody—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.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquiries, 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.

      Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and
      complimented her on bearing it so well.

      “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss
      King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”

      “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.”

      “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall
      know what to think.”

      “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of
      her.”

      “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her
      grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.”

      “No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
      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?”

      “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions
      towards her so soon after this event.”

      “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those
      elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does
      not object to it, why should _we_?”

      “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her
      being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.”

      “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
      mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”

      “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry,
      you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in
      Derbyshire.”

      “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.”

      “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of
      disappointment.”

      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.

      “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.
      Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”

      No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
      acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my
      dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “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 _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
      being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know
      where we have gone—we _will_ 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
      _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the
      generality of travellers.”




Chapter 28

      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.

      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.

      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 enquiries 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.

      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.

      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.

      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:

      “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 _should_ say,
      one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”

      “Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,”
      added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”

      “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort
      of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”

      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.

      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—

      “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.”

      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.

      “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the
      pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady
      Catherine and her daughter.”

      “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “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?”

      “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all
      this wind. Why does she not come in?”

      “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of
      favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”

      “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.
      “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well.
      She will make him a very proper wife.”

      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.

      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.




Chapter 29

      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.

      “I confess,” said he, “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!”

      “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir
      William, “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.”

      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.

      When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
      Elizabeth—

      “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—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.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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—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.

      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 enquired 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,

      “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For
      your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “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?”

      “A little.”

      “Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
      instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try
      it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”

      “One of them does.”

      “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?”

      “No, not at all.”

      “What, none of you?”

      “Not one.”

      “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.”

      “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates
      London.”

      “Has your governess left you?”

      “We never had any governess.”

      “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.”

      Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had
      not been the case.

      “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess,
      you must have been neglected.”

      “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.”

      “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?”

      “Yes, ma’am, all.”

      “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?”

      “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ 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 _such_ a motive! I think it would not be very likely to
      promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”

      “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very
      decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

      “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth,
      smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”

      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.

      “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need
      not conceal your age.”

      “I am not one-and-twenty.”

      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—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.

      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.




Chapter 30

      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.

      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.

      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.

      Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
      the 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.

      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.

      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.

      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 ——, 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:

      “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy
      would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”

      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—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.

      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 enquire of Elizabeth after the
      health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and
      after a moment’s pause, added:

      “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you
      never happened to see her there?”

      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.




Chapter 31

      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—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.

      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.

      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. _His_ 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:

      “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.”

      “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able
      to avoid a reply.

      “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?”

      Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s
      proficiency.

      “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
      Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to
      excel if she does not practice a good deal.”

      “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such
      advice. She practises very constantly.”

      “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.”

      Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and
      made no answer.

      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:

      “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state
      to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ 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.”

      “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “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.”

      Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said
      to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “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—and, give me leave to say, very
      impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
      things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”

      “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.

      “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
      Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among
      strangers.”

      “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very
      dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,
      you must know, was at a ball—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.”

      “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the
      assembly beyond my own party.”

      “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well,
      Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your
      orders.”

      “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought
      an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to
      strangers.”

      “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth,
      still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “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?”

      “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying
      to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

      “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said
      Darcy, “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.”

      “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “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—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is
      not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other
      woman’s of superior execution.”

      Darcy smiled and said, “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.”

      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:

      “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.”

      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 _her_,
      had she been his relation.

      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.




Chapter 32

      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.

      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.

      They then sat down, and when her enquiries 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 _when_ 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:

      “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?”

      “Perfectly so, I thank you.”

      She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a
      short pause added:

      “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of
      ever returning to Netherfield again?”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it
      up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

      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.

      He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very
      comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to
      it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”

      “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
      kindness on a more grateful object.”

      “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a
      wife.”

      “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—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.”

      “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
      distance of her own family and friends.”

      “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”

      “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a
      day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”

      “I should never have considered the distance as one of the
      _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have
      said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.”

      “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything
      beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would
      appear far.”

      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:

      “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 _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a
      comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent
      journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself
      _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.”

      Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_
      cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_
      cannot have been always at Longbourn.”

      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:

      “Are you pleased with Kent?”

      A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either
      side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of
      Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The
      _tête-à-tête_ 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.

      “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he
      was gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he
      would never have called on us in this familiar way.”

      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.

      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—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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 33

      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
      enquiries 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—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 _there_ 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.

      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:

      “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”

      “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I
      generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at
      the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

      “No, I should have turned in a moment.”

      And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the
      Parsonage together.

      “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.

      “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
      disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”

      “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.”

      “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel
      Fitzwilliam. “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.”

      “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?”

      “These are home questions—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.”

      “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very
      often do.”

      “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.”

      “Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at
      the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “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.”

      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:

      “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.”

      “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he
      must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of
      Miss Darcy.”

      “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.”

      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:

      “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.”

      “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike
      man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”

      “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to
      Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

      “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ 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.”

      “What is it you mean?”

      “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.”

      “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

      “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.”

      “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”

      “I understood that there were some very strong objections against
      the lady.”

      “And what arts did he use to separate them?”

      “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam,
      smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”

      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.

      “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
      cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the
      judge?”

      “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

      “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,” she continued, recollecting herself, “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.”

      “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is
      a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”

      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 _two_ 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, _he_ 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.

      “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” 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.

      “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility
      of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—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.” When she thought of her mother, her
      confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any
      objections _there_ 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.

      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.




Chapter 34

      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—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.

      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.

      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 enquire
      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 enquiry 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:

      “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.”

      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—of its being a degradation—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.

      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 _spoke_ 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:

      “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 _feel_ gratitude, I would now
      thank you. But I cannot—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.”

      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:

      “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 _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of
      small importance.”

      “I might as well enquire,” replied she, “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 _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I
      have. Had not my feelings decided against you—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?”

      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:

      “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive
      can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You
      dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if
      not the only means of dividing them from each other—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.”

      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.

      “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

      With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “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 _him_
      I have been kinder than towards myself.”

      Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil
      reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to
      conciliate her.

      “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “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?”

      “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said
      Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

      “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling
      an interest in him?”

      “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his
      misfortunes have been great indeed.”

      “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have
      reduced him to his present state of poverty—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.”

      “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the
      room, “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,”
      added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “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?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations,
      whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

      Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she
      tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:

      “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.”

      She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she
      continued:

      “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible
      way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

      Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
      expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

      “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost
      say—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.”

      “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.”

      And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth
      heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

      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—was almost
      incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
      strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his
      shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—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.




Chapter 35

      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.

      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, “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?” And then, with a slight bow,
      turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

      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:—

      “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.

      “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.

      “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 _you_ have not been mistaken
      here, _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—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 required 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.

      “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—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.

      “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
      _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what
      I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted
      veracity.

      “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—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—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—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—it adds even another motive.

      “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—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—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—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—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.

      “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.

      “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.

      “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 _me_ should make _my_
      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.

      “FITZWILLIAM DARCY”




Chapter 36

      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.

      But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.
      Wickham—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—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, “This must be false! This cannot be! This
      must be the grossest falsehood!”—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.

      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—deliberated on the probability of each statement—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.

      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 ——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
      enquiring. 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—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.

      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 _now_ 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—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
      _he_ 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.

      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—an acquaintance which had
      latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
      intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be
      unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or
      immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed
      and valued—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 some 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.

      She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor
      Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind,
      partial, prejudiced, absurd.

      “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “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.”

      From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a
      line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s
      explanation _there_ 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.

      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.

      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.

      After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
      variety of thought—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.

      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—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 _affect_ concern in missing him; she
      really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an
      object; she could think only of her letter.




Chapter 37

      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.

      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. “What would she
      have said? how would she have behaved?” were questions with which
      she amused herself.

      Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I
      assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “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.”

      Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here,
      which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

      Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed
      out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by
      supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she
      added:

      “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.”

      “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,”
      replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I
      must be in town next Saturday.”

      “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.”

      “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”

      “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 _month_ 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—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.”

      “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
      original plan.”

      Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “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 _you_ to let them go alone.”

      “My uncle is to send a servant for us.”

      “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.”

      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.

      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.

      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!

      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.

      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 enquired 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.

      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.




Chapter 38

      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.

      “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “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.”

      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 _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and
      with a more smiling solemnity replied:

      “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.”

      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.

      “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—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.”

      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.

      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.

      “But,” he added, “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.”

      Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be
      shut, and the carriage drove off.

      “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it
      seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many
      things have happened!”

      “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.

      “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
      twice! How much I shall have to tell!”

      Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to
      conceal!”

      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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 39

      It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies
      set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, 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.

      After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a
      table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually
      affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable
      surprise?”

      “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend
      us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.”
      Then, showing her purchases—“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.”

      And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
      unconcern, “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
      ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”

      “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest
      satisfaction.

      “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!”

      “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ 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!”

      “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down
      at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital
      news—and about a certain person we all like!”

      Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told
      he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

      “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.”

      “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
      imprudent as to fortune.”

      “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”

      “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said
      Jane.

      “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never
      cared three straws about her—who _could_ about such a nasty
      little freckled thing?”

      Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
      coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
      _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured
      and fancied liberal!

      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.

      “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “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_ 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 _such_ 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 _that_ made the men suspect something, and
      then they soon found out what was the matter.”

      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.

      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:

      “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

      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 enquiring 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.

      “Oh! Mary,” said she, “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!”

      To this Mary very gravely replied, “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 _me_—I should infinitely prefer a book.”

      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.

      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 _her_ of
      the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression.
      In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there
      could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

      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.




Chapter 40

      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.

      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.

      “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and
      certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it
      must increase his disappointment!”

      “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “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?”

      “Blame you! Oh, no.”

      “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

      “No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

      “But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very
      next day.”

      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.

      “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “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.”

      It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from
      Jane.

      “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “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.”

      “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.”

      “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
      countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”

      “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.”

      “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it
      as you used to do.”

      “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.”

      “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not
      treat the matter as you do now.”

      “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!”

      “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong
      expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they
      _do_ appear wholly undeserved.”

      “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.”

      Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can
      be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your
      opinion?”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      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. “And then,” said she, “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!”

      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.

      “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion
      _now_ 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—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 enquired of
      everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

      “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

      “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.”

      But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such
      expectation, she made no answer.

      “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “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
      _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.”

      “No, nothing at all.”

      “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.
      _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ 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.”

      “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

      “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.”




Chapter 41

      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.

      “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would
      they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be
      smiling so, Lizzy?”

      Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered
      what she had herself endured on a similar occasion,
      five-and-twenty years ago.

      “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when
      Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have
      broken my heart.”

      “I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.

      “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.

      “Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
      disagreeable.”

      “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”

      “And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of
      good,” added Kitty.

      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.

      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 _three_
      months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

      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 repining at her fate in terms as
      unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

      “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as
      Lydia,” said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I
      have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for
      I am two years older.”

      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:

      “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.”

      “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great
      disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of
      Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already
      arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the
      affair.”

      “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “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.”

      “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?”

      Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
      affectionately taking her hand said in reply:

      “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—or I may say, three—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.”

      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.

      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—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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he
      dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
      was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
      his making some enquiry 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.

      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:

      “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”

      “Nearly three weeks.”

      “And you saw him frequently?”

      “Yes, almost every day.”

      “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”

      “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon
      acquaintance.”

      “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her.
      “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a
      gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to
      add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not
      hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is
      improved in essentials.”

      “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very
      much what he ever was.”

      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:

      “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.”

      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:

      “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 _appearance_ 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.”

      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 _appearance_, 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.

      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—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.




Chapter 42

      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.

      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.

      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 looked forward 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—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.

      “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “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.”

      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—for her letters to Kitty,
      though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words
      to be made public.

      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.

      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.

      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—and certainly her
      temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.

      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. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his
      county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without
      his perceiving me.”

      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—teaching them,
      playing with them, and loving them.

      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—that of suitableness of companions; a
      suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
      inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and
      affection and intelligence, which might supply it among
      themselves if there were disappointments abroad.

      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.

      “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have
      heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many
      of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth
      there, you know.”

      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.

      Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine
      house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it
      myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the
      finest woods in the country.”

      Elizabeth said no more—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 enquiries to the absence of the family were
      unfavourably answered.

      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—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.




Chapter 43

      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.

      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.

      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!

      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.

      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.

      “And of this place,” thought she, “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,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my
      uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been
      allowed to invite them.”

      This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very
      like regret.

      She longed to enquire 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, “But we
      expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How
      rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any
      circumstance been delayed a day!

      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. “He
      is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has
      turned out very wild.”

      Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth
      could not return it.

      “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
      miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the
      same time as the other—about eight years ago.”

      “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs.
      Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But,
      Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”

      Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
      intimation of her knowing her master.

      “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

      Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”

      “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”

      “Yes, very handsome.”

      “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.”

      This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.

      Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,
      drawn when she was only eight years old.

      “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs.
      Gardiner.

      “Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
      accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room
      is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my
      master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”

      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.

      “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”

      “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.”

      “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”

      “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”

      “Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know
      who is good enough for him.”

      Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
      “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think
      so.”

      “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows
      him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty
      far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the
      housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in
      my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

      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:

      “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are
      lucky in having such a master.”

      “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.”

      Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought
      she.

      “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

      “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like
      him—just as affable to the poor.”

      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.

      “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “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.”

      “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought
      Elizabeth.

      “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked,
      “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”

      “Perhaps we might be deceived.”

      “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”

      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.

      “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked
      towards one of the windows.

      Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should
      enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added.
      “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in
      a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”

      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.

      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—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.

      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!—how much of pleasure or pain
      was it in his power to bestow!—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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquiries 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 enquiries as to the time of her having left
      Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so
      hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.

      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.

      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—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—what could it mean? That he
      should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such
      civility, to enquire 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.

      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—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 _that_ 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.

      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.

      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 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 “delightful,” and “charming,” 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.

      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.
      “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they
      are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”

      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 _surprised_ 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.

      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, “Why is he so altered? From what
      can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ 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.”

      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—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “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.” 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. “They will join me early to-morrow,”
      he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an
      acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”

      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, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.

      “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after
      a pause, “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?”

      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.

      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.

      He then asked her to walk into the house—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—and her patience and her ideas
      were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ 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.

      The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of
      them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they
      had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and
      unassuming,” said her uncle.

      “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,”
      replied her aunt, “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.”

      “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.”

      “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “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?”

      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.

      “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”
      replied her uncle. “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.”

      Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his
      character, but said nothing.

      “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “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 _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”

      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.

      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 an intercourse renewed after many
      years’ discontinuance.

      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.




Chapter 44

      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.

      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 enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made
      everything worse.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquired in a friendly,
      though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
      the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

      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 enquiry; and they soon drew from those enquiries 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.

      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.

      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 “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing
      her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight
      months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were
      all dancing together at Netherfield.”

      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 _all_ 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.

      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 _hauteur_ 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—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—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.

      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 _she_, 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.

      Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing
      Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and
      many enquiries 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 enquiries 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.

      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
      enquiry.

      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.

      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.

      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 _one_ 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—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.

      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.

      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.




Chapter 45

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquiry
      after the health of her family. She answered with equal
      indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

      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—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.

      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.

      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:

      “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from
      Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”
      she cried; “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.”

      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.

      “For my own part,” she rejoined, “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—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.”

      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:

      “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, ‘_She_ a beauty!—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.”

      “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but
      _that_ 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.”

      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.

      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—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.




Chapter 46

      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.

      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:

      “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
      of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of
      alarming you—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.”

      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.

      “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 enquiry 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—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 _he_ 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.”

      “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” 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, “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.”

      “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
      politeness; then recollecting himself, “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.”

      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.

      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, “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.”

      “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.
      “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.”

      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. “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—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.
      Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him
      too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
      nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”

      Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in
      a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_
      who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it
      only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his
      character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
      all—all too late now.”

      “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it
      certain—absolutely certain?”

      “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.”

      “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
      her?”

      “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—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!”

      Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

      “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known
      what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of
      doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

      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 _must_
      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.

      But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
      Lydia—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, “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.”

      “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.”

      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.

      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.

      If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
      Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor
      faulty. But if otherwise—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—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.

      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—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!

      She was wild to be at home—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.— 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. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried
      Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
      us; was it so?”

      “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our
      engagement. _That_ is all settled.”

      “That is all settled;” repeated the other, as she ran into her
      room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to
      disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

      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.




Chapter 47

      “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,
      as they drove from the town; “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!”

      “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a
      moment.

      “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “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?”

      “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?”

      “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute
      proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”

      “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.”

      “Well, then—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.”

      “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
      their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—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—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 _he_ would do as little, and think as little
      about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”

      “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?”

      “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied
      Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “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—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 ——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—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.”

      “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very
      ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”

      “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.”

      “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
      curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

      “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “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—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.”

      “But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what
      you and Jane seem so well to understand?”

      “Oh, yes!—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 ——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 _she_ could be
      in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such
      a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was
      far enough from my thoughts.”

      “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,
      I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”

      “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 _her_ 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.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I
      hope everything will be well.”

      “Is my father in town?”

      “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”

      “And have you heard from him often?”

      “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.”

      “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”

      “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.”

      “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much
      you must have gone through!”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to
      Brighton, with all my family, _this_ 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.”

      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.

      “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “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.”

      “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “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, _make_ 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—and
      have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—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.”

      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.

      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 _one_ only of the household,
      and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her
      fears and solicitude on the subject.

      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:

      “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.”

      Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
      added, “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.”

      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.

      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 many enquiries, 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, “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.”

      “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 _was_ 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.”

      “And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he
      know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny
      himself?”

      “Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, 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—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have
      been misunderstood before.”

      “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you
      entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”

      “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I
      felt a little uneasy—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.”

      “But not before they went to Brighton?”

      “No, I believe not.”

      “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself?
      Does he know his real character?”

      “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.”

      “Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of
      him, this could not have happened!”

      “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to
      expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their
      present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the
      best intentions.”

      “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to
      his wife?”

      “He brought it with him for us to see.”

      Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.
      These were the contents:

      “My dear Harriet,
      “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.

      “Your affectionate friend,
      “LYDIA BENNET.”

      “Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she
      had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a
      moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the
      subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade
      her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor
      father! how he must have felt it!”

      “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!”

      “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it
      who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps
      she _meant_ 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.”

      She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father
      had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his
      daughter.

      “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “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
      enquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house
      the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make
      enquiries 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.”




Chapter 48

      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 _that_ they
      would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only
      for the letters before he set off.

      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.

      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—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.

      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.

      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 enquire 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:

      “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.”

      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 ——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.

      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.

      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:

      “My dear Sir,
      “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—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.

      “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”

      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. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly
      unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”

      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.

      “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried.
      “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?”

      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.

      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.

      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 _that_, 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.

      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.

      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, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself?
      It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”

      “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.

      “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.”

      “Do you suppose them to be in London?”

      “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”

      “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.

      “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence
      there will probably be of some duration.”

      Then after a short silence he continued:

      “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.”

      They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her
      mother’s tea.

      “This is a parade,” he cried, “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.”

      “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If _I_
      should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”

      “_You_ 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.”

      Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to
      cry.

      “Well, well,” said he, “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.”




Chapter 49

      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, “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.”

      “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”

      “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “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.”

      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:

      “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards
      the little copse.”

      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.

      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:

      “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”

      “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”

      “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”

      “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the
      letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”

      Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.

      “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself
      what it is about.”

      “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.

      “My dear Brother,
      “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—”
          “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are
          married!”

      Elizabeth read on:

      “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.,

      “EDW. GARDINER.”

      “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it
      be possible that he will marry her?”

      “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said
      her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”

      “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.

      “No; but it must be done soon.”

      Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time
      before he wrote.

      “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write
      immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a
      case.”

      “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
      yourself.”

      “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”

      And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the
      house.

      “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must
      be complied with.”

      “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”

      “And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”

      “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.”

      “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”

      “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.”

      “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “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.”

      “No,” said her father; “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.”

      “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
      repaid?”

      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.

      “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as
      they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ 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!”

      “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “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?”

      “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”
      said Elizabeth, “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!”

      “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”
      said Jane: “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.”

      “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither
      you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of
      it.”

      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:

      “Just as you please.”

      “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”

      “Take whatever you like, and get away.”

      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.

      “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “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!”

      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.

      “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a
      great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
      pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”

      “Well,” cried her mother, “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.”

      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.

      “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “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.”

      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.

      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.




Chapter 50

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit
      it—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.”

      Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
      servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:
      “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your
      son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into
      _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have
      admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by
      receiving them at Longbourn.”

      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.

      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.

      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—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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “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 ——’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.—Yours, etc.,

      “E. GARDINER.”

      Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s
      removal from the ——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.

      “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “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 ——’s regiment.”

      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.




Chapter 51

      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 ——, 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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 enquiring 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.

      “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “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.”

      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,
      “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.”

      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, “Ah! Jane, I take
      your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married
      woman.”

      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 “Mrs. Wickham” 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.

      “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the
      breakfast room, “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.”

      “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?”

      “Oh, lord! yes;—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.”

      “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

      “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.”

      “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I
      do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
      her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

      “Lizzy, I never gave _you_ 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?”

      “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too
      little said on the subject.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.

      “Oh, yes!—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!”

      “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
      subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”

      “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
      “we will ask you no questions.”

      “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell
      you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”

      On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out
      of her power, by running away.

      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.

      “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “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—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.”

      “Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she
      finished the letter; “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.”

      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;—till it appeared whether her enquiries would receive
      any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.




Chapter 52

      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.

      “Gracechurch Street, _Sept_. 6.

      “My dear Niece,

      “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
      morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing
      will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
      surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
      Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know
      that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
      side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
      impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—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.

      “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 _yours_ 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 _had another_ 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 _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another
      reason for his resolving to follow us.

      “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 —— 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 _his_ 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.

      “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.

      “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.

      “Everything being settled between _them_, 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
      enquiry, 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.

      “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.

      “They met again on Sunday, and then _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 _this_ 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.

      “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.

      “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 _her_, 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 _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_
      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 _another interest_ in the affair.

      “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.

      “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. _He_ 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.

      “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
      _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach him. I
      thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
      slyness seems the fashion.

      “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.

      “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this
      half hour.

      “Yours, very sincerely,
      “M. GARDINER.”

      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—for a woman who had already refused him—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.

      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.

      “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”
      said he, as he joined her.

      “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not
      follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

      “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good
      friends; and now we are better.”

      “True. Are the others coming out?”

      “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.”

      She replied in the affirmative.

      “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.”

      “Yes, she did.”

      “And what did she say?”

      “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not
      turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things
      are strangely misrepresented.”

      “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
      silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:

      “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each
      other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

      “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
      Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at
      this time of year.”

      “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I
      thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

      “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”

      “And do you like her?”

      “Very much.”

      “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.”

      “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”

      “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

      “I do not recollect that we did.”

      “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have
      had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would
      have suited me in every respect.”

      “How should you have liked making sermons?”

      “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;—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?”

      “I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that
      it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the
      present patron.”

      “You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from
      the first, you may remember.”

      “I _did_ 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.”

      “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.”

      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:

      “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.”

      She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,
      though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.




Chapter 53

      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.

      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.

      “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”

      “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”

      “Write to me very often, my dear.”

      “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
      time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have
      nothing else to do.”

      Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.
      He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

      “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
      out of the house, “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.”

      The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several
      days.

      “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as
      parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

      “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a
      daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied
      that your other four are single.”

      “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.”

      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.

      “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for
      Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the
      better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,
      you know, and I am sure 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 _may_ 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?”

      “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “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.”

      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:

      “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 _should_ 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 _myself_, but
      I dread other people’s remarks.”

      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 _with_ his friend’s
      permission, or being bold enough to come without it.

      “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man
      cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
      raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”

      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.

      The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
      parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

      “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,
      “you will wait on him of course.”

      “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.”

      His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
      attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
      returning to Netherfield.

      “’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “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.”

      “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.”

      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 _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—

      “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her
      sister. “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!”

      “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;
      “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.”

      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.

      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—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with
      him, and sat down again by her sister.

      “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it
      be?”

      “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do
      not know.”

      “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be
      with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”

      “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—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.”

      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—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.

      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.

      “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be
      early enough for expectation.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      Darcy, after enquiring 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.

      “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he
      come?”

      She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;
      and to him she had hardly courage to speak.

      She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.

      “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.
      Bennet.

      He readily agreed to it.

      “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
      _did_ 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?”

      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.

      “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
      married,” continued her mother, “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 ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank
      Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he
      deserves.”

      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.

      “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her
      mother, “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.”

      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.

      “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “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!”

      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.

      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.

      “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “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.”

      Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
      something of his concern at having been prevented by business.
      They then went away.

      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.




Chapter 54

      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.

      “Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said
      she, “did he come at all?”

      She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

      “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.”

      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.

      “Now,” said she, “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.”

      “Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh,
      Jane, take care.”

      “My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
      now?”

      “I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in
      love with you as ever.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him
      up for ever.”

      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:

      “The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none
      of them; do we?”

      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!

      “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!”

      She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
      coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:

      “Is your sister at Pemberley still?”

      “Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”

      “And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”

      “Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
      Scarborough, these three weeks.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      “Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
      “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—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—and her nieces are very
      pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them
      prodigiously.”

      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.

      “It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to
      Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one
      with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”

      Elizabeth smiled.

      “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.”

      “You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me
      smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”

      “How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”

      “And how impossible in others!”

      “But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
      acknowledge?”

      “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.”




Chapter 55

      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.

      “Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”

      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.

      “Can you come to-morrow?”

      Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
      invitation was accepted with alacrity.

      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:

      “My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—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.”

      “We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say
      Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half
      an hour ago.”

      “Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be
      quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”

      But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
      go down without one of her sisters.

      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, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me
      for? What am I to do?”

      “Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat
      still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious
      occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here,
      my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane
      instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at
      such premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in
      to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and
      called out:

      “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”

      Elizabeth was forced to go.

      “We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her
      mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up
      stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 _hers_ 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.

      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.

      “’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve
      it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”

      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.

      “I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “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!”

      She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up
      the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

      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.

      “And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious
      circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance!
      the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”

      In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with
      her father had been short and to the purpose.

      “Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.

      “With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare
      say.”

      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.

      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.

      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:

      “Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”

      Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
      goodness.

      “You are a good girl;” he replied, “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.”

      “I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
      would be unpardonable in _me_.”

      “Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what
      are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and
      very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “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!”

      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.

      Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
      Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

      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.

      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.

      “He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me
      that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I
      had not believed it possible.”

      “I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account
      for it?”

      “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.”

      “That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “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.”

      “Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
      November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of
      _my_ being indifferent would have prevented his coming down
      again!”

      “He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of
      his modesty.”

      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.

      “I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!”
      cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and
      blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there
      were but such another man for you!”

      “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.”

      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.

      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.




Chapter 56

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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,

      “I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
      mother.”

      Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

      “And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”

      “Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady
      Catherine. “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.”

      “You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after
      a short silence.

      “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.”

      “This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,
      in summer; the windows are full west.”

      Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,
      and then added:

      “May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left
      Mr. and Mrs. Collins well.”

      “Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”

      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.

      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,

      “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.”

      “Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
      different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”

      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.

      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.

      “How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she
      looked in her face.

      As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
      following manner:—

      “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.”

      Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

      “Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to
      account for the honour of seeing you here.”

      “Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought
      to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere
      _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ 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 _know_ 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.”

      “If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth,
      colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the
      trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by
      it?”

      “At once to insist upon having such a report universally
      contradicted.”

      “Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said
      Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if,
      indeed, such a report is in existence.”

      “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?”

      “I never heard that it was.”

      “And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for
      it?”

      “I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
      _You_ may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.”

      “This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
      satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”

      “Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”

      “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.”

      “If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”

      “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.”

      “But you are not entitled to know _mine;_ nor will such behaviour
      as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”

      “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?”

      “Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
      he will make an offer to me.”

      Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

      “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 _his_ 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?”

      “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?”

      “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.”

      “These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “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.”

      “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.”

      “_That_ will make your ladyship’s situation at present more
      pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_.”

      “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—though
      untitled—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.”

      “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.”

      “True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother?
      Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of
      their condition.”

      “Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew
      does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”

      “Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”

      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:

      “I am not.”

      Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

      “And will you promise me, never to enter into such an
      engagement?”

      “I will make no promise of the kind.”

      “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.”

      “And I certainly _never_ 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.”

      “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, who is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his
      brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the
      shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

      “You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully
      answered. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must
      beg to return to the house.”

      And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
      turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

      “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?”

      “Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my
      sentiments.”

      “You are then resolved to have him?”

      “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 _you_, or to any person so wholly
      unconnected with me.”

      “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.”

      “Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,
      “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 _were_ excited by his
      marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the
      world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”

      “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.”

      In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
      door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “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.”

      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.

      “She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”

      “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?”

      Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
      acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.




Chapter 57

      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 _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, and
      _her_ 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.

      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 he 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 _she_ could do; and it
      was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with
      _one_, 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.

      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.

      “If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come
      to his friend within a few days,” she added, “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.”

      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.

      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.

      “Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my
      room.”

      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.

      She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
      down. He then said,

      “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.”

      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:

      “You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such
      matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to
      discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr.
      Collins.”

      “From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”

      “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.’

      “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,—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.’

      “Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
      comes out:

      “‘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.’

      “_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
      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!”

      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.

      “Are you not diverted?”

      “Oh! yes. Pray read on.”

      “‘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 _missish_, 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?”

      “Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
      strange!”

      “Yes—_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other
      man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference,
      and _your_ 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?”

      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_.




Chapter 58

      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.

      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:

      “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.”

      “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of
      surprise and emotion, “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.”

      “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.”

      “If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “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 _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I
      believe I thought only of _you_.”

      Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short
      pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with
      me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me
      so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one
      word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

      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.

      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.

      “It taught me to hope,” said he, “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.”

      Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know
      enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After
      abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple
      in abusing you to all your relations.”

      “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.”

      “We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to
      that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if
      strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
      have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

      “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;—though it was some time, I
      confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make
      you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit
      to its contents?”

      She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
      all her former prejudices had been removed.

      “I knew,” said he, “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.”

      “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.”

      “When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself
      perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
      written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”

      “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.”

      “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.”

      “Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”

      “Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you
      to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”

      “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 _that_
      evening?”

      “Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began
      to take a proper direction.”

      “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met
      at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”

      “No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”

      “Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ 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 _more_
      than my due.”

      “My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “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.”

      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.

      She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a
      subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.

      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.

      “What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” 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.

      “I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.

      “Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”

      “That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
      much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had
      been pretty much the case.

      “On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “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.”

      Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing
      his friend.

      “Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you
      told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information
      last spring?”

      “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.”

      “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
      conviction to him.”

      “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.”

      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.




Chapter 59

      “My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” 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.

      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
      _knew_ that she was happy than _felt_ 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.

      At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very
      far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely
      incredulous here.

      “You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,
      no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”

      “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.”

      Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know
      how much you dislike him.”

      “You know nothing of the matter. _That_ 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.”

      Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
      seriously assured her of its truth.

      “Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,”
      cried Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate
      you—but are you certain? forgive the question—are you quite
      certain that you can be happy with him?”

      “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?”

      “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?”

      “Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do,
      when I tell you all.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I
      am afraid you will be angry.”

      “My dearest sister, now _be_ 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?”

      “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.”

      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.

      “Now I am quite happy,” said she, “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.”

      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.

      “Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the
      next morning, “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.”

      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.

      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, “Mrs. Bennet,
      have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way
      again to-day?”

      “I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to
      walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and
      Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”

      “It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I
      am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” 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:

      “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.”

      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.

      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—that _she_, his favourite child, should be
      distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears
      and regrets in disposing of her—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, “Go to your
      father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.

      Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
      “Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your
      senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”

      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.

      “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?”

      “Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief
      of my indifference?”

      “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.”

      “I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “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.”

      “Lizzy,” said her father, “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 _you_, 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 _you_ unable to
      respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”

      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.

      “Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “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.”

      To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr.
      Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
      astonishment.

      “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 _would_ 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.”

      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—saying, as she quitted the room,
      “If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am
      quite at leisure.”

      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.

      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.

      “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—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming
      man!—so handsome! so tall!—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.”

      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.

      “My dearest child,” she cried, “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.”

      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.

      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.

      “I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham,
      perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband
      quite as well as Jane’s.”




Chapter 60

      Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted
      Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.
      “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on
      charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could
      set you off in the first place?”

      “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 _had_ begun.”

      “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my
      behaviour to _you_ 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?”

      “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

      “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 _your_
      approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so
      unlike _them_. 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—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—but nobody thinks of _that_ when they fall in love.”

      “Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
      she was ill at Netherfield?”

      “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?”

      “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no
      encouragement.”

      “But I was embarrassed.”

      “And so was I.”

      “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”

      “A man who had felt less, might.”

      “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 _would_ have gone on, if you had been left to
      yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have spoken, if I had not
      asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to
      Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too much_, 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.”

      “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.”

      “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?”

      “My real purpose was to see _you_, 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.”

      “Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what
      is to befall her?”

      “I am more likely to want  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.”

      “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.”

      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 _that_ 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:

      “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 _now_ 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.”

      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.

      “Dear Sir,
      “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.

      “Yours sincerely, etc.”

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 _did_ 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.




Chapter 61

      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.

      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.

      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 _his_ easy temper, or _her_ 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.

      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.

      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.

      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:

      “My dear Lizzy,
      “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.

      “Yours, etc.”

      As it happened that Elizabeth had much 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.

      Though Darcy could never receive _him_ 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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.