[ Back to main ]
[ Back to dev page ]
Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice
Back in 2012 my first programming project was to create a UTF-8
based plain text typesetting system. I wanted to make the source
file to be the most satisfying to the human eye even in its raw
form.
Long term goal was to create a system which converts this source
file to TeX, PDF, HTML, MOBI, and EPUB.
The project was abandoned but you can see a demo code below.
Feel free to compare it with the Project Gutenberg source.
Unfortunately the code still uses underscores to indicate empha-
sis. The next step would be to identify structural parts of the
text with clever use zero width space characters.
-=[ japrpr.txt ]=================================================-
Jane Austen
Pride and Prejudice
Chapter 1
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in pos‐
session 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 con‐
sidered the rightful property of some one or other of their daugh‐
ters.
“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 you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impa‐
tiently.
“_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 Mi‐
chaelmas, 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 for‐
tune; 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 tire‐
some! 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 may 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 de‐
termined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know,
they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be im‐
possible 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 as‐
sure 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 giv‐
ing _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 for 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 last 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 hu‐
mour, 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 even‐
ing 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 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 con‐
tain 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 in‐
troduce 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 daughters 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 re‐
flection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”
Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us re‐
turn 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 that be‐
fore? 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 morn‐
ing and never said a word about it till now.”
“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Ben‐
net; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the rap‐
tures 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 ac‐
quaintances 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, in‐
genious 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 re‐
port was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with
him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agree‐
able, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next as‐
sembly 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 Nether‐
field,” 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 ascer‐
taining 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 invita‐
tion, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not ima‐
gine what business he could have in town so soon after his ar‐
rival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be al‐
ways flying about from one place to another, and never settled at
Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to
get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that
Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with
him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of
ladies, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from Lon‐
don—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 pleas‐
ant 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 gen‐
eral 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 hav‐
ing a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being un‐
worthy to be compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the prin‐
cipal 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 occa‐
sionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He
was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every‐
body 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 gentle‐
men, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time,
Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conver‐
sation 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 pun‐
ishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. 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 part‐
ner 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_; 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 toward him. She
told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for
she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in any‐
thing ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole fam‐
ily. 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. Eliza‐
beth felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to
Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood;
and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be
without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care
for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Long‐
bourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the
principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a
book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he
had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which
had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that
his wife's views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he
soon found out that he had a different story to hear.
“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. Every‐
body 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 inquired who she was, and got introduced,
and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with
Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth
with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the
_Boulanger_—”
“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impa‐
tiently, “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, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excess‐
ively 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 an‐
other 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 cau‐
tious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sis‐
ter just 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 hu‐
man being in your life.”
“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; 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 non‐
sense 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 be‐
haviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in gen‐
eral; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of
temper than her sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by
any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve
them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good
humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making them‐
selves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and
of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every
respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of oth‐
ers. 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 hun‐
dred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to pur‐
chase 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 anxious for his having an estate of his own;
but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley
was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—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 judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was
clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidi‐
ous, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In
that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offense.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was suf‐
ficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleas‐
ant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most
kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiff‐
ness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as to
Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Dar‐
cy, 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 atten‐
tion 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 ad‐
mired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
and one whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.
Chapter 5
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Ben‐
nets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable for‐
tune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the
king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt
too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business, and to
his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting them both,
he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from
Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could
think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by
business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world.
For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercili‐
ous; 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 communic‐
ate.
“_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. Robin‐
son; 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 can‐
not be two opinions on that point.'”
“Upon my word! Well, that is 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 quite
angry at being spoke to.”
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,
unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remark‐
ably 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 for‐
give _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 in‐
deed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that
there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-com‐
placency on the score of some quality or other, real or imagin‐
ary. 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 a 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 soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing man‐
ners 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 con‐
sidered 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 man‐
ner 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 disad‐
vantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection
with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the oppor‐
tunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to
believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratit‐
ude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to
leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a slight prefer‐
ence is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have
heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine
cases out of ten a women had better show _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, in‐
deed, 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 togeth‐
er; and, as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it
is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing
together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half-hour
in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of
him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as
she chooses.”
“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 de‐
gree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known
him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;
she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined
with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make
her understand his character.”
“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 also been spent togeth‐
er—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 vexa‐
tion; and it is better to know as little as possible of the de‐
fects 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 your‐
self.”
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister,
Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming
an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy
had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at
her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it
clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good fea‐
ture in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncom‐
monly 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 un‐
aware; 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 con‐
versing with her himself, attended to her conversation with oth‐
ers. 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 listen‐
ing 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 you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncom‐
monly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give
us a ball at Meryton?”
“With great energy; but it is always a subject which 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 fol‐
lows.”
“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 con‐
ceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excel‐
lence 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 pur‐
chase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the re‐
quest 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 thoughts to perceive that Sir Wil‐
liam 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 society.”
“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in
vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every sav‐
age 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 had some thought 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 dis‐
posed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards
them, he was struck with the action of doing a very gallant
thing, and called out to her:
“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you
must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desir‐
able 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 unwill‐
ing 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 en‐
treat 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 persua‐
sion.
“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
those 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 de‐
sired 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 aston‐
ishment. 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 serious about it, I shall consider the matter
is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in‐
law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with
you.”
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 temp‐
ted 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 coun‐
try 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. Phillips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their know‐
ledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were
not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers
themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his
nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They could talk of
nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the men‐
tion 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 suspec‐
ted 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 Cap‐
tain 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 particu‐
lar, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two young‐
est 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 regiment‐
als.”
“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 foot‐
man 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 daugh‐
ter 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 tete-a-tete between two women can
never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt
of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the
officers.—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 they not?”
“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 un‐
easy 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 feli‐
city of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a ser‐
vant 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 till I am better. They in‐
sist 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,
etc.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the
note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of ill‐
ness—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 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 horse‐
woman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolu‐
tion.
“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 re‐
quired.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Ly‐
dia. 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, jump‐
ing over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activ‐
ity, 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 some‐
thing 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 ex‐
ercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occa‐
sion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was think‐
ing only of his breakfast.
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably
answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very fe‐
verish, and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad
to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been with‐
held 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 conversa‐
tion, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt
little besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary
kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and
Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affec‐
tion 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 fever‐
ish 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 car‐
riage, 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 in‐
vitation 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 inquiries
which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of
distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she
could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means bet‐
ter. 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 to‐
wards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to
the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she
could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evid‐
ent, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they preven‐
ted her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she
was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any
but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister
scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he
was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss
Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her
manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride
and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty.
Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added:
“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an ex‐
cellent 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 un‐
tidy, 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 de‐
corum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”
said Bingley.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whis‐
per, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of
her fine eyes.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exer‐
cise.” 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 connec‐
tions, 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 returned to her
room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till
summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth
would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had
the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather
right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On en‐
tering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was
immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be play‐
ing 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 sin‐
gular.”
“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 Eliza‐
beth; “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 be soon increased by seeing her
quite well.”
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards
the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to
fetch her others—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 lib‐
rary 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 with what passed, as to leave her
very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself
between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.
“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 de‐
lighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so ex‐
tremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano‐
forte 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 anyone who cannot do all
this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the
first time, without being informed that she was very accom‐
plished.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Dar‐
cy, “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 estima‐
tion 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 mu‐
sic, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to de‐
serve 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 accom‐
plished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibil‐
ity 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 in‐
justice 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.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed
on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend them‐
selves 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 a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies
sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears af‐
finity 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
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 re‐
lief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions
that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sis‐
ter.
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 inquiries which she very early received from Mr.
Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two el‐
egant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amend‐
ment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, de‐
siring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgement of
her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its con‐
tents 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 apo‐
thecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advis‐
able. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's
appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all at‐
tended 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 sis‐
ter, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold
civility, “that Miss Bennet will 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 ex‐
ception, the sweetest temper I have 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 the gravel walk.
I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Nether‐
field. 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 follow that a deep, intric‐
ate 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 a few sub‐
jects 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 men‐
tioning 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 coun‐
try, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country
is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, 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, Mamma, 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 coun‐
try as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”
“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meet‐
ing 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
eyes towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth,
for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's
thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn
since _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 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 very differ‐
ently. 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.”
“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 man at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her
that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before
we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her
too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty
they were.”
“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 young‐
est 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 com‐
plexion 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-con‐
sequence, which the attention of the officers, to whom her
uncle's good dinners, and her own easy manners recommended her,
had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to
address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly re‐
minded 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 when
she is ill.”
Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much bet‐
ter to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Cap‐
tain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _y‐
our_ 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 re‐
turned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' beha‐
viour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter
of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their cen‐
sure 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 inval‐
id, 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 re‐
peatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr.
Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was ob‐
serving 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 union with her opin‐
ion 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
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 infin‐
itely 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. Dar‐
cy?”
“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 let‐
ter 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 re‐
proof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance
of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and some‐
times 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 rapid‐
ity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estim‐
able, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing
anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor,
and often without any attention to the imperfection of the per‐
formance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever
resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five
minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to
yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance
which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no
real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”
“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 believe what I said of myself to be true, and I
believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume
the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before
the ladies.”
“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 tem‐
per. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentle‐
man did by no means intend; for he would certainly think better
of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial,
and ride off as fast as I could.”
“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original in‐
tentions 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 re‐
member, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire
his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely de‐
sired 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 understand‐
ing of either.”
“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influ‐
ence 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 speak‐
ing of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may
as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we dis‐
cuss 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 particu‐
lars, 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 ex‐
postulation 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 an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request
that Elizabeth would lead the way which the other as politely and
more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus em‐
ployed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over
some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.
Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose
that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and
yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still
more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she
drew his notice because there was something more wrong and repre‐
hensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other per‐
son 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 immedi‐
ately 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 shrub‐
bery 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 officers. And, if I may mention so
delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bor‐
dering 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 Phillips
be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your
great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,
only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you
must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to
those beautiful eyes?”
“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 ap‐
pear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by ad‐
mitting 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 sis‐
ter, 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 consider‐
able. 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 ob‐
ject; 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 congrat‐
ulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was
“very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's sa‐
lutation. 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. Eliza‐
beth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great de‐
light.
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 in‐
tended 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, prin‐
cipally 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 inquiry, or looking at
his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he
merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite ex‐
hausted 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 excel‐
lent 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 amuse‐
ment; 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 mis‐
taken 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 in‐
sufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It
would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dan‐
cing 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 refresh‐
ing 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 mean‐
ing?”—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 con‐
fidence, 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 Eliza‐
beth. “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 intim‐
acy 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 attempt‐
ing 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 regula‐
tion.”
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 tem‐
per I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yield‐
ing—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I can‐
not 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 re‐
sentment _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 educa‐
tion can overcome.”
“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunder‐
stand 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 Eliza‐
beth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet
sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage be‐
fore 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 in‐
truding 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 follow‐
ing day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was de‐
ferred. 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 el‐
evate 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 im‐
portance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when
they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and al‐
most 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 un‐
cle, 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 fort‐
night ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delic‐
acy, 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 men‐
tioned. 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 en‐
tail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a sub‐
ject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she
continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an es‐
tate 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 imper‐
tinent 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, 15th October.
“Dear Sir,—
“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late hon‐
oured 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, fear‐
ing 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 lady‐
ship, 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 can‐
not 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 incon‐
venience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occa‐
sional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is
engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear sir, with re‐
spectful 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, espe‐
cially 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-im‐
portance 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 daugh‐
ters.
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 si‐
lent 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 _y‐
ou_, 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 en‐
tailed.”
“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 ap‐
pearing 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 ad‐
miration. 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 supposi‐
tion 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 ow‐
ing. 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 apolo‐
gise for about a quarter of an hour.
Chapter 14
During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the ser‐
vants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversa‐
tion 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 remark‐
able. 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 smal‐
lest 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. Ben‐
net, “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 her‐
self says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far su‐
perior 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 lady‐
ship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I am
happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compli‐
ments 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, in‐
stead 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 im‐
pulse 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 oc‐
casions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as pos‐
sible.”
Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was
as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keen‐
est enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute com‐
posure 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 behold‐
ing it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating lib‐
rary), 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 be‐
fore 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 bene‐
fit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be noth‐
ing 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 antagon‐
ist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing
that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own tri‐
fling 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 for‐
tunate 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 patron‐
ess, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his author‐
ity as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him alto‐
gether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and
humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he inten‐
ded 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 ex‐
cessively 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 altera‐
tion; for in a quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet
before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage‐
house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a
mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her,
amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution
against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to her _younger_ daugh‐
ters, 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. Eliza‐
beth, 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 fo‐
lios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with
little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such do‐
ings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had
been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though pre‐
pared, 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, be‐
ing in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was ex‐
tremely 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 at‐
tention 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 appear‐
ance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way.
The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from
London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All
were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered who he could
be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led
the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in
an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement
when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot.
Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to in‐
troduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the
day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a com‐
mission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charm‐
ing. 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 ci‐
vilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet
the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Long‐
bourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it
with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on
Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both
as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect
of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other
red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a saluta‐
tion 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 no‐
ticed 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 to‐
wards 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 ac‐
quaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
however, might be justified by his relationship to the young
ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite
awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of
one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries
about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces
what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from Lon‐
don, 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 of‐
ficers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stu‐
pid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the
Phillipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her hus‐
band 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 com‐
fortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot
supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheer‐
ing, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated
his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unweary‐
ing 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 admir‐
ing Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, ex‐
cept Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more el‐
egant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost ci‐
vility, 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 stead‐
ily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a
suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hear‐
ing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accep‐
ted 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 em‐
ployed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phil‐
lips 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 imit‐
ations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting ap‐
peared 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, gen‐
tlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party;
but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, counten‐
ance, 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 fi‐
nally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immedi‐
ately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a
wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most thread‐
bare 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 in‐
tervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchful‐
ness, 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 his‐
tory of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even men‐
tion that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly re‐
lieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how
far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her an‐
swer, 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 Derby‐
shire, 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 per‐
son more capable of giving you certain information on that head
than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a par‐
ticular 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 ex‐
press 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 in‐
terruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated bey‐
ond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often hap‐
pen. 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 be‐
fore 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 thou‐
sand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scan‐
dalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgra‐
cing 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 fur‐
ther inquiry.
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 in‐
tended 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 re‐
dress?”
“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, im‐
prudence—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 cer‐
tain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any‐
thing 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 dif‐
ferent 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 hand‐
somer 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 competi‐
tion 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 in‐
justice, such inhumanity as this.”
After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, “I
_do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the im‐
placability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving tem‐
per. 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 ex‐
claimed, “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 par‐
ental 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 af‐
fection 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 ac‐
tions 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 beha‐
viour 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_ broth‐
erly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his
sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the most at‐
tentive 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 educa‐
tion.”
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 inquir‐
ies as to his success was 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 earn‐
est gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he con‐
sidered 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 shil‐
lings 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 fam‐
ily 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 Cather‐
ine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day be‐
fore 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 es‐
tates.”
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, con‐
ceited 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 for 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 conver‐
sation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his man‐
ners 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 in‐
cessantly 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 re‐
gard 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 Long‐
bourn House.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between
Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and con‐
cern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so un‐
worthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature
to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appear‐
ance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such un‐
kindness, 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 con‐
cerned in the business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be ob‐
liged 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 disgrace‐
ful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favour‐
ite 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 Neth‐
erfield, 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 fam‐
ily 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
her 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 anti‐
cipated 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 re‐
spectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far
from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be hon‐
oured 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 pro‐
posed 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 mis‐
tress 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 probabil‐
ity of their marriage was extremely agreeable to _her_. Eliza‐
beth, 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 use‐
less 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 piti‐
able 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 pre‐
vented 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 unsub‐
dued 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 ap‐
plied, 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 inquiries
which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, for‐
bearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was re‐
solved 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 Char‐
lotte 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 morti‐
fication. 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 ad‐
dressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his ap‐
plication 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 whis‐
per, 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 con‐
sequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the
set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being al‐
lowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neigh‐
bours' 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 some‐
thing 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 num‐
ber 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 pub‐
lic 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 unso‐
cial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect
to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed
down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I
am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pre‐
tend 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 acquaint‐
ance.”
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ over‐
spread 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. Wick‐
ham 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 sub‐
ject. 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 for‐
cibly, 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 talk‐
ing 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 opinion‐
s.”
“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 after‐
wards 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, en‐
deavouring 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 differ‐
ent 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 an‐
other 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 tolerable
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 for‐
got to tell you, among his other communication, that he was the
son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recom‐
mend 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 remark‐
ably 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 discov‐
ery of your favourite's guilt; but really, considering his des‐
cent, 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 mis‐
taken 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 has
undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane
met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such
happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satis‐
fied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly
read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Wickham, re‐
sentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way be‐
fore 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 noth‐
ing 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 per‐
fectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less atten‐
tion 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 im‐
prudent, 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
inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had
scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told
her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
to make a most important discovery.
“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 won‐
derfully 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 yes‐
terday se'nnight.”
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assur‐
ing 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 acquaint‐
ance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of fol‐
lowing 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 main‐
tained. 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 at‐
tack 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 atten‐
tion. 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 observa‐
tions gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane.
She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the feli‐
city 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 sub‐
ject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerat‐
ing 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 sis‐
ter, 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 at‐
tention 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 Lu‐
cas, 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 com‐
pany. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she en‐
deavour 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 fit‐
ted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner af‐
fected. 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, imperturb‐
ably 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 ex‐
tremely 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 di‐
version, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergy‐
man. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified
in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are cer‐
tainly 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 re‐
mains 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 re‐
spect 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 sens‐
ibly, 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 no‐
tice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much dis‐
tressed 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 de‐
termine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the in‐
solent 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 in‐
troduce 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 conversa‐
tion 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 car‐
riage 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 impa‐
tient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every at‐
tempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a lan‐
guor 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 si‐
lence, 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 as‐
sure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner
with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invita‐
tion. 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 un‐
der 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 ec‐
lipsed 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 Sat‐
urday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distress‐
ing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very or‐
derly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed a regu‐
lar part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and
one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he ad‐
dressed 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 objec‐
tion. 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 perfec‐
tions. 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 marry‐
ing—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 sub‐
ject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hun‐
sford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was ar‐
ranging 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 cous‐
in, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Cather‐
ine 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, es‐
pecially 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 sens‐
ible 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 ex‐
traordinary 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 be‐
ing 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 quali‐
fication.”
“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 fi‐
nally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quit‐
ted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the sub‐
ject, 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 re‐
fusal 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 reas‐
ons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me
that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establish‐
ment 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 ef‐
fects 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 fe‐
males.”
“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 sin‐
cere. 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 ex‐
press 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; determ‐
ined, 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 be‐
haviour 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 ves‐
tibule 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 or their
nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these feli‐
citations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the
particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trus‐
ted 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 dir‐
ectly. 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 situ‐
ation, 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 li‐
able 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 dir‐
ectly 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. Ben‐
net, 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 busi‐
ness.”
“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 be‐
ginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her hus‐
band regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappoin‐
ted.
“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You prom‐
ised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.”
“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to re‐
quest. First, that you will allow me the free use of my under‐
standing 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 hus‐
band, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth
again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeav‐
oured 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 re‐
proach 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 Ly‐
dia, 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 com‐
passion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to com‐
ply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lu‐
cas,” 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 Eliza‐
beth.
“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as un‐
concerned 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 undu‐
tiful 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 suf‐
fer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pit‐
ied.”
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible
that any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only in‐
crease the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interrup‐
tion from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who
entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on per‐
ceiving 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 fol‐
lowed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she
could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were
very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself
with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a dole‐
ful 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 ob‐
served 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. Ben‐
net 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 reprehens‐
ible, 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 allu‐
sions 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 si‐
lence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous atten‐
tions which he had been so sensible of himself were transferred
for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listen‐
ing 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 inquire if Mr.
Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the
Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and
attended them to their aunt's where his regret and vexation, and
the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth,
however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his ab‐
sence _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 my‐
self.”
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 partic‐
ularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advant‐
age; 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 eleg‐
ant, 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 in‐
formation 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 Hertford‐
shire, 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 corres‐
pondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown expres‐
sions 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 coun‐
try. 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 busi‐
ness 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 comfort‐
less 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 _y‐
ou_.”
“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 oppor‐
tunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her rela‐
tions 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 circum‐
stances 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 ex‐
pressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be
her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's in‐
difference; 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 rep‐
resentation 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 de‐
ceiving 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 de‐
ceived, 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 disap‐
probation, 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 ut‐
most contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Car‐
oline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose
that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influ‐
ence 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 gradu‐
ally 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 gentle‐
man'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 dur‐
ing 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 sat‐
isfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the
little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Char‐
lotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any concep‐
tion of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any
return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards her‐
self. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so fa‐
vourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt al‐
most secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire
so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independ‐
ence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn
House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lu‐
cas 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 reas‐
on, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparat‐
ively 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 in‐
stantly 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 de‐
sire 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 Long‐
bourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his
wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole fam‐
ily, 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. Char‐
lotte 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 hap‐
piness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This
preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-sev‐
en, 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 won‐
der, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was
not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapproba‐
tion. She resolved to give her the information herself, and there‐
fore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to din‐
ner, 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 pub‐
lish 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 prob‐
able, 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 ad‐
dresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been pre‐
vailed 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 compan‐
ion. 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 be‐
fore.
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 as‐
tonishment 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 re‐
ceiving 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 in‐
credible 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 wish‐
ing 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 ro‐
mantic, 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 recon‐
ciled 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 feel‐
ing 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 convic‐
tion 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 com‐
pliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a
connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an audi‐
ence 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, boister‐
ously 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 breed‐
ing 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 ac‐
count, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte her‐
self; 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 mak‐
ing 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 per‐
sisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was
very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trus‐
ted 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 prin‐
cipally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console
and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her re‐
sentment. 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 agree‐
able sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Char‐
lotte 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 mar‐
ried; 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 per‐
suaded 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 Tues‐
day, addressed to their father, and written with all the solem‐
nity 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 neigh‐
bour, 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 Cather‐
ine, 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 dis‐
posed 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 hav‐
ing 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 com‐
ing no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which
highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contra‐
dict as a most scandalous falsehood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indiffer‐
ent—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, as‐
sisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of Lon‐
don might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attach‐
ment.
As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course,
more painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was de‐
sirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, there‐
fore, 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 some‐
times 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 men‐
tion 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 suc‐
cessor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence.
Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anti‐
cipating 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 sur‐
vivor.”
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, in‐
stead 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 en‐
tail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an es‐
tate 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 Hert‐
fordshire 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 affec‐
tion 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 intim‐
acy, 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 oth‐
ers. 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 an‐
ger, 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 sis‐
ter's was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible him‐
self. 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 observa‐
tion; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation re‐
mained 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 reflec‐
tions 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 imme‐
diately, 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 any‐
body. 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 dis‐
satisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the incon‐
sistency 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 re‐
spectability, 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 circum‐
spect. 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 per‐
sons 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 say‐
ing 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 be‐
sides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and con‐
sequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the im‐
portance 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 mis‐
taken—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 under‐
stood.”
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 return‐
ing 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 endeav‐
oured 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 recom‐
mendations 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 any‐
thing of the matter.
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might
be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the soci‐
ety 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 feli‐
city, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the ar‐
rival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alle‐
viated 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 receiv‐
ing her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the
Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentleman‐
like man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as
education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in be‐
lieving 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 of‐
fer 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 be‐
fore, 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 sub‐
ject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,”
said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so of‐
ten! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily
falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when acci‐
dent separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of in‐
consistencies 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 ac‐
quaintance, 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 an‐
swer. 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 disposi‐
tion, 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 re‐
gard to this young man will influence her. We live in so differ‐
ent 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 of‐
ficers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,
Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's warm commenda‐
tion, 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 inexhaust‐
ible subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pem‐
berley 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 be‐
cause 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 affec‐
tion 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 be‐
comes 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 par‐
tial 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 sel‐
dom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into en‐
gagements 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 satis‐
fied.”
Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked
her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful in‐
stance of advice being given on such a point, without being resen‐
ted.
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 re‐
peatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_ they
might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wed‐
nesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to
take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and re‐
luctant 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, there‐
fore, 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 Charlot‐
te, “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 im‐
possible. 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 re‐
ceived with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curi‐
osity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce her‐
self 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 obli‐
ging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings ration‐
ally 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 Gros‐
venor 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 inquired after their
brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.
Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy
was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not
long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I
shall see them soon here.”
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her
that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's be‐
ing in town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeav‐
oured 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 ap‐
pear; 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 call‐
ing 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 ex‐
plain 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 sis‐
ter, 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 kind‐
ness 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 com‐
fortable 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 sis‐
ter 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 ac‐
count, 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 Eliza‐
beth 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. Eliza‐
beth 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 re‐
markable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering him‐
self 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 re‐
linquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable meas‐
ure 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 exper‐
ienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present de‐
test his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feel‐
ings 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 ob‐
ject to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with
him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Im‐
portance 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 con‐
viction 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, some‐
times 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 uncompanion‐
able 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 Char‐
lotte'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, wish‐
ing 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 so‐
licitude, 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 informa‐
tion.
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 wel‐
come 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 twelve‐
month, 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 inquiries, that though Jane always
struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejec‐
tion. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not con‐
tinue 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 acquaint‐
ance.
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 af‐
fairs, 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, be‐
cause 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 grand‐
father'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 to‐
wards 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 recom‐
mend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after
all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappoint‐
ment.”
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 feli‐
city! 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 effu‐
sions be less insupportable than those of the generality of trav‐
ellers.”
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 ci‐
vility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all
her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing
out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as
soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,
with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually
repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
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 par‐
ticularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had
lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and com‐
fortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repent‐
ance, 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 Eliza‐
beth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte
talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encour‐
aged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every
walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to ut‐
ter 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 re‐
mains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accom‐
panied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house,
extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of show‐
ing 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 for‐
gotten.
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 Ros‐
ings 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 med‐
itate 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 ima‐
gination soon settled it all.
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room get‐
ting 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 land‐
ing 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 con‐
versation 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 com‐
plete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to
his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility to‐
wards 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 sur‐
prised by her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and
spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my know‐
ledge 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 ar‐
rival!”
“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir Wil‐
liam, “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 uncom‐
mon.”
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 over‐
power them.
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
Elizabeth—
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your appar‐
el. 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 Cather‐
ine 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 pro‐
spects; 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 per‐
fectly calm. Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard
nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any ex‐
traordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateli‐
ness of money or rank she thought she could witness without trep‐
idation.
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 sit‐
ting. 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 com‐
pletely 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 Cather‐
ine 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 for‐
get their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by si‐
lence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a
tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham imme‐
diately to Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day
altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he rep‐
resented.
When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and de‐
portment 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 remark‐
able, 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 ser‐
vants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had prom‐
ised; 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 com‐
mended, 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 gra‐
cious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a nov‐
elty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Eliza‐
beth 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, press‐
ing 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 inquired into Char‐
lotte'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 dic‐
tating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.
Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Eliza‐
beth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very gen‐
teel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how
many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than her‐
self, 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? Eliza‐
beth 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 be‐
nefit of masters.”
“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates Lon‐
don.”
“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 gov‐
erness, 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 encour‐
aged 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 strenu‐
ously 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 Cath‐
erine,' 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 at 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, smil‐
ing, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a dir‐
ect answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first
creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified im‐
pertinence.
“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 stu‐
pid. 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, thank‐
ing 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 determ‐
ine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these in‐
structions 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 comfort‐
ably 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 unfre‐
quently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversa‐
tion with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get
out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Ros‐
ings, 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 under‐
stand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were hon‐
oured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her ob‐
servation that was passing in the room during these visits. She
examined into their employments, looked at their work, and ad‐
vised 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 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, si‐
lence 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 be‐
ing 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 Eliza‐
beth, 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 of‐
ten great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where
she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Cather‐
ine, 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 ar‐
rival 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 satis‐
faction, 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 im‐
mediately 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 compli‐
ment, 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 compli‐
ments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever
might be his feelings toward her friend, met her with every ap‐
pearance 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 pleas‐
antly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observa‐
tion on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time
without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was
so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of
her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a mo‐
ment'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 gen‐
tlemen soon afterwards went away.
Chapter 31
Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Par‐
sonage, 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 gentle‐
men'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 lady‐
ship 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 him‐
self 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 be‐
fore; 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 de‐
light. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speak‐
ing of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who
have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better nat‐
ural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great pro‐
ficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to ap‐
ply. 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 profi‐
ciency.
“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 ac‐
count. 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. Eliza‐
beth 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 par‐
ticularly 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 disad‐
vantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impol‐
itic 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 Col‐
onel 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 sit‐
ting 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 or‐
ders.”
“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I
sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend my‐
self 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 apply‐
ing 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 be‐
fore. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear inter‐
ested 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 ex‐
pression. 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 wo‐
man's of superior execution.”
Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have em‐
ployed 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 play‐
ing 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 perform‐
ance, 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 inquiries after Rosings were
made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was abso‐
lutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this
emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertford‐
shire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the sub‐
ject 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 bet‐
ter for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place en‐
tirely, 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 ex‐
pect 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 com‐
fortable 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 excel‐
lent 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 cer‐
tainly 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 _ad‐
vantages_ 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. Any‐
thing 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 ex‐
penses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But
that is not the case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfort‐
able income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journey‐
s—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 en‐
trance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk.
The tete-a-tete surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake
which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sit‐
ting 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 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 bil‐
liard-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 separ‐
ately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came be‐
cause 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 fre‐
quently 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 him‐
self. 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 seri‐
ously 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, stead‐
fast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admira‐
tion 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 sub‐
ject, 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, unex‐
pectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mis‐
chance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and,
to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at
first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a
second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a
third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance,
for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries
and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it ne‐
cessary 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 Par‐
sonage together.
“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.
“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his dispos‐
al. 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 any‐
body 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 can‐
not 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 at‐
tention 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, per‐
haps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is un‐
der 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 ac‐
quaintance, 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 gentleman‐
like 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 gener‐
ally 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 congratu‐
lated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveni‐
ences 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, smil‐
ing. “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 propri‐
ety 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 pic‐
ture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an an‐
swer, 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 influ‐
ence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separ‐
ate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always at‐
tributed 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 an‐
other who was in business in London.
“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibil‐
ity of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her un‐
derstanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captiv‐
ating. 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 hus‐
band from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his ap‐
prehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her
staying at home.
Chapter 34
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate her‐
self as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employ‐
ment 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 communica‐
tion 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 to‐
wards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed
every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an atten‐
tion which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr.
Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to in‐
flict, 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 be‐
fore called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire
particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her
spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter
amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried
manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing
his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered
him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then
getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came to‐
wards 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, col‐
oured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient en‐
couragement; 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 wound‐
ing, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insens‐
ible 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 endeav‐
ours, 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, how‐
ever unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obliga‐
tion 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 re‐
sentment 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 ex‐
pecting! 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 inquire,” 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 indif‐
ferent, 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 be‐
loved sister?”
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but
the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to in‐
terrupt 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 in‐
stability, 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 feel‐
ing of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected in‐
credulity.
“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 re‐
flection, 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 feel‐
ing an interest in him?”
“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his mis‐
fortunes 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,” ad‐
ded he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these of‐
fenses 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 contin‐
ued:
“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 be‐
fore 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 ac‐
cept 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 un‐
pardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not jus‐
tify 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 reflec‐
tions till the sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel
how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte's observation, and hur‐
ried her away to her room.
Chapter 35
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and medita‐
tions which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet re‐
cover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible
to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employ‐
ment, 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. Dar‐
cy, 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 curios‐
ity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing
wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-pa‐
per, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope it‐
self was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then
began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morn‐
ing, and was as follows:—
“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the appre‐
hension 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 my‐
self, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, can‐
not 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 men‐
tioned 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 human‐
ity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of
Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the compan‐
ion 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 de‐
pravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose af‐
fection 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 ac‐
count of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the
explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the neces‐
sity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can
only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and fur‐
ther 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 be‐
fore. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I
was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental in‐
formation, 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 re‐
mained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she re‐
ceived 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 cer‐
tain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and de‐
cisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did
not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed
it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My
objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last
night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put
aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so
great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes
of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing
to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes
must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's
family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly be‐
trayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasion‐
ally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you.
But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest rela‐
tions, 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 opin‐
ion 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 Lon‐
don, 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' un‐
easiness 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 ulti‐
mately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by
the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's in‐
difference. He had before believed her to return his affection
with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great nat‐
ural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on
his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived him‐
self, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against return‐
ing 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 _par‐
ticularly_ 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 ex‐
travagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gen‐
tleman'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 attach‐
ment 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 Pember‐
ley, 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 de‐
signed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presenta‐
tion. 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 as‐
sured 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 resist‐
ing 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 pain‐
fully 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 in‐
duce 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 neph‐
ew, 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 un‐
happily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recom‐
mended 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 elope‐
ment. 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 al‐
most 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 re‐
ject 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 Col‐
onel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant in‐
timacy, 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 possibil‐
ity of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity
of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morn‐
ing. 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 expecta‐
tion at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well
be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a con‐
trariety 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 pre‐
judice 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 ex‐
pressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his
style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and in‐
solence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wick‐
ham—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 his‐
tory 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 re‐
lated 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 Wick‐
ham'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 ac‐
quaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in
Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,
had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him
at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect
some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity
or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Dar‐
cy; 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' con‐
tinuance. 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 ap‐
probation 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 Fitzwil‐
liam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was re‐
ferred 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 re‐
solved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awk‐
wardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the
conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a propos‐
al, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corrobora‐
tion.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversa‐
tion 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 commu‐
nications 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 re‐
membered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Dar‐
cy—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 con‐
cerned! 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 incau‐
tiously 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 lat‐
terly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intim‐
acy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprin‐
cipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or im‐
moral 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 sis‐
ter as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had
his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a vi‐
olation 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, par‐
tial, prejudiced, absurd.
“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided
myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilit‐
ies! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister,
and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How hu‐
miliating 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 be‐
ginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ig‐
norance, 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 ex‐
planation _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 him‐
self to be totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment; and
she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion had al‐
ways 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 de‐
pressed 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 prob‐
abilities, 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 sit‐
ting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and al‐
most resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Eliza‐
beth 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 presen‐
ted 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 be‐
lieve 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 cer‐
tainly 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 by herself, by
supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she ad‐
ded:
“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 tak‐
ing 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 wo‐
men 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 differ‐
ent 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 discredit‐
able 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 feel‐
ings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited grat‐
itude, 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 beha‐
viour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chag‐
rin. 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 com‐
pletely 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 af‐
fection 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 ad‐
vantage, 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 Wick‐
ham'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 cheer‐
ful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last
week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening
was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into
the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the
best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of pla‐
cing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself ob‐
liged, 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 opportun‐
ity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispens‐
ably 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 un‐
pleasantly.”
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happi‐
ness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleas‐
ure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had re‐
ceived, must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was grati‐
fied, 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 super‐
ior 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 irk‐
some. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's family is in‐
deed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few
can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continu‐
ally 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 cordi‐
ally 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 atten‐
ded 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 re‐
ceived at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria fol‐
lowed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he sud‐
denly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Ros‐
ings.
“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 con‐
ceal!”
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 study‐
ing her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kind‐
ness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home
with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for ob‐
servation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait
even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's pro‐
posals. 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 mil‐
liner, 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 af‐
fords, 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 bon‐
net. 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 satisfac‐
tion.
“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 deli‐
cious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all.
Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miser‐
able 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 Wick‐
ham; 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 connec‐
tion 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 _senti‐
ment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured and fan‐
cied 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 addi‐
tion 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 mar‐
ried 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 For‐
ster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. For‐
ster 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 Lu‐
cases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the
subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria,
after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet
was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the
present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on
the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia,
in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating
the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear
her.
“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 con‐
genial 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 pur‐
suit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposi‐
tion. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to
avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of the regi‐
ment'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 yield‐
ing; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivoc‐
al, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet des‐
paired 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 sis‐
terly 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 cer‐
tainly 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 re‐
gard 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 con‐
tents 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, cap‐
able 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. Dar‐
cy! 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 stum‐
bling 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 un‐
happy. 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 ex‐
pressions 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 encour‐
aging. 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 author‐
ised 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 preju‐
dice 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 desper‐
ate.”
The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversa‐
tion. 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 val‐
ued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could par‐
take; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect under‐
standing 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 man‐
ner 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 indul‐
gence 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 determ‐
ined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phil‐
lips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any‐
thing 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 Neth‐
erfield again in the summer; and I have inquired 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 expect‐
ation, 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 en‐
tailed 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 dejec‐
tion 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 ex‐
treme, 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 re‐
membered 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 Col‐
onel 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 dis‐
agreeable.”
“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 col‐
onel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invalu‐
able friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A re‐
semblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and
Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_ months' acquaint‐
ance 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 ec‐
stasy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and
talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty
continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as unreason‐
able 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 tempta‐
tions 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 disad‐
vantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Ly‐
dia's unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already
arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the af‐
fair.”
“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 con‐
nected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let
me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Ly‐
dia'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 com‐
plaining. 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 attrac‐
tion 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 ex‐
cite. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow
wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncon‐
trolled! 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 dis‐
grace?”
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and af‐
fectionately 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 ap‐
pear 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 vexa‐
tions 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 expres‐
sion 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 formal partiality en‐
tirely 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 other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had
passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr.
Darcy's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,
if he was acquainted with the former.
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 gentleman‐
like man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly
in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards ad‐
ded:
“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 ac‐
quaintance.”
“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 under‐
stood.”
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 read‐
ily 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 miscon‐
duct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautious‐
ness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adop‐
ted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judge‐
ment 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 meet‐
ing 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 in‐
junctions 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 happi‐
ness 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 feli‐
city 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 van‐
ished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were over‐
thrown. 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 ig‐
norance 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 affec‐
tionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she
could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that con‐
tinual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in expos‐
ing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly
reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the dis‐
advantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a mar‐
riage, 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 daugh‐
ters, 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 dull‐
ness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their do‐
mestic 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 ap‐
prehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assur‐
ance by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and
a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been some‐
times found before, that an event to which she had been looking
with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the sat‐
isfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary
to name some other period for the commencement of actual feli‐
city—to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might
be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, con‐
sole herself for the present, and prepare for another disappoint‐
ment. 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 in‐
evitable; 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 con‐
tained little else than that they were just returned from the lib‐
rary, 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 Long‐
bourn. 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 com‐
mencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be preven‐
ted 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 substi‐
tute 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 attrac‐
tion. 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 beau‐
ties 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 Pem‐
berley 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 favour‐
ite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adap‐
ted 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 amuse‐
ment. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of compan‐
ions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affec‐
tion 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 Derby‐
shire 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 coun‐
try; 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 inclin‐
ation to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willing‐
ness, 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 my‐
self; 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, in‐
stantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very
idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt
than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;
and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if
her private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavour‐
ably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chamber‐
maid 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 her‐
self; 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 de‐
light. 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 use‐
lessly 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! In‐
stead 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 inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was
really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,
the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with
alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we
expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How re‐
joiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circum‐
stance 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, smil‐
ingly, 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 ex‐
pense. “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 mini‐
atures, “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 mini‐
atures 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 Dar‐
cy, 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 mas‐
ter; she comes here to-morrow with him.”
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encour‐
aged 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 oppos‐
ite 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 gener‐
ous-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 re‐
lated 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 sub‐
ject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they pro‐
ceeded 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 ser‐
vants 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 Eliza‐
beth.
“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 bed‐
rooms, 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 intel‐
ligible.
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 re‐
turned 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 be‐
fore 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 per‐
fect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his ap‐
proach, 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 as‐
sure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's ex‐
pression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately
have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to
their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift
her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to
his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of
his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered
was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropri‐
ety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfort‐
able in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he
spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he re‐
peated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn,
and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hur‐
ried 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 him‐
self, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his fig‐
ure; 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 ap‐
pear 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 soon‐
er, 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 inquire
after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so
little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on
this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last
address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand!
She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
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 ab‐
sence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appear‐
ing 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 cop‐
pice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its wind‐
ings; 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, ob‐
liged 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 in‐
dulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much en‐
gaged 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. Eliza‐
beth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an inter‐
view 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 recollec‐
tions 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 be‐
ing 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 sus‐
tained 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 tri‐
umph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations
for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attent‐
ively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every ex‐
pression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelli‐
gence, 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 of‐
ten 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 her‐
self. 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 descend‐
ing 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 con‐
sequently 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 as‐
sured of his absence before she came to the place, and accord‐
ingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpec‐
ted—“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 expec‐
ted in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and
said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming for‐
ward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had
been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he contin‐
ued, “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 in‐
stantly 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 be‐
ing 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 her‐
self 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 sub‐
ject. 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 tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go into the
house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they
parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw
him walking slowly towards the house.
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 unassum‐
ing,” 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 unbe‐
coming. 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 neces‐
sity 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 an‐
other day, and warn me off his grounds.”
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his charac‐
ter, 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 vin‐
dication 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 con‐
sidered 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 en‐
virons to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the
morning's walk they had no sooner dined than she set off again in
quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in
the satisfactions of a intercourse renewed after many years' dis‐
continuance.
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 con‐
sequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of
that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morn‐
ing 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 sur‐
prise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which
she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the em‐
barrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circum‐
stance 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 suppos‐
ing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions
were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth's feel‐
ings 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 inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as
made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable intro‐
duction 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 ex‐
ceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes con‐
vinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it diffi‐
cult 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 dif‐
ferent 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 ex‐
pressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly,
though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting per‐
sonage 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 dir‐
ected their observation towards each with an earnest though
guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full
conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of
the lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident
enough.
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 ob‐
ject, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of suc‐
cess, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were pre‐
possessed 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 re‐
collection 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 to‐
gether, 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 after‐
wards 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 him‐
self; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expres‐
sion 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 rela‐
tions 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 digni‐
fied 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 en‐
deavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his at‐
tentions 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 coun‐
try. 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 in‐
vitation 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 inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.
Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak
of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some
others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of
considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though
while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager
to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and
aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favour‐
able opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curios‐
ity; 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 jus‐
tify inquiry.
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 Hert‐
fordshire 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 ac‐
knowledged, 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 dis‐
charged.
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 to‐
wards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours en‐
deavouring 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 good‐
will 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 man‐
ner 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 em‐
ploy 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, there‐
fore, 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 unwel‐
come her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious
to know with how much civility on that lady's side the acquaint‐
ance would now be renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into
the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for sum‐
mer. Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refresh‐
ing 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 pro‐
ceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily
give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her be‐
ing 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 curt‐
sey; 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 en‐
deavour 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 conversa‐
tion was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for cour‐
age enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sen‐
tence 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 inquiry
after the health of her family. She answered with equal indiffer‐
ence 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 decid‐
ing 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 ob‐
jects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her atten‐
tions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her
brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Eliza‐
beth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get ac‐
quainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at con‐
versation 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 Eliza‐
beth 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 re‐
vealed, 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 at‐
tributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had cer‐
tainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should af‐
fect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is prob‐
able that it might add something to his lively concern for the
welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emo‐
tion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not ap‐
proach 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 re‐
turned 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 con‐
sequence 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 some‐
what nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resol‐
utely 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 ac‐
quaintance.”
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satis‐
faction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but
herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred dur‐
ing 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 en‐
gaged 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 begin‐
ning the subject.
Chapter 46
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a let‐
ter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disap‐
pointment 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 direc‐
tion 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 ac‐
count 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 alarm‐
ing 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 in‐
stantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impa‐
tience, 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 con‐
fined 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. Col‐
onel 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 eas‐
ily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, they
removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that
brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that
they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to
think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London,
Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at
all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
without any success—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 Ly‐
dia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost
to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Col‐
onel 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 won‐
der. 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 beg‐
ging 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 ap‐
peared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and be‐
fore 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 in‐
stant 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 her‐
self, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for
Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gen‐
tleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there noth‐
ing 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 her‐
self. “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 sus‐
pense, 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 noth‐
ing 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 con‐
tracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly
understood it. Her power was sinking; everything _must_ sink un‐
der 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 con‐
trary, 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. Lydi‐
a—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 dis‐
tress! 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 un‐
happy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be
long.”
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sor‐
row 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 cordi‐
ality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as
she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaint‐
ance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the per‐
verseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its con‐
tinuance, 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 de‐
scribed 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 lat‐
ter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill suc‐
cess might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less inter‐
esting 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 pro‐
duce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she en‐
tertained a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but
Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expecta‐
tion. 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 Ly‐
dia 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 in‐
tention 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 Hertford‐
shire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was con‐
vinced 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 af‐
fections had continually been fluctuating but never without an ob‐
ject. 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 inter‐
ference 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 fa‐
vourite 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 expect‐
ing no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three
being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their jour‐
ney was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as pos‐
sible. “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 engage‐
ment. _That_ is all settled.”
“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her
room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to dis‐
close 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 hav‐
ing 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 sup‐
posed, 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 considera‐
tion, 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 abso‐
lute 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 eco‐
nomically, 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 ap‐
prehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonour‐
able elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know noth‐
ing 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 fam‐
ily, 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 mar‐
riage?”
“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Eliza‐
beth, 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 sub‐
jects; 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 man‐
ner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the
―shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirta‐
tion, 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 feel‐
ings; 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 your‐
self, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of
the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality to‐
wards 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, dis‐
agreeable 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 re‐
turned home, the ―shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fort‐
night's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I re‐
lated the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our know‐
ledge 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 Ly‐
dia 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 reas‐
on, 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 re‐
giment, 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 interest‐
ing subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain
them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Eliza‐
beth'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 any‐
thing 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 direc‐
tions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added
that he should not write again till he had something of import‐
ance 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 oth‐
ers, 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 proceed‐
ings, 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 prin‐
cipally 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 For‐
sters 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 Wick‐
ham, 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 re‐
covering 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 mar‐
rying, 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 dread‐
ful 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 en‐
deavours 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 ab‐
sence 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 in‐
curred 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 re‐
flection, 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 irre‐
trievable; 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 un‐
deserving of the other sex.”
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much op‐
pressed 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 any inquiries, which Jane
was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamenta‐
tions over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth con‐
sidered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to
be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by say‐
ing, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not
already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel For‐
ster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elope‐
ment took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”
“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some parti‐
ality, 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 any‐
thing 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 misunder‐
stood before.”
“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you enter‐
tained 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 him‐
self? 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 Eliza‐
beth. 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 pleas‐
ure. 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 sub‐
ject 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 Phil‐
lips 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 can‐
not 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 inquire 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 any‐
thing 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 inquir‐
ies at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the
coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make in‐
quiries 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 diffi‐
culty 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 con‐
stant 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 con‐
sidered 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 free‐
dom. 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 wick‐
edest 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, be‐
came almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before en‐
tirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained
some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife re‐
ceived a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he
had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come
to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and
Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory
information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the
principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they
might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,
before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not ex‐
pect 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 regi‐
ment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would
be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed him‐
self. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probab‐
ility of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential
consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel For‐
ster 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 per‐
son.”
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this defer‐
ence to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to
give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compli‐
ment deserved. She had never heard of his having had any rela‐
tions, 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 situ‐
ation 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 re‐
spectable 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 allevi‐
ate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a cir‐
cumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a par‐
ent'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. How‐
soever 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 af‐
fair. 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 con‐
nect 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 rela‐
tionship 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 fin‐
ances, 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 con‐
siderable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thou‐
sand 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 hor‐
ror. “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 re‐
turn 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 satis‐
faction 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 Long‐
bourn.
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 ex‐
cuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, there‐
fore, could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth,
who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feel‐
ings, 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 ad‐
vice 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 East‐
bourne 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 vil‐
lage. 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 re‐
view 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 de‐
liberately 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 let‐
ter 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 re‐
serve 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 re‐
quired of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her
equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your chil‐
dren 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, consid‐
ering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far
as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by ex‐
press, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wick‐
ham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally be‐
lieved 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 busi‐
ness, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for prepar‐
ing 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 entreaty him to lose no more time
before he wrote.
“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immedi‐
ately. 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 oc‐
curred 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 cer‐
tainly 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 sis‐
ter, 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 good‐
ness 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 like‐
lihood 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 viol‐
ence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obliga‐
tions 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 after‐
wards; 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, per‐
suaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consul‐
ted. 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 Ly‐
dia 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 re‐
ceived 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 an‐
nual 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 in‐
debted 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 ex‐
tent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon
as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be per‐
fectly 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 Ly‐
dia'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 in‐
dependence 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 di‐
vided 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 acced‐
ing to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledg‐
ment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most con‐
cisely, 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 arrange‐
ment. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hun‐
dred 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 in‐
dolence. 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 propor‐
tionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the lat‐
ter 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-do‐
ing 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 con‐
sidered 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 daugh‐
ter, 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 dread‐
ful.”
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 admit‐
tance. 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 re‐
ceive 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 confid‐
ently 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 individu‐
ally to herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable
between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most hon‐
ourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would con‐
nect 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 ex‐
pectation 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 be‐
nefited 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, informa‐
tion, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit
of greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multi‐
tude 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 inde‐
pendence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent hap‐
piness could belong to a couple who were only brought together be‐
cause 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 eager‐
ness 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 ad‐
visable, 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 regi‐
ment, 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. Wick‐
ham 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 informa‐
tion? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not
deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be com‐
pleted 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 re‐
membered to you and your mother.—Yours, etc.,
“E. GARDINER.”
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wick‐
ham's removal from the ―shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could
do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's be‐
ing settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleas‐
ure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up
her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe disap‐
pointment; 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 be‐
ing admitted into her family again before she set off for the
North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Eliza‐
beth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feel‐
ings 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 satis‐
faction 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 car‐
riage 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, em‐
braced 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 hap‐
piness.
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 disgus‐
ted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; un‐
tamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sis‐
ter to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at
length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took no‐
tice 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 ad‐
dress, 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 inquiring after his acquaintance in
that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very
unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have
the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recol‐
lected 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 mar‐
ried woman.”
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embar‐
rassment 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 sis‐
ters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them be‐
fore 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 expec‐
ted 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 hor‐
rid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get togeth‐
er, 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 gra‐
cious 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 let‐
ter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had
dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been in‐
tended.
“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity
must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (com‐
paratively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been
amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me un‐
derstand 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 fin‐
ished 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 inquiries would receive
any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
Chapter 52
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her let‐
ter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in posses‐
sion 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 inquiries to be necessary on _your_
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertin‐
ence. 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 en‐
deavour 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 dis‐
cover 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 main‐
tained 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, of‐
fering 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 exped‐
ite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wick‐
ham, 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 ef‐
fectually 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.
“Every thing 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
inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town
the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person
whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore
readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the
former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was
only known that a gentleman had called on business.
“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 togeth‐
er.
“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 ad‐
dition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission pur‐
chased. 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 talk‐
ing, 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 fin‐
ish.
“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, rep‐
resenting 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 some‐
times 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 say‐
ing (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 sly‐
ness 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 suspi‐
cions 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 obliga‐
tion, 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 considera‐
tions, 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 nat‐
ural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in‐
law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connec‐
tion. 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 remain‐
ing partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause
where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was pain‐
ful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obliga‐
tions 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 per‐
suaded 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 prom‐
ising. 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 re‐
member 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-hu‐
moured 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 al‐
ways of one mind.”
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gal‐
lantry, 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 sis‐
ter 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 daugh‐
ter,” 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 circula‐
tion. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to pre‐
pare 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 bet‐
ter. 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 my‐
self 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 per‐
mission, 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 rais‐
ing 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 prom‐
ised, 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 er‐
rand again.”
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an at‐
tention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his re‐
turning to Netherfield.
“'Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our soci‐
ety, 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 indif‐
ference, 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 Eliza‐
beth; “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 ser‐
vants, 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 to‐
wards 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 al‐
most 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 suspec‐
ted by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment to‐
wards 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 re‐
garded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least
as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her aston‐
ishment 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 Derby‐
shire.
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for
half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight ad‐
ded 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 resent‐
ment 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 of‐
ten 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 improb‐
able, 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 irremedi‐
able infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by
a distinction so ill applied.
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
question which she could not answer without confusion, said
scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the
reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.
There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.
But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his
voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of
curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found
him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object
but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disap‐
pointed, 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 inquired 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, there‐
fore, 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 re‐
giment 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 offi‐
cious 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 in‐
stant, 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 af‐
ford 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 ob‐
serving how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admira‐
tion 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 per‐
ceived 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 for‐
got, 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 some‐
thing 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 Eliza‐
beth.
“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel per‐
fectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embar‐
rassed 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. Ben‐
net, 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 re‐
paired 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 her‐
self. 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 pleas‐
ure 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 dis‐
course, 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 draw‐
ing-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 pour‐
ing 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 cof‐
fee 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 con‐
verse 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 them‐
selves, “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 every‐
body 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 prodi‐
giously.”
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 Eliza‐
beth. “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 morti‐
fies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conver‐
sation 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 know‐
ing. 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 re‐
turn 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 wait‐
ing on them.
“Can you come to-morrow?”
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invita‐
tion 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 ob‐
serve 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 oc‐
casion, 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 in‐
stantly 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 re‐
mained 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 agree‐
able addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill‐
judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly re‐
marks 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 con‐
cluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seri‐
ously, 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 noth‐
ing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ri‐
dicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicat‐
ive, 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 fin‐
ished, 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 Eliza‐
beth 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 hap‐
piness!”
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 happi‐
ness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lov‐
er, 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 gen‐
eral similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself.
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satis‐
faction 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 un‐
like. 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 noth‐
ing! 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 Long‐
bourn; 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 din‐
ner which he thought himself obliged to accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sis‐
ter; 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 ac‐
count 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 re‐
spects. 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 diffid‐
ence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities.
Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the inter‐
ference 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 morn‐
ing 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 some‐
body 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 as‐
tonishment 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 in‐
clination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Eliza‐
beth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship's en‐
trance, 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 Cath‐
erine. “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 hermit‐
age.”
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her para‐
sol, 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 in‐
sincere _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My
character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frank‐
ness, 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 after‐
wards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not in‐
jure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I in‐
stantly 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, col‐
ouring 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 contra‐
dicted.”
“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Eliza‐
beth 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 lady‐
ship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”
“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satis‐
fied. 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 in‐
fatuation, 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 fa‐
vourite 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 import‐
ance 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 oth‐
ers. 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 inclina‐
tions 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 ne‐
cessarily 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 carry‐
ing 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 pi‐
tiable; 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—famil‐
ies. 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 quit‐
ting 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 engage‐
ment?”
“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 intimid‐
ated 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? Sup‐
posing 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 ap‐
plication 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 af‐
fairs, 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 in‐
famous 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 hus‐
band, 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 Pem‐
berley 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 neph‐
ew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connec‐
tion with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sen‐
timents.”
“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 unconnec‐
ted 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 con‐
tempt of the world.”
“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,
“have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No prin‐
ciple of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy.
And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indigna‐
tion 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 Ben‐
net, 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 dis‐
pleased.”
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade
her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it her‐
self. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up
stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the dress‐
ing-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 im‐
possible.
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 Cath‐
erine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this jour‐
ney from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her sup‐
posed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be
sure! but from what the report of their engagement could origin‐
ate, 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 neigh‐
bours 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 immedi‐
ate, 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 Eliza‐
beth 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 ap‐
peared 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 re‐
lation 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 regret‐
ting 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. Ben‐
net'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 daugh‐
ters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very
important conquest.”
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantan‐
eous 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_ saga‐
city, 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 daugh‐
ter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good‐
natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impa‐
tience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to
yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus offered you the sincere con‐
gratulations 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 Eliza‐
beth, 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 illus‐
trious 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 gen‐
tleman'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 prob‐
ably 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 direc‐
ted 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 lady‐
ship 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 indiffer‐
ence, 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 Wick‐
ham, 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 dis‐
tressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a
loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was neces‐
sary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had
most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indif‐
ference, 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 form‐
ing 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 gen‐
eral 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 un‐
exampled 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 be‐
trayed 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 immedi‐
ately, 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 ex‐
pression 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 conver‐
sation 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 al‐
lowed 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 ab‐
using 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, inex‐
pressibly 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, be‐
fore 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 gradu‐
ally 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 expres‐
sions which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essen‐
tial 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 con‐
tentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is
much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful re‐
collections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be re‐
pelled. 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 prin‐
ciples, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortu‐
nately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particu‐
larly, 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 les‐
son, 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 of‐
ten lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ even‐
ing?”
“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 no‐
ticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordin‐
ary 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 ci‐
vility 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 opin‐
ion, 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 natur‐
ally 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 sub‐
ject 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 in‐
formation of it.
“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon hap‐
pen.”
“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 interfer‐
ence 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 eas‐
ily 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 direct‐
ing 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 convic‐
tion 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 ob‐
liged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly,
offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sis‐
ter 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 de‐
lightful 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 anti‐
cipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be in‐
ferior 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 ques‐
tion 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, be‐
sides 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 in‐
credulous 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 cer‐
tain 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 im‐
possible. 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 seri‐
ously. 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 beau‐
tiful grounds at Pemberley.”
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced
the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn as‐
surances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Ben‐
net 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 un‐
willing 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 mar‐
riage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversa‐
tion.
***
“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 propos‐
al; 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 in‐
formation; 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 fol‐
lowed 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 oc‐
casion 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 determ‐
ine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all
his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhor‐
rence 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 disapproba‐
tion.
***
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 dis‐
tressing 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 ex‐
ceedingly 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 car‐
riages than Jane. But will they make you happy?”
“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your be‐
lief 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 ami‐
able. 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 any‐
thing, 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 un‐
equal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery.
My child, let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to re‐
spect 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 en‐
ergy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father's incredu‐
lity, 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 aston‐
ishment.
“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 fol‐
lowed 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 advant‐
age 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 charm‐
ing! 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 gen‐
tleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the
certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her re‐
lations' consent, there was still something to be wished for. But
the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Ben‐
net 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 be‐
haviour 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 impertin‐
ence?”
“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 de‐
ference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the wo‐
men who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for _y‐
our_ 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 dis‐
guise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in
your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assidu‐
ously courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of account‐
ing 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 vir‐
tue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protec‐
tion, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in
return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quar‐
relling 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 af‐
terwards 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 encourage‐
ment.”
“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 your‐
self. 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 grat‐
itude. 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 con‐
sequence?”
“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 more time than courage, Elizabeth.
But it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of pa‐
per, 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 neg‐
lected.”
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 happi‐
ness, 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 particu‐
lars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You sup‐
posed 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 un‐
less 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 approach‐
ing 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 de‐
ceived, 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 informa‐
tion, 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 congrat‐
ulations 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 Eliza‐
beth, 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 com‐
posure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir Wil‐
liam 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 familiar‐
ity 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 el‐
egant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the fre‐
quent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to her‐
self, 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 eleg‐
ance of their family party at Pemberley.
Chapter 61
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Ben‐
net got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what de‐
lighted 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 ef‐
fect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for
the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her hus‐
band, 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 affec‐
tion 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 twelve‐
month. 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 influ‐
ence of Lydia's example, she became, by proper attention and man‐
agement, 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 ne‐
cessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Ben‐
net's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix
more with the world, but she could still moralize over every morn‐
ing 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 revolu‐
tion 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 con‐
gratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her mar‐
riage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by him‐
self, 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 endeav‐
oured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expecta‐
tion 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 dir‐
ection 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 dis‐
charging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the res‐
toration 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 re‐
tained 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. Ly‐
dia 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 af‐
fection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind re‐
ceived 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 al‐
ways 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 arrange‐
ment, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Eliza‐
beth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at
length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to over‐
look 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 re‐
ceived, 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 per‐
sons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of
uniting them.
-================================================================-