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by Jane Austen
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| Pride And Prejudice | table of contents | contents
| Biographical Note | Criticisms And Interpretations | List Of Characters
| Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III
| Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI
| Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX
| Chapter X | Chapter XI | Chapter XII
| Chapter XIII | Chapter XIV | Chapter XV
| Chapter XVI | Chapter XVII | Chapter XVIII
| Chapter XIX | Chapter XX | Chapter XXI
| Chapter XXII | Chapter XXIII | Chapter XXIV
| Chapter XXV | Chapter XXVI | Chapter XXVII
| Chapter XXVIII | Chapter XXIX | Chapter XXX
| Chapter XXXI | Chapter XXXII | Chapter XXXIII
| Chapter XXXIV | Chapter XXXV | Chapter XXXVI
| Chapter XXXVII | Chapter XXXVIII | Chapter XXXIX
| Chapter XL | Chapter XLI | Chapter XLII
| Chapter XLIII | Chapter XLIV | Chapter XLV
| Chapter XLVI | Chapter XLVII | Chapter XLVIII
| Chapter XLIX | Chapter L | Chapter LI
| Chapter LII | Chapter LIII | Chapter LIV
| Chapter LV | Chapter LVI | Chapter LVII
| Chapter LVIII | Chapter LIX | Chapter LX
| Chapter LXI the end | zml
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Pride And Prejudice ......... 142
table of contents ......... 143
Biographical Note ......... 145
Criticisms And Interpretations ......... 148
Criticism/Interpretation I, Sir Walter Scott ......... 149
Criticism/Interpretation II, Lord Macaulay ......... 150
Criticism/Interpretation III, W.F. Pollock ......... 151
Criticism/Interpretation IV, Anne Thackeray Ritchie ......... 152
Criticism/Interpretation V, Goldwin Smith ......... 155
Criticism/Interpretation VI, W.F. Cornish ......... 158
List Of Characters ......... 161
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THE impression of the condition of the Church of
England in the eighteenth century which is conveyed
by the character and writings of Laurence Sterne
receives some necessary modification from a study of the
life and works of Jane Austen. Her father, the Reverend
George Austen, held the two rectories of Deane and
Steventon in Hampshire, having been appointed to them
by the favour of a cousin and an uncle. He thus belonged
to the gentry, and it seems likely that he entered the
church more as a profession than a vocation. He con-
sidered that he fulfilled his functions by preaching once a
week and administering the sacraments; and though he
does not seem to have been a man of spiritual gifts, the
decent and dignified performance of these formal duties
earned him the reputation of a model pastor. His abundant
leisure he occupied in farming the rectory acres, educating
his children, and sharing the social life of his class. The
environment of refined worldliness and good breeding thus
indicated was that in which his daughter lived, and which
she pictured in her books.
Jane Austen was born at Steventon on December 16,
1775, the youngest of seven children. She received her
education -- scanty enough, by modern standards -- at home.
Besides the usual elementary subjects, she learned French
and some Italian, sang a little, and became an expert needle-
woman. Her reading extended little beyond the literature
of the eighteenth century, and within that period she seems
to have cared most for the novels of Richardson and Miss
Burney, and the poems of Cowper and Crabbe. Dr.
Johnson, too, she admired, and later was delighted with
both the poetry and prose of Scott. The first twenty-five
years of her life she spent at Steventon; in 1801 she
moved with her family to Bath, then a great center of
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fashion; after the death of her father in 1805, she lived
with her mother and sister, first at Southampton and
then at Chawton; finally she took lodgings at Winchester
to be near a doctor, and there she died on July 18, 1817,
and was buried in the cathedral. Apart from a few visits
to friends in London and elsewhere, and the vague report
of a love affair with a gentleman who died suddenly, there
is little else to chronicle in this quiet and uneventful life.
But quiet and uneventful though her life was, it yet
supplied her with material for half a dozen novels as
perfect of their kind as any in the language. While still
a young girl she had experimented with various styles of
writing, and when she completed "Pride and Prejudice"
at the age of twenty-two, it was clear that she had found
her appropriate form. This novel, which in many respects
she never surpassed, was followed a year later by
"Northanger Abbey," a satire on the "Gothic" romances
then in vogue; and in 1809 she finished "Sense and Sensi-
bility," begun a dozen years before. So far she had not
succeeded in having any of her works printed; but in 1811
"Sense and Sensibility" appeared in London and won
enough recognition to make easy the publication of the
others. Success gave stimulus, and between 1811 and 1816,
she completed "Mansfield Park," "Emma," and "Persuasion."
The last of these and "Northanger Abbey" were published
posthumously.
The most remarkable characteristic of Jane Austen as a
novelist is her recognition of the limits of her knowledge
of life and her determination never to go beyond these
limits in her books. She describes her own class, in the
part of the country with which she was acquainted; and
both the types of character and the events are such as she
knew from first-hand observation and experience. But to
the portrayal of these she brought an extraordinary power
of delicate and subtle delineation, a gift of lively dialogue,
and a peculiar detachment. She abounds in humor, but it
is always quiet and controlled; and though one feels that
she sees through the affectations and petty hypocrisies of
her circle, she seldom becomes openly satirical. The fine-
ness of her workmanship, unexcelled in the English novel,
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makes possible the discrimination of characters who have
outwardly little or nothing to distinguish them; and the
analysis of the states of mind and feeling of ordinary peo-
ple is done so faithfully and vividly as to compensate for
the lack of passion and adventure. She herself speaks of
the "little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I work,"
and, in contrast with the broad canvases of Fielding or
Scott, her stories have the exquisiteness of a fine miniature.
W.A.N.
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Criticism/Interpretation I, Sir Walter Scott ......... 149
Criticism/Interpretation II, Lord Macaulay ......... 150
Criticism/Interpretation III, W.F. Pollock ......... 151
Criticism/Interpretation IV, Anne Thackeray Ritchie ......... 152
Criticism/Interpretation V, Goldwin Smith ......... 155
Criticism/Interpretation VI, W.F. Cornish ......... 158
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READ again, and for the third time at least. Miss
Austen's very finely written novel of "Pride and
Prejudice." That young lady has a talent for
describing the involvements and feelings and characters of
ordinary life which is to me the most wonderful I ever
met with. The big bow-wow strain I can do myself like
any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders
ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting,
from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is
denied to me. -- From "The Journal of Sir Walter Scott,"
March, 1826.
We bestow no mean compliment upon the author of
"Emma" when we say that keeping close to common inci-
dents, and to such characters as occupy the ordinary walks
of life, she has produced sketches of such spirit and
originality that we never miss the excitation which depends
upon a narrative of uncommon events, arising from the
consideration of minds, manners, and sentiments, greatly
above our own. In this class she stands almost alone; for
the scenes of Miss Edgeworth are laid in higher life, varied
by more romantic incident, and by her remarkable power
of embodying and illustrating national character. But the
author of "Emma" confines herself chiefly to the middling
classes of society; her most distinguished characters do not
rise greatly above well-bred country gentlemen and ladies;
and those which are sketched with most originality and
precision, belong to a class rather below that standard. The
narrative of all her novels is composed of such common
occurrences as may have fallen under the observation of
most folks; and her dramatis personae conduct themselves
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upon the motives and principles which the readers may
recognize as ruling their own, and that of most of their
own acquaintances.-- From "The Quarterly Review,"
October, 1815.
SHAKESPEARE has had neither equal nor second.
But among the writers who, in the point which we
have noticed, have approached nearest to the man-
ner of the great master we have no hesitation in placing
Jane Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud.
She has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a cer-
tain sense, commonplace, all such as we meet every day.
Yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from each other
as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. There
are, for example, four clergymen, none of whom we should
be surprised to find in any parsonage in the kingdom --
Mr. Edward Ferrars, Mr. Henry Tilney, Mr. Edmund Ber-
tram, and Mr. Elton. They are all specimens of the upper
part of the middle class. They have all been liberally
educated. They all lie under the restraints of the same
sacred profession. They are all young. They are all in
love. Not one of them has any hobby-horse, to use the
phrase of Sterne. Not one has a ruling passion, such as
we read of in Pope. Who would not have expected them
to be insipid likenesses of each other? No such thing.
Harpagon is not more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph Sur-
face is not more unlike to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, than
every one of Miss Austen's young divines to all his reverend
brethren. And almost all this is done by touches so delicate
that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of
description, and that we know them to exist only by the
general effect to which they have contributed. -- From essay
on "Madame D'Arblay," 1843.
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MISS AUSTEN never attempts to describe a scene
or a class of society with which she was not her-
self thoroughly acquainted. The conversations of
ladies with ladies, or of ladies and gentlemen together,
are given, but no instance occurs of a scene in which men
only are present. The uniform quality of her work is one
most remarkable point to be observed in it. Let a volume
be opened at any place: there is the same good English,
the same refined style, the same simplicity and truth. There
is never any deviation into the unnatural or exaggerated;
and how worthy of all love and respect is the finely dis-
ciplined genius which rejects the forcible but transient
modes of stimulating interest which can so easily be em-
ployed when desired, and which knows how to trust to
the never-failing principles of human nature! This very
trust has sometimes been made an objection to Miss Austen,
and she has been accused of writing dull stories about
ordinary people. But her supposed ordinary people are
really not such very ordinary people. Let anyone who is
inclined to criticise on this score endeavor to construct
one character from among the ordinary people of his own
acquaintance that shall be capable of interesting any reader
for ten minutes. It will then be found how great has
been the discrimination of Miss Austen in the selection
of her characters, and how skillful is her treatment in the
management of them. It is true that the events are for
the most part those of daily life, and the feelings are
those connected with the usual joys and griefs of familiar
existence; but these are the very events and feelings upon
which the happiness or misery of most of us depends; and
the field which embraces them, to the exclusion of the
wonderful, the sentimental, and the historical, is surely
large enough, as it certainly admits of the most profitable
cultivation. In the end, too, the novel of daily real life
is that of which we are least apt to weary: a round of
fancy balls would tire the most vigorous admirers of
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variety in costume, and the return to plain clothes would
be hailed with greater delight than their occasional re-
linquishment ever gives. Miss Austen's personages are
always in plain clothes, but no two suits are alike: all are
worn with their appropriate differences, and under all
human thoughts and feelings are at work. -- From "Fraser's
Magazine," January, 1860.
NOTWITHSTANDING a certain reticence and self-
control which seems to belong to their age, and
with all their quaint dresses, and ceremonies, and
manners, the ladies and gentlemen in "Pride and Preju-
dice" and its companion novels seem like living people
out of our own acquaintance transported bodily into a by-
gone age, represented in the half-dozen books that con-
tain Jane Austen's works. Dear books! bright, sparkling
with wit and animation, in which the homely heroines
charm, the dull hours fly, and the very bores are enchant-
ing...
She has a gift of telling a story in a way that has never
been surpassed. She rules her places, times, characters,
and marshals them with unerring precision. Her ma-
chinery is simple but complete; events group themselves
so vividly and naturally in her mind that, in describing
imaginary scenes, we seem not only to read them but to
live them, to see the people coming and going -- the gentle-
men courteous and in top-boots, the ladies demure and
piquant; we can almost hear them talking to one another.
No retrospects; no abrupt flights, as in real life: days and
events follow one another. Last Tuesday does not sud-
denly start into existence all out of place; nor does 1790
appear upon the scene when we are well on in '21. Coun-
tries and continents do not fly from hero to hero, nor do
long and divergent adventures happen to unimportant mem-
bers of the company. With Miss Austen, days, hours, min-
utes, succeed each other like clockwork; one central figure
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is always present on the scene; that figure is always pre-
pared for company...
Some books and people are delightful, we can scarce
tell why; they are not so clever as others that weary and
fatigue us. It is a certain effort to read a story, however
touching, that is disconnected and badly related. It is like
an ill-drawn picture, of which the coloring is good. Jane
Austen possessed both gifts of color and drawing. She
could see human nature as it was -- with near-sighted eyes,
it is true; but having seen, she could combine her picture
by her art, and color it from life...
It is difficult, reading the novels of succeeding gen-
erations, to determine how much each book reflects of
the time in which it was written; how much of its char-
acter depends upon the mind and mood of the writer. The
greatest minds, the most original, have the least stamp of
the age, the most of that dominant natural reality which
belongs to all great minds. We know how a landscape
changes as the day goes on, and how the scene brightens
and gains in beauty as the shadows begin to lengthen.
The clearest eyes must see by the light of their own hour.
Jane Austen's hour must have been a midday hour --
bright, unsuggestive, with objects standing clear without
relief or shadow. She did not write of herself, but of
the manners of her age. This age is essentially an age
of men and women of strained emotion, little remains of
starch, or powder, or courtly reserve. What we have lost
in calm, in happiness, in tranquillity, we have gained in
intensity. Our danger is now, not of expressing and feel-
ing too little, but of expressing more than we feel...
Miss Austen's heroines have a stamp of their own. They
have a certain gentle self-respect and humor and hard-
ness of heart in which modern heroines are a little want-
ing. Whatever happens they can for the most part speak
of gayly and without bitterness. Love with them does not
mean a passion so much as an interest -- deep, silent, not
quite incompatible with a secondary flirtation. Marianne
Dashwood's tears are evidently meant to be dried. Jane
Bennet smiles, sighs, and makes excuses for Bingley's neg-
lect. Emma passes one disagreeable morning making up
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her mind to the unnatural alliance between Mr. Knightley
and Harriet Smith. It was the spirit of the age, and
perhaps one not to be unenvied. It was not that Jane
Austen herself was incapable of understanding a deeper
feeling. In the last written page of her last written book
there is an expression of the deepest and truest experi-
ence. Anne Elliot's talk with Captain Harville is the touch-
ing utterance of a good woman's feelings. They are speak-
ing of men and women's affections. "You are always labor-
ing and toiling," she says, "exposed to every risk and hard-
ship. Your home, country, friends, all united; neither time
nor life to call your own. It would be hard indeed (with
a faltering voice) if a woman's feelings were to be added
to all this."
Farther on she says eagerly: "I hope I do justice to all
that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God
forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful
feelings of any of my fellow-creatures. I should deserve
utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attach-
ment and constancy were known only by woman. No!
I believe you capable of everything great and good in your
married lives. I believe you equal to every important exer-
tion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as -- if I
may be allowed the expression -- so long as you have an
object; I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives
for you. _All_ _the_ _privilege_ _I_ _claim_ _for_ _my_ _own_ _(it_ _is_ _not_
_a_ _very_ _enviable_ _one,_ _you_ _need_ _not_ _court_ _it)_ _is_ _that_ _of_ _loving_
_longest_ _when_ _existence_ _or_ _when_ _hope_ _is_ _gone."_
She could not immediately have uttered another sen-
tence -- her heart was too full, her breath too much op-
pressed.
Dear Anne Elliot! sweet, impulsive, womanly, tender-
hearted! -- one can almost hear her voice pleading the cause
of all true women. In those days, when perhaps people's
nerves were stronger than they are now, sentiment may
have existed in a less degree, or have been more ruled
by judgment; it may have been calmer and more matter-
of-fact; and yet Jane Austen, at the very end of her life,
wrote thus. Her words seem to ring in our ears after
they have been spoken. Anne Elliot must have been Jane
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Austen herself, speaking for the last time. There is some-
thing so true, so womanly about her, that it is impossible
not to love her. She is the bright-eyed heroine of the
earlier novels matured, chastened, cultivated, to whom fidelity
has brought only greater depth and sweetness instead of
bitterness and pain. -- From "The Cornhill Magazine,"
August, 1871.
AS we should expect from such a life, Jane Austen's
view of the world is genial, kindly, and, we repeat,
free from anything like cynicism. It is that of a
clear-sighted and somewhat satirical onlooker, loving what
deserves love, and amusing herself with the foibles, the self-
deceptions, the affectations of humanity. Refined almost to
fastidiousness, she is hard upon vulgarity; not, however,
on good-natured vulgarity, such as that of Mrs. Jennings in
"Sense and Sensibility," but on vulgarity like that of Miss
Steele, in the same novel, combined at once with effrontery
and with meanness of soul...
To sentimentality Jane Austen was a foe. Antipathy to
it runs through her works. She had encountered it in the
romances of the day, such as the works of Mrs. Radcliffe
and in people who had fed on them. What she would have
said if she had encountered it in the form of Rousseauism
we can only guess. The solid foundation of her own char-
acter was good sense, and her type of excellence as dis-
played in her heroines is a woman full of feeling, but with
her feelings thoroughly under control. Genuine sensibility,
however, even when too little under control, she can regard
as lovable. Marianne in "Sense and Sensibility" is an ob-
ject of sympathy, because her emotions, though they are
ungoverned and lead her into folly, are genuine, and are
matched in intensity by her sisterly affection. But affected
sentiment gets no quarter...
Jane Austen had, as she was sure to have, a feeling for
the beauties of nature. She paints in glowing language the
scenery of Lyme. She speaks almost with rapture of a
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view which she calls thoroughly English, though never hav-
ing been out of England she could hardly judge of its
scenery by contrast. She was deeply impressed by the sea,
on which, she says, "all must linger and gaze, on their first
return to it, who ever deserves to look on it at all." But
admiration of the picturesque had "become a mere jargon,"
from which Jane Austen recoiled. One of her characters
is made to say that he likes a fine prospect, but not on pic-
turesque principles; that he prefers tall and flourishing trees
to those which are crooked and blasted; neat to ruined cot-
tages, snug farmhouses to watchtowers, and a troop of tidy,
happy villagers to the finest banditti in the world...
Jane Austen held the mirror up to her time, or at least
to a certain class of the people of her time; and her time
was two generations and more before ours. We are re-
minded of this as we read her works by a number of little
touches of manners and customs belonging to the early part
of the century, and anterior to the rush of discovery and
development which the century has brought with it. There
are no railroads, and no lucifer matches. It takes you two
days and a half, even when you are flying on the wings
of love or remorse, to get from Somersetshire to London.
A young lady who has snuffed her candle out has to go to
bed in the dark. The watchman calls the hours of the night.
Magnates go about in chariots and four with outriders,
their coachmen wearing wigs. People dine at five, and in-
stead of spending the evening in brilliant conversation as
we do, they spend it in an unintellectual rubber of whist,
or a round game. Life is unelectric, untelegraphic; it is
spent more quietly and it is spent at home. If you are capa-
ble of enjoying tranquillity, at least by way of occasional
contrast to the stir and stress of the present age, you will
find in these tales the tranquillity of a rural neighborhood
and a little country town in England a century ago.
That Jane Austen held up the mirror to her time must be
remembered when she is charged with want of delicacy
in dealing with the relations between the sexes, and espe-
cially in speaking of the views of women with regard to
matrimony. Women in those days evidently did consider a
happy marriage as the best thing that destiny could have in
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store for them. They desired it for themselves and they
sought it for their daughters. Other views had not opened
out to them; they had not thought of professions or public
life, nor had it entered into the mind of any of them that
maternity was not the highest duty and the crown of woman-
hood. Apparently they also confessed their aims to them-
selves and to each other with a frankness which would be
deemed indelicate in our time. The more worldly and am-
bitious of them sought in marriage rank and money, and
avowed that they did, whereas they would not avow it at
the present day. Gossip and speculation on these subjects
were common and more unrefined than they are now, and
they naturally formed a large part of the amusement of the
opulent and idle class from which Jane Austen's characters
were drawn. Often, too, she is ironical; the love of irony
is a feature of her mind, and for this also allowance must be
made. She does not approve or reward matchmaking or
husband-hunting. Mrs. Jennings, the great matchmaker in
"Sense and Sensibility," is also a paragon of vulgarity. Mrs.
Norris's matchmaking in "Mansfield Park" leads to the most
calamitous results. Charlotte Lucas in "Pride and Preju-
dice," who unblushingly avows that her object is a husband
with a good income, gets what she sought, but you are made
to see that she has bought it dear...
The life which Jane Austen painted retains its leading
features, and is recognized by the reader at the present
day with little effort of the imagination. It is a life of opu-
lent quiet and rather dull enjoyment, physically and morally
healthy compared with that of a French aristocracy, though
without much of the salt of duty; a life uneventful, exempt
from arduous struggles and devoid of heroism, a life pre-
senting no materials for tragedy and hardly an element of
pathos, a life of which matrimony is the chief incident, and
the most interesting objects are the hereditary estate and the
heir.
Such a life could evidently furnish no material for ro-
mance. It could furnish materials only for that class of
novel which corresponds to sentimental comedy. To that
class all Jane Austen's novels belong. -- From "Life of Jane
Austen," in "Great Writers," 1890.
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JANE AUSTEN needs no testimonials; her position is
at this moment established on a firmer basis than that
of any of her contemporaries. She has completely
distanced Miss Edgeworth, Miss Ferrier, Fanny Burney,
and Hannah More, writers who eclipsed her modest reputa-
tion in her own day. The readers of "Evelina," "Ormond,"
"Marriage," or "Caelebs" are few; but hundreds know inti-
mately every character and every scene in "Pride and
Prejudice." She has survived Trollope and Mrs. Gaskell:
one may almost say that she is less out of date than Currer
Bell and George Eliot. It was not always so. In 1859 a
writer in "Blackwood's Magazine" spoke of her as "being
still unfamiliar in men's mouths" and "not even now a house-
hold word."
The reason for this comparative obscurity in her own
time, compared with her fame at the present day, may in
some measure be that in writing, as in other arts, finish is
now more highly prized than formerly. But conception as
well as finish is in it. The miracle in Jane Austen's writing
is not only that her presentment of each character is com-
plete and consistent, but also that every fact and particu-
lar situation is viewed in comprehensive proportion and re-
lation to the rest... Some facts and expressions
which pass almost unnoticed by the reader, and quite un-
noticed by the other actors in the story, turn up later to
take their proper place. She never drops a stitch. The
reason is not so much that she took infinite trouble, though
no doubt she did, as that everything was actual to her, as in
his larger historical manner everything was actual to Ma-
caulay.
It is easier to feel than to estimate a genius which has
no parallel. Jane Austen's faults are obvious. She has no
remarkable distinction of style. Her plots, though worked
out with microscopic delicacy, are neither original nor
striking; incident is almost absent; she repeats situations,
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and to some extent even characters. She cared for story
and situation only as they threw light on character. She
has little idealism, little romance, tenderness, poetry, or re-
ligion. All this may be conceded, and yet she stands by the
side of Moliere, unsurpassed among writers of prose and
poetry, within the limits which she imposed on herself, for
clear and sympathetic vision of human character.
She sees everything in clear outline and perspective. She
does not care to analyze by logic what she knows by intui-
tion; she does not search out the grounds of motive like
George Eliot, nor illumine them like Meredith by search-
light flashes of insight, nor like Hardy display them by irony,
sardonic or pitying, nor like Henry James thread a laby-
rinth of indications and intimations, repulsions and attrac-
tions right and left, all pointing to the central temple, where
sits the problem. She has no need to construct her char-
acters, for there they are before her, like Mozart's music,
only waiting to be written down. -- From "Jane Austen" in
"English Men of Letters."
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Mr. Bennet:
:a gentleman in moderate circumstances living in a small town in Hertfordshire.
Mrs. Bennet:
:his wife.
Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, Lydia:
:daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.
Sir William Lucas:
:an affable knight, formerly in trade.
Lady Lucas:
:his wife.
Charlotte, Maria, Master Lucas:
:children of Sir William and Lady Lucas.
Mr. Charles Bingley:
:a rich and amiable young man of leisure.
Mr. Hurst:
:brother-in-law of Mr. Bingley.
Mrs. Hurst, Miss Caroline Bingley:
:sisters of Mr. Bingley.
Fitzwilliam Darcy:
:a friend of Mr. Bingley, and a young man of wealth and high station.
Mrs. Reynolds:
:Darcy's housekeeper.
Georgiana Darcy:
:younger sister of Mr. Darcy.
Colonel Forster:
:of the ____shire Regiment.
Mrs. Forster:
:his wife.
Mr. Philips:
:successor to Mrs. Bennet's father in business.
Mrs. Philips:
:his wife, and sister to Mrs. Bennet.
Mr. Gardiner:
:in business in London, and a brother of Mrs. Bennet.
Mrs. Gardiner:
:his wife.
Young children of the Gardiners:
:several of these rascals.
Rev. William Collins:
:a pompous and obsequious clergyman, and cousin to the Bennets.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh:
:a domineering, rich old lady, and aunt of Mr. Darcy.
Miss de Bourgh:
:invalid daughter of Lady Catherine.
Mrs. Jenkinson:
:an old lady, chiefly employed in watching Miss de Bourgh
Colonel Fitzwilliam:
:a cousin of Mr. Darcy, and nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Mr. Wickham:
:a worthless young officer in the ____shire Regiment.
Miss King:
:courted by Wickham.
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[162]
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IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man
in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a
wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man
may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so
well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he
is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of
their daughters.
'My dear Mr. Bennet,' said his lady to him one day, 'have
you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?'
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
'But it is,' returned she; 'for Mrs. Long has just been here,
and she told me all about it.'
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
'Do not you want to know who has taken it?' cried his wife,
impatiently.
_'You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.'
This was invitation enough.
'Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that
Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from
the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a
chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted
with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his
servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.'
'What is his name?'
'Bingley.'
'Is he married or single?'
'Oh, single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large
fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for
our girls!'
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'How so? how can it affect them?'
'My dear Mr. Bennet,' replied his wife, 'how can you be
so tiresome? You must know that I am thinking of his
marrying one of them.'
'Is that his design in settling here?'
'Design? nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very
likely that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and there-
fore you must visit him as soon as he comes.'
'I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or
you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still
better, for, as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr.
Bingley might like you the best of the party.'
'My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share
of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary
now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she
ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.'
'In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to
think of.'
'But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley
when he comes into the neighbourhood.'
'It is more than I engage for, I assure you.'
'But consider your daughters. Only think what an estab-
lishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady
Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account; for in
general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you
m_us_t go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him, if you
do not.'
'You are over scrupulous, surely. I daresay Mr. Bingley
will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by
you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying
whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in
a good word for my little Lizzy.'
'I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit
better than the others: and I am sure she is not half so
handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia.
But you are always giving _her_ the preference.'
'They have none of them much to recommend them,'
replied he: 'they are all silly and ignorant like other girls;
but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her
sisters.'
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'Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such
a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no com-
passion on my poor nerves.'
'You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your
nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention
them with consideration these twenty years at least.'
'Ah, you do not know what I suffer.'
'But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many
young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbour-
hood.'
'It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since
you will not visit them.'
'Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I
will visit them all.'
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic
humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-
and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife un-
derstand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to de-
velop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little
information, and uncertain temper. When she was discon-
tented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her
life was to get her daughters married: its solace was visiting
and news.
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MR. BENNET was among the earliest of those who
waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to
visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife
that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in
the following manner. Observing his second daughter em-
ployed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with,--
'I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.'
'We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,'
said her mother, resentfully, 'since we are not to visit.'
'But you forget, mamma,' said Elizabeth, 'that we shall
meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised
to introduce him.'
'I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She
has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical
woman, and I have no opinion of her.'
'No more have I,' said Mr. Bennet; 'and I am glad to find
that you do not depend on her serving you.'
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable
to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
'Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have
a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.'
'Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,' said her father;
'she times them ill.'
'I do not cough for my own amusement,' replied Kitty,
fretfully. 'When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?'
'To-morrow fortnight.'
'Ay, so it is,' cried her mother, 'and Mrs. Long does not
come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for
her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.'
'Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your
friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her?'_
'Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not ac-
quainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?'
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'I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaint-
ance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man
really is by the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture,
somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces
must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it
an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on
myself.'
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
'Nonsense, nonsense!'
'What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?'
cried he. 'Do you consider the forms of introduction, and
the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite
agree with you _there._ What say you, Mary? for you are a
young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books,
and make extracts.'
Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not
how.
'While Mary is adjusting her ideas,' he continued, 'let us
return to Mr. Bingley.'
'I am sick of Mr. Bingley,' cried his wife.
'I am sorry to hear _that;_ but why did not you tell me so
before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly
would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I
have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaint-
ance now.'
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished;
that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though
when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare
that it was what she had expected all the while.
'How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet. But I
knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved
your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well,
how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you
should have gone this morning, and never said a word about
it till now.'
'Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,' said
Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued
with the raptures of his wife.
'What an excellent father you have, girls,' said she, when
the door was shut. 'I do not know how you will ever make
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him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter.
At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be
making new acquaintance every day; but for your sakes we
would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the
youngest, I daresay 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.
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NOT all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance
of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was
sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory
description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various
ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they
were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of
their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favour-
able. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was
quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and,
to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with
a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be
fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;
and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were enter-
tained.
'If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
Netherfield,' said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, 'and all the
others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.'
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and
sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had enter-
tained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies,
of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the
father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they
had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window,
that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched;
and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were
to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived
which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town
the following day, and consequently unable to accept the
honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite dis-
concerted. She could not imagine what business he could
have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and
she began to fear that he might always be flying about from
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one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he
ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting
the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party
for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was
to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the
assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies;
but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing that,
instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from
London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party
entered the assembly-room, it consisted of only five alto-
gether: Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the
eldest, and another young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had
a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His
sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His
brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but
his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by
his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the
report, which was in general circulation within five minutes
after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The
gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the
ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley,
and he was looked at with great admiration for about half
the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the
tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to
be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from
having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and
being unworthy to be compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all
the principal people in the room: he was lively and unre-
served, 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 con-
trast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only
once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined
being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the
evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to
one of his own party. His character was decided. He was
the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every-
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body hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst
the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dis-
like 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 gen-
tlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that
time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to
overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who
came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend
to join it.
'Come, Darcy,' said he, 'I must have you dance. I hate to
see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.
You had much better dance.'
'I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless
I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an
assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are
engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom
it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.'
'I would not be so fastidious as you are,' cried Bingley,
'for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so
many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and
there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.'
_'You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,'
said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
'Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!
But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you,
who is very pretty, and I daresay very agreeable. Do let
me ask my partner to introduce you.'
'Which do you mean?' and turning round, he looked for
a moment at Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew
his own, and coldly said, 'She is tolerable; but not handsome
enough to tempt _me;_ and I am in no humour at present to
give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other
men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.'
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off;
and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards
him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among
her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which
delighted in anything ridiculous.
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The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole
family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much
admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters.
Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be,
though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure.
Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the
most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine
and Lydia had been fortunate enough to be never without
partners, which was all that they had yet learned to care for
at a ball.
They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn,
the village where they lived, and of which they were
the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up.
With a book, he was regardless of time; and on the present
occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an
evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He
had rather hoped that all his wife's views on the stranger
would be disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very
different story to hear.
'Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,' as she entered the room, 'we
have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I
wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing
could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and
Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her
twice. Only think of _that,_ my dear; he actually danced with
her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he
asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I
was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he
did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can, you know;
and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down
the dance. So he 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
impatiently, 'he would not have danced half so much! For
God's sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had
sprained his ankle in the first dance!'
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'Oh, my dear,' continued Mrs. Bennet, 'I am quite delighted
with him. He is so excessively handsome! and his sisters
are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more
elegant than their dresses. I daresay the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown--'
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested
against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged
to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much
bitterness of spirit, and some exaggeration, the shocking
rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
'But I can assure you,' she added, 'that Lizzy does not lose
much by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable,
horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so con-
ceited, 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.'
[173]
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WHEN Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former,
who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bing-
ley before, expressed to her sister how very much
she admired him.
'He is just what a young man ought to be,' said she, 'sen-
sible, 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 cer-
tainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him.
You have liked many a stupider person.'
'Dear Lizzy!'
'Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people
in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the
world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard
you speak ill of a human being in my life.'
'I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I
always speak what I think.'
'I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder.
With _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies
and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common
enough; one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid
without ostentation or design, -- to take the good of every-
body'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.'
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'Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women
when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with
her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if
we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.'
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their
behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please
in general; and with more quickness of observation and less
pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment, too,
unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little
disposed to approve them. They were, in fact, very fine
ladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased,
nor in the power of being agreeable where they chose it; but
proud and conceited. They were rather handsome; had been
educated in one of the first private seminaries in town; had a
fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the habit of
spending more than they ought, and of associating with people
of rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to
think well of themselves and meanly of others. They were of
a respectable family in the north of England; a circum-
stance more deeply impressed on their memories than that
their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by
trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a
hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended
to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley
intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his
county; but, as he was now provided with a good house and
the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might
not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave
the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of
his own; but though he was now established only as a tenant,
Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his
table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more
fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as
her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recom-
mendation, to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it,
and into it, for half an hour; was pleased with the situation
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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 friend-
ship, in spite of a great opposition of character. Bingley
was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductil-
ity of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater
contrast to his own, and though with his own he never ap-
peared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard Bing-
ley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest
opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bing-
ley was by no means deficient; but Darcy was clever. He
was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious; and
his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In that
respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was con-
tinually giving offence.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly
was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with
pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had
been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no
formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all
the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an
angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no
fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest,
and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss
Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too
much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they
admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet
girl, and one whom they should not object to know more of.
Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl; and
their brother felt authorised by such commendation to think
of her as he chose.
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WITHIN a short walk of Longbourn lived a family
with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate.
Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in
Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen
to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king dur-
ing his mayoralty. The distinction had, perhaps, been felt
too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business and
to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting them
both, he had removed with his family to a house about a
mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas
Lodge; where he could think with pleasure of his own im-
portance and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely
in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his
rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he
was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive,
friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had
made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever
to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had sev-
eral children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent
young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's inti-
mate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet
to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morn-
ing after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to
hear and to communicate.
_'You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,' said Mrs. Bennet,
with civil self-command, to Miss Lucas. _'You_ were Mr.
Bingley's first choice.'
'Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.'
'Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with
her twice. To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her --
indeed, I rather believe he _did_ -- I heard something about it --
but I hardly know what -- something about Mr. Robinson.'
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'Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and
Mr. Robinson: did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's
asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether
he did not think there were a great many pretty women in
the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his an-
swering immediately to the last question, Oh, the eldest Miss
Bennet, beyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that
point.'
'Upon my word! Well, that was very decided, indeed --
that does seem as if -- but, however, it may all come to noth-
ing, 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 will 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.'
'Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Nether-
field, and he could not help answering her; but she said he
seemed very angry at being spoken to.'
'Miss Bingley told me,' said Jane, 'that he never speaks
much unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_
he is remarkably agreeable.'
'I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been
so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But
I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up
with pride, and I daresay he had heard somehow that Mrs.
Long does not keep a carriage, and had to 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.'
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'His pride,' said Miss Lucas, 'does not offend _me_ so much
as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One
cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family,
fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of
himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.'
'That is very true,' replied Elizabeth, 'and I could easily
forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine.'_
'Pride,' observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the
solidity of her reflections, 'is a very common failing, I be-
lieve. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that
it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly
prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not
cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are
different things, though the words are often used
synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain.
Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity to
what we would have others think of us.'
'If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,' cried a young Lucas,
who came with his sisters, 'I should not care how proud I
was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle
of wine every day.'
'Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,'
said Mrs. Bennet; 'and if I were to see you at it, I should
take away your bottle directly.'
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to
declare that she would; and the argument ended only with
the visit.
[179]
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THE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of
Netherfield. The visit was returned in due form.
Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the good-
will 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 in-
fluence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evi-
dent, whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to
_her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the
preference which she had begun to entertain for him from
the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she
considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be dis-
covered by the world in general, since Jane united with
great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her
from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned
this to her friend Miss Lucas.
'It may, perhaps, be pleasant,' replied Charlotte, 'to be
able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is some-
times a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman
conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of
it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will
then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally
in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in
almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to
itself. We can all _begin_ freely -- a slight preference is
natural enough; but there are very few of us who have
heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.
[180]
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In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister un-
doubtedly; 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. _I_f I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a
simpleton indeed not to discover it too.'
'Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposi-
tion as you do.'
'But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not en-
deavour to conceal it, he must find it out.'
'Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though
Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many
hours together; and as they always see each other in large
mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should
be employed in conversing together. Jane should there-
fore make the most of every half-hour in which she
can command his attention. When she is secure of
him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she
chooses.'
'Your plan is a good one,' replied Elizabeth, 'where
nothing is in question but the desire of being well married;
and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any
husband, I daresay I should adopt it. But these are not
Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet she
cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor
of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight.
She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him
one morning at his own house, and has since dined in com-
pany with him four times. This is not quite enough to
make her understand his character.'
'Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with
him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good
appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have
been also spent together -- and four evenings may do a
great deal.'
'Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain
that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with
respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine
that much has been unfolded.'
[181]
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'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 disposi-
tions 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 suf-
ficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation;
and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects
of the person with whom you are to pass your life.'
'You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You
know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this
way yourself.'
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her
sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was her-
self becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his
friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be
pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to
criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and
his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face,
than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly in-
telligent 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 playful-
ness. Of this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was
only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and
who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step
towards conversing with her himself, attended to her con-
versation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It
was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.
'What does Mr. Darcy mean,' said she to Charlotte, 'by
listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?'
[182]
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'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 with-
out seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas
defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which
immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to
him and said,--
'Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself
uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel
Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?'
'With great energy; but it is a subject which always
makes a lady energetic.'
'You are severe on us.'
'It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,' said Miss Lucas.
'I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know
what follows.'
'You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! --
always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and
everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you
would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really
rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit
of hearing the very best performers.' On Miss Lucas's
persevering, however, she added, 'Very well; if it must be
so, it must.' And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, 'There is
a very 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 accomplish-
ments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity
had given her application, it had given her likewise a
pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have in-
[183]
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jured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached.
Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and
Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase
praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the 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 con-
versation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts
to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till
Sir William thus began:--
'What a charming amusement for young people this is,
Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing, after all. I con-
sider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.'
'Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in
vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world; every
savage can dance.'
Sir William only smiled. 'Your friend performs delight-
fully,' he continued, after a pause, on seeing Bingley join
the group; 'and I doubt not that you are an adept in the
science yourself, Mr. Darcy.'
'You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.'
'Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from
the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?'
'Never, sir.'
'Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to
the place?'
'It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I
can avoid it.'
'You have a house in town, I conclude.'
Mr. Darcy bowed.
'I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I
am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain
that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.'
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was
not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant
moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of
doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,--
[184]
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'My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr.
Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you
as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I
am sure, when so much beauty is before you.' And, taking
her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though
extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when
she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure
to Sir William,--
'Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I
entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order
to beg for a partner.'
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed
the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was deter-
mined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his
attempt at persuasion.
'You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is
cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though
this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can
have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-
hour.'
'Mr. Darcy is all politeness,' said Elizabeth, smiling.
'He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear
Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who
would object to such a partner?'
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance
had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking
of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss
Bingley,--
'I can guess the subject of your reverie.'
'I should imagine not.'
'You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass
many evenings in this manner, -- in such society; and, in-
deed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more an-
noyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise -- the nothingness,
and yet the self-importance, of all these people! What
would I give to hear your strictures on them!'
'Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind
was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on
the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the
face of a pretty woman can bestow.'
[185]
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Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and
desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of in-
spiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied, with great
intrepidity,--
'Miss Elizabeth Bennet.'
'Miss Elizabeth Bennet!' repeated Miss Bingley. 'I am
all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?
and pray when am I to wish you joy?'
'That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask.
A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration
to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you
would be wishing me joy.'
'Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the
matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming
mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always
at Pemberley with you.'
He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she
chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his com-
posure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed along.
[186]
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MR. BENNET'S property consisted almost entirely in
an estate of two thousand a year, which, un-
fortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in de-
fault 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. Philips, who had been
a clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business,
and a brother settled in London, in a respectable line of
trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from
Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies,
who were usually tempted thither three or four times a
week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner's
shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these
attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters',
and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was
necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish con-
versation for the evening; and, however bare of news the
country in general might be, they always contrived to
learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were
well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent
arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was
to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-
quarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the
most interesting intelligence. Every day added something
to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections.
Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they
began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited
them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity
[187]
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unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers;
and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which
gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes
when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this sub-
ject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed,--
'From all that I can collect by your manner of talking,
you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have
suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.'
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but
Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her
admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him
in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning
to London.
'I am astonished, my dear,' said Mrs. Bennet, 'that you
should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I
wished to think slightingly of anybody's children, it should
not be of my own, however.'
'If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible
of it.'
'Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.'
'This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do
not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in
every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to
think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.'
'My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to
have the sense of their father and mother. When they get
to our age, I daresay they will not think about officers any
more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red
coat myself very well -- and, indeed, so I do still at my heart;
and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a
year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to
him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming
the other night at Sir William's in his regimentals.'
'Mamma,' cried Lydia, 'my aunt says that Colonel Forster
and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as
they did when they first came; she sees them now very often
standing in Clarke's library.'
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the
footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Nether-
[188]
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field, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's
eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out,
while her daughter read,--
'Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What
does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make
haste, my love.'
'It is from Miss Bingley,' said Jane, and then read it
aloud.
> 'My Dear Friend -- If you are not so compassionate as to dine
> to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each
> other for the rest of our lives; for a whole day's tete-a-tete between
> two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you
> can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to
> dine with the officers. Yours ever,
>
> 'Caroline Bingley'
'With the officers!' cried Lydia: 'I wonder my aunt did
not tell us of _that.'_
'Dining out,' said Mrs. Bennet; 'that is very unlucky.'
'Can I have the carriage?' said Jane.
'No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it
seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.'
'That would be a good scheme,' said Elizabeth, 'if you
were sure that they would not offer to send her home.'
'Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to
go to Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.'
'I had much rather go in the coach.'
'But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am
sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not
they?'
'They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can
get them.'
'But if you have got them to-day,' said Elizabeth, 'my
mother's purpose will be answered.'
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment
that the horses were engaged; Jane was therefore obliged
to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door
with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes
were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it
rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her
mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole even-
[189]
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ing without intermission; Jane certainly could not come
back.
'This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!' said Mrs. Bennet,
more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all
her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not
aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was
scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the
following note for Elizabeth:--
> 'My Dearest Lizzy -- I find myself very unwell this morning,
> which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yes-
> terday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till
> I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones -- therefore do
> not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me -- and,
> excepting a sore throat and a 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 illness -- if she should die -- it would be a
comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley,
and under your orders.'
'Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not
die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of.
As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go
and see her if I could have the carriage.'
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her
though the carriage was not to be had: and as she was no
horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She de-
clared her resolution.
'How can you be so silly,' cried her mother, 'as to think
of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be
seen when you get there.'
'I shall be very fit to see Jane -- which is all I want.'
'Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,' said her father, 'to send for
the horses?'
'No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The
distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three
miles. I shall be back by dinner.'
'I admire the activity of your benevolence,' observed
Mary, 'but every impulse of feeling should be guided by
[190]
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reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in
proportion to what is required.'
'We will go as far as Meryton with you,' said Catherine
and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three
young ladies set off together.
'If we make haste,' said Lydia, as they walked along,
'perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter, before
he goes.'
In Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the
lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth con-
tinued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick
pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles, with
impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view
of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.
She was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but
Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a
great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three
miles so early in the day in such dirty weather, and by her-
self, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in con-
tempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by
them; and in their brother's manners there was something
better than politeness -- there was good-humour and kind-
ness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing
at all. The former was divided between admiration
of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her
complexion and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her
coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of his
breakfast.
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably
answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and, though up, was
very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room.
Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and
Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how
much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her en-
trance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation;
and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt
little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary
[191]
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kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
her.
When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters;
and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how
much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The
apothecary came; and having examined his patient, said, as
might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and
that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her
to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The
advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms in-
creased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit
her room for a moment, nor were the other ladies often
absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact nothing
to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must
go, and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her
the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept
it, when Jane testified such concern at parting with her that
Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise
into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was
despatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her
stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.
[192]
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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, she could not make
a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better.
The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times
how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have
a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill
themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and
their indifference towards Jane, when not immediately be-
fore them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her
original dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom
she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for
Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleas-
ing; and they prevented her feeling herself so much an
intruder as she believed she was considered by the others.
She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley
was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so;
and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an
indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a
ragout, had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and
Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of
the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad
indeed, -- a mixture of pride and impertinence: she had no
conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst
thought the same, and added,--
'She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being
an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance
this morning. She really looked almost wild.'
'She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my counte-
nance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be
[193]
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scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold?
Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!'
'Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six
inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown
which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.'
'Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,' said Bingley;
'but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth
Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room
this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.'
_'You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,' said Miss
Bingley; 'and I am inclined to think that you would not
wish to see _your_ _sister_ make such an exhibition.'
'Certainly not.'
'To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or what-
ever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone!
what could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an
abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-
town indifference to decorum.'
'It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,'
said Bingley.
'I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,' observed Miss Bingley, in a
half whisper, 'that this adventure has rather affected your
admiration of her fine eyes.'
'Not at all,' he replied: 'they were brightened by the
exercise.' A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs.
Hurst began again,--
'I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, -- she is
really a very sweet girl, -- and I wish with all my heart she
were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and
such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.'
'I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an at-
torney 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 marry-
ing men of any consideration in the world,' replied Darcy.
[194]
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To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters
gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for
some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar
relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to
her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till
summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and
Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening,
when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when
it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should
go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room, she
found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited
to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high, she
declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would
amuse herself, for the short time she could stay below, with
a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
'Do you prefer reading to cards?' said he; 'that is rather
singular.'
'Miss Eliza Bennet,' said Miss Bingley, 'despises cards.
She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.'
'I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,' cried
Elizabeth; 'I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
many things.'
'In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,' said
Bingley; 'and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her
quite well.'
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked
towards a table where a few books were lying. He im-
mediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library
afforded.
'And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit
and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow; and though I
have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.'
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly
with those in the room.
'I am astonished,' said Miss Bingley, 'that my father
should have left so small a collection of books. What a
delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!'
'It ought to be good,' he replied: 'it has been the work of
many generations.'
[195]
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'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 Derby-
shire.'
'With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy
will sell it.'
'I am talking of possibilities, Charles.'
'Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible
to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.'
Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed as to leave
her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it
wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed
herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to ob-
serve the game.
'Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?' said Miss
Bingley: 'will she be as tall as I am?'
'I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth
Bennet's height, or rather taller.'
'How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody
who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such
manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age. Her
performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.'
'It is amazing to me,' said Bingley, 'how young ladies can
have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.'
'All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what
do you mean?'
'Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover
screens, and net purses. I scarcely know any one who
cannot do all this; and I am sure I never heard a young
lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed
that she was very accomplished.'
[196]
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'Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,' said
Darcy, 'has too much truth. The word is applied to many
a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a
purse or covering a screen; but I am very far from agree-
ing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen in the
whole range of my acquaintance that are really accomplished.'
'Nor I, I am sure,' said Miss Bingley.
'Then,' observed Elizabeth, 'you must comprehend a great
deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.'
'Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.'
'Oh, certainly,' cried his faithful assistant, 'no one can be
really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass
what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough
knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the
modern languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all this,
she must possess a certain something in her air and manner
of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expres-
sions, or the word will be but half deserved.'
'All this she must possess,' added Darcy; 'and to all
she must yet add something more substantial in the improve-
ment 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
possibility of all this?'
_'I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity,
and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe,
united.'
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the
injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that
they knew many women who answered this description, when
Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of
their inattention to what was going forward. As all con-
versation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards
left the room.
'Eliza Bennet,' said Miss Bingley, when the door was
closed on her, 'is one of those young ladies who seek to
recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing
[197]
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their own; and with many men, I daresay, it succeeds; but,
in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.'
'Undoubtedly,' replied Darcy, to whom this remark was
chiefly addressed, 'there is meanness in _all_ the arts which
ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation.
Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.'
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply
as to continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was
worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr.
Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, con-
vinced that no country advice could be of any service, recom-
mended an express to town for one of the most eminent
physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not
so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and
it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in
the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better.
Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that
they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better
relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper direc-
tions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick
lady and her sister.
[198]
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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 house-
maid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies
who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, how-
ever, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring
her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her
situation. The note was immediately despatched, 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 see-
ing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of
her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would
probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not
listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same
time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while
with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the
mother and three daughters all attended her into the break-
fast 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 kind-
ness.'
'Removed!' cried Bingley. 'It must not be thought of.
My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.'
'You may depend upon it, madam,' said Miss Bingley, with
cold civility, 'that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible
attention while she remains with us.'
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
[199]
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'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 pa-
tience in the world, which is always the way with her, for
she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met
with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her._
You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming
prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of
quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short
lease.'
'Whatever I do is done in a hurry,' replied he; 'and there-
fore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should prob-
ably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider
myself as quite fixed here.'
'That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,' said
Elizabeth.
'You begin to comprehend me, do you?' cried he, turning
towards her.
'Oh yes -- I understand you perfectly.'
'I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so
easily seen through, I am afraid, is pitiful.'
'That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that
a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than
such a one as yours.'
'Lizzy,' cried her mother, 'remember where you are, and
do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to
do at home.'
'I did not know before,' continued Bingley, immediately,
'that you were a studier of character. It must be an amus-
ing study.'
'Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing.
They have at least that advantage.'
'The country,' said Darcy, 'can in general supply but
few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbour-
hood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.'
'But people themselves alter so much, that there is some-
thing new to be observed in them for ever.'
'Yes, indeed,' cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner
of mentioning a country neighbourhood. 'I assure you there
[200]
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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, con-
tinued her triumph,--
'I cannot see that London has any great advantage over
the country, for my part, except the shops and public places.
The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bing-
ley?'
'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.'
'Ay, 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, blush-
ing for her mother. 'You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He
only meant that there was not such a variety of people
to be met with in the country as in town, which you must
acknowledge to be true.'
'Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to
not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I
believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we
dine with four-and-twenty families.'
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley
to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and
directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expres-
sive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something
that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming
away.
'Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an
agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley -- is not he? so
much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy! He has
always something to say to everybody. _That_ is my idea
of good-breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves
very important and never open their mouths quite mistake
the matter.'
[201]
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'Did Charlotte dine with you?'
'No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about
the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep
servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are
brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for them-
selves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I
assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not
that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain; but then she is our
particular friend.'
'She seems a very pleasant young woman,' said Bingley.
'Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady
Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty.
I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane --
one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what
everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When
she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my brother
Gardiner's in town so much in love with her, that my sister-
in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came
away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her
too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very
pretty they were.'
'And so ended his affection,' said Elizabeth, impatiently.
'There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same
way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry
in driving away love!'
'I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,'
said Darcy.
'Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything
nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight,
thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet
will starve it entirely away.'
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued
made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing
herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of
nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began
repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane,
with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr.
Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his
younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion
required. She performed her part, indeed, without much
[202]
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graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon after-
wards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest
of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had
been whispering to each other during the whole visit; and
the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley
with having promised on his first coming into the country
to give a ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite
with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public
at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of
natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers,
to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners
recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was
very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject
of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding,
that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he
did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was
delightful to her mother's ear.
'I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engage-
ment; and, when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you
please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not
wish to be dancing while she is ill?'
Lydia declared herself satisfied. 'Oh yes -- it would be
much better to wait till Jane was well; and by that time,
most likely, Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And
when you have given _your_ ball,' she added, 'I shall insist on
their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be
quite a shame if he does not.'
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Eliza-
beth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her
relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and
Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be pre-
vailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss
Bingley's witticisms on _fine_ _eyes._
[203]
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THE day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs.
Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of
the morning with the invalid, who continued, though
slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined their
party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did
not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley,
seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter,
and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his
sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently
amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his
companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either
on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the
length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which
her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and
were exactly in unison with her opinion of each.
'How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a
letter!'
He made no answer.
'You write uncommonly fast.'
'You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.'
'How many letters you must have occasion to write in the
course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I
should think them!'
'It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of
to yours.'
'Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.'
'I have already told her so once, by your desire.'
'I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it
for you. I mend pens remarkably well.'
'Thank you -- but I always mend my own.'
'How can you contrive to write so even?'
He was silent.
[204]
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'Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improve-
ment on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite
in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and
I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's.'
'Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
again? At present I have not room to do them justice.'
'Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January.
But do you always write such charming long letters to her,
Mr. Darcy?'
'They are generally long; but whether always charming,
it is not for me to determine.'
'It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long
letter with ease cannot write ill.'
'That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,'
cried her brother, 'because he does _not_ write with ease. He
studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you,
Darcy?'
'My style of writing is very different from yours.'
'Oh,' cried Miss Bingley, 'Charles writes in the most
careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and
blots the rest.'
'My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express
them; by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas
at all to my correspondents.'
'Your humility, Mr. Bingley,' said Elizabeth, 'must disarm
reproof.'
'Nothing is more deceitful,' said Darcy, 'than the appear-
ance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion,
and sometimes an indirect boast.'
'And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece
of modesty?'
'The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your
defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding
from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution,
which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting.
The power of doing anything with quickness is always much
prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to
the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting
Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it
[205]
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to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet
what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must
leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real
advantage to yourself or any one else?'
'Nay,' cried Bingley, 'this is too much, to remember at
night all the foolish things that were said in the morning.
And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself
to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, there-
fore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance
merely to show off before the ladies.'
'I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means con-
vinced 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 con-
verting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweet-
ness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn
which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would
certainly think the better of me if, under such a circumstance,
I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.'
'Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your
original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering
to it?'
'Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter --
Darcy must speak for himself.'
'You expect me to account for opinions which you choose
to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing
the case, however, to stand according to your representation,
you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is
supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of
his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one
argument in favour of its propriety.'
'To yield readily -- easily -- to the _persuasion_ of a friend is
no merit with you.'
[206]
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'To yield without conviction is no compliment to the
understanding of either.'
'You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the
influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the re-
quester would often make one readily yield to a request,
without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am
not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed
about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his
behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases,
between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by
the other to change a resolution of no very great moment,
should you think ill of that person for complying with the
desire, without waiting to be argued into it?'
'Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this sub-
ject, 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 par-
ticulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size,
for that will have more weight in the argument. Miss Ben-
net, 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 espe-
cially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.'
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could per-
ceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked
her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he
had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talk-
ing 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 what-
ever you like of me.'
'What you ask,' said Elizabeth, 'is no sacrifice on my
side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.'
[207]
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Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley
and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss
Bingley moved with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after
a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which
the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated
herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were
thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she
turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument,
how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She
hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at
her because he disliked her was still more strange. She
could only imagine, however, at last, that she drew his notice
because there was a something about her more wrong and
reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any
other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She
liked him too little to care for his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the
charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy,
drawing near Elizabeth, said to her,--
'Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize
such an opportunity of dancing a reel?'
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the ques-
tion, with some surprise at her silence.
'Oh,' said she, 'I heard you before; but I could not im-
mediately 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 pre-
meditated 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 sweet-
ness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for
her to affront anybody, and Darcy had never been so be-
witched by any woman as he was by her. He really be-
[208]
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lieved that, were it not for the inferiority of her connec-
tions, he should be in some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous;
and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend
Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid
of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest,
by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his
happiness in such an alliance.
'I hope,' said she, as they were walking together in the
shrubbery the next day, 'you will give your mother-in-law
a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the
advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it,
to cure the younger girls of running after the officers. And,
if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check
that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses.'
'Have you anything else to propose for my domestic
felicity?'
'Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt
Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them
next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same
profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your
Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken,
for what painter could do justice to those beautiful
eyes?'
'It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression;
but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably
fine, might be copied.'
At that moment they were met from another walk by
Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.
'I did not know that you intended to walk,' said Miss
Bingley, in some confusion lest they had been overheard.
'You used us abominably ill,' answered Mrs. Hurst 'run-
ning 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.'
[209]
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But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain
with them, laughingly answered,--
'No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped,
and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would
be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.'
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in
the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was
already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for
a couple of hours that evening.
[210]
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WHEN the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth
ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded
from cold, attended her into the drawing-room,
where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them
so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed
before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conver-
sation were considerable. They could describe an enter-
tainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour,
and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the
first object; Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards
Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had
advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss
Bennet with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her
a slight bow, and said he was 'very glad'; but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full
of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling
up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room;
and she removed, at his desire, to the other side of the fire-
place, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat
down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else. Elizabeth,
at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
When tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law
of the card-table-- but in vain. She had obtained private
intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr.
Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She as-
sured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of
the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself
on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book.
Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occu-
pied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and
then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet.
[211]
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Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in
watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in read-
ing her own; and she was perpetually either making some
inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, how-
ever, to any conversation; he merely answered her question
and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to
be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen
because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great
yawn and said, 'How pleasant it is to spend an evening in
this way! I declare, after all, there is no enjoyment like
reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of
a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miser-
able if I have not an excellent library!'
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw
aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of
some amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning a
ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and
said,--
'By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating
a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you
determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party;
I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom
a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.'
'If you mean Darcy,' cried her brother, 'he may go to bed,
if he chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite
a settled thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup
enough I shall send round my cards.'
'I should like balls infinitely better,' she replied, 'if they
were carried on in a different manner; but there is something
insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting.
It would surely be much more rational if conversation in-
stead of dancing made the order of the day.'
'Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I daresay; but it
would not be near so much like a ball.'
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards 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,--
[212]
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'Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my
example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is
very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.'
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately.
Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her
civility: Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to
the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself
could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly
invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk
up and down the room together, with either of which motives
his joining them would interfere. What could he mean?
She was dying to know what could be his meaning
-- and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
him.
'Not at all,' was her answer; 'but, depend upon it, he
means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing
him will be to ask nothing about it.'
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr.
Darcy in anything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an
explanation of his two motives.
'I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,' said
he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. 'You either choose
this method of passing the evening because you are in each
other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or be-
cause you are conscious that your figures appear to the
greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be com-
pletely 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 any-
thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a
speech?'
'Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,' said
Elizabeth. 'We can all plague and punish one another.
Tease him -- laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must
know how it is to be done.'
'But upon my honour I do _not._ I do assure you that my
intimacy has not yet taught me _that._ Tease calmness of
temper and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy
us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves,
[213]
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if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject.
Mr. Darcy may hug himself.'
'Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!' cried Elizabeth.
'That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it
will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many
such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh.'
'Miss Bingley,' said he, 'has given me credit for more
than can be. The wisest and 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 or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsist-
encies, _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 any one. But it has been
the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often
expose a strong understanding to ridicule.'
'Such as vanity and pride.'
'Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride -- where
there is a real superiority of mind -- pride will be always
under good regulation.'
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
'Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,' said
Miss Bingley; 'and pray what is the result?'
'I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no
defect. He owns it himself without disguise.'
'No,' said Darcy, 'I have made no such pretension. I
have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understand-
ing. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too
little yielding; certainly too little for the convenience of the
world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon
as I ought, nor their offences 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 for ever.'
_'That_ is a failing, indeed!' cried Elizabeth. 'Implacable
resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen
your fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe
from me.'
[214]
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'There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best
education can overcome.'
'And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody.'
'And yours,' he replied, with a smile, 'is wilfully to mis-
understand 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 made not the smallest objection, and the piano-
forte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollec-
tion, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of
paying Elizabeth too much attention.
[215]
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IN consequence of an agreement between the sisters,
Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her 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 Tues-
day, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring
herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer,
therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's
wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent
them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if
Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she
could spare them very well. Against staying longer, how-
ever, Elizabeth was positively resolved -- nor did she much
expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, of
being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she
urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately,
and at length it was settled that their original design of leav-
ing Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the
request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern;
and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the
following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their
going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she
had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike of one
sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they
were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss
Bennet that it would not be safe for her -- that she was not
enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself
to be right.
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had
been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more
than he liked; and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her,_ and more
[216]
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teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be
particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_
escape him -- nothing that could elevate her with the hope of
influencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have mate-
rial weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his pur-
pose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole
of Saturday; and though they were at one time left by them-
selves 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 spirits.
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their
mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought
them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane
would have caught cold again. But their father, though very
laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see
them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost
much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence
of Jane and Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough
bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to ad-
mire, and some new observations of threadbare morality to
listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a
different sort. Much had been done, and much had been
said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several
of the officers had dined lately with their uncle; a private had
been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel
Forster was going to be married.
[217]
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'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. Why, Jane -- you
never dropped a word of this -- you sly thing! 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 five
daughters at once.
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he
thus explained:-- 'About a month ago I received this letter,
and about a fortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a
case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is
from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn
you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.'
'Oh, my dear,' cried his wife, 'I cannot bear to hear that
mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think
it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be
entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I
had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something
or other about it.'
[218]
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Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature
of an entail. They had often attempted it before: but it was
a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of
reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty
of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in
favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
'It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,' said Mr. Bennet;
'and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inherit-
ing 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 was very
impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypo-
critical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep
on quarrelling 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 honoured father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I
> have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to
> heal the breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own
> doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for
> me to be on good terms with any one 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 ordina-
> tion at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by
> the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
> widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has
> preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall
> be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect
> towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and
> ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a
> clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the
> blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence;
> and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of
> goodwill are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my
> being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly over-
> looked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive
> branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means
> of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for
> it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every
> possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should have no ob-
> jection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfac-
> tion of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by
[219]
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> four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the
> Saturday se'nnight following, which I can do without any inconven-
> ience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional
> absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged
> to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compli-
> ments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
>
> 'William Collins.'
'At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peacemak-
ing 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 ac-
quaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indul-
gent as to let him come to us again.'
'There is some sense in what he says about the girls, how-
ever; 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 with his extraordinary defer-
ence for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christen-
ing, 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.
Can he be a sensible man, sir?'
'No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding
him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and
self-importance in his letter which promises well. I am im-
patient to see him.'
'In point of composition,' said Mary, 'his 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
was 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
[220]
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was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
astonished her husband and daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with
great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said
little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr.
Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined
to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man
of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his
manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a
family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty,
but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth;
and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due
time well disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not
much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Bennet,
who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most
readily,--
'You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my
heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough.
Things are settled so oddly.'
'You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.'
'Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor
girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with
_you,_ for such things I know are all chance in this world.
There is no knowing how estates will go when once they
come to be entailed.'
'I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair
cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am
cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can
assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them.
At present I will not say more, but, perhaps, when we are
better acquainted--'
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls
smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr.
Collins's admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its
furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation
of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but
for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own
future property. The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly ad-
mired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins
[221]
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the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set
right 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 apol-
ogise for about a quarter of an hour.
[222]
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DURING dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but
when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it
time to have some conversation with his guest, and
therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine,
by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and con-
sideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr.
Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was elo-
quent 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 be-
haviour in a person of rank -- such affability and condescen-
sion, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine.
She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the dis-
courses 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 _he_r. She had always spoken
to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not
the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for
a week or two to visit his relations. She had even con-
descended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, pro-
vided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a
visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly ap-
proved all the alterations he had been making, and had even
vouchsafed to suggest some herself, -- some shelves in the
closets upstairs.'
'That is all very proper and civil, i am sure,' said Mrs.
Bennet, 'and I daresay 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?'
[223]
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'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 one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of
very extensive property.'
'Ah,' cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, 'then she is
better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is
she? Is she handsome?'
'She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady
Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de
Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because
there is that in her features which marks the young woman
of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly con-
stitution, which has prevented her making that progress in
many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have
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
myself one day, has deprived the British Court of its brightest
ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and
you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer
those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable
to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine,
that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess;
and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her con-
sequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind
of little things which please her Ladyship, and it is a
sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
to pay.'
'You judge very properly,' said Mr. Bennet; 'and it is happy
for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy.
May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from
the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous
study?'
[224]
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'They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and
though I sometimes amuse myself with suggestions and ar-
ranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted
to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied
an air as possible.'
Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin
was as absurd as he had hoped; and he listened to him with
the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the
most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an
occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his
pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr.
Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room
again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read
aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book
was produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced
it to be from a circulating library) he started back, and,
begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty
stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were
produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's
Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and before
he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages,
she interrupted him with,--
'Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips 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 in-
terested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely
for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for certainly there
ran be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But
I will no longer importune my young cousin.'
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his an-
tagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge,
observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to
their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daugh-
[225]
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ters 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 be-
haviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with
Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
[226]
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MR. COLLINS was not a sensible man, and the de-
ficiency 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 univer-
sities, he had merely kept the necessary terms without form-
ing at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which
his father had brought him up had given him originally great
humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted
by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and
the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity.
A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine
de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and
the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration
for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion
of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a
rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obse-
quiousness, self-importance and humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income,
he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with
the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant
to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as hand-
some and amiable as they were represented by common re-
port. This was his plan of amends -- of atonement -- for in-
heriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent
one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively gen-
erous 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 eve-
ning _she_ was his settled choice. The next morning, however,
made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete
with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning
with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal
[227]
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of his hopes that a mistress for it might be found at Long-
bourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and
general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he
had fixed on. 'As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not
take upon her to say -- she could not positively answer -- but
she did not _know_ of any prepossession; -- her _eldest_ daughter
she must just mention -- she felt it incumbent on her to hint,
was likely to be very soon engaged.'
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth --
and it was soon done -- done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring
the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty,
succeeded her of course.
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she
might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom
she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high
in her good graces.
Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgot-
ten: every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and
Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet,
who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library
to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after
breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged
with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talk-
ing to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and
garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet
exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure
and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth,
to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the
house, he was used to be free from them there: his civility,
therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his
daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much
better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely well
pleased to close his large book, and go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that
of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton.
The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be
gained by _him._ Their eyes were immediately wandering up
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.
[228]
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But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a
young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentle-
manlike appearance, walking with an 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 pretence of wanting something in an opposite
shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement, when
the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot.
Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission
to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
him the day before from town, and, he was happy to say,
had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly
as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals
to make him completely charming. His appearance was
greatly in his favour; he had all the best parts 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 per-
fectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were
still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the
sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley
were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
ladies of the group the two gentlemen came directly towards
them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the prin-
cipal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He
was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to
inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow,
and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Eliza-
beth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of
both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at
the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked
white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,
touched his hat -- a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned
to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was
impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to
know.
[229]
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In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have
noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young
ladies to the door of Mr. Philips's house, and then made their
bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's pressing entreaties that they
would come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Philips's throwing
up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the invitation.
Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the
two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly wel-
come; and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their
sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not
fetched them, she should have known nothing about if she
had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the street,
who had told her that they were not to send any more
draughts to Netherfield, because the Miss Bennets were come
away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by
Jane's introduction of him. She received him with her very
best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apolo-
gising for his intrusion without any previous acquaintance
with her, which he could not help flattering himself however
might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed
by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation
of one stranger was soon put to an end to by exclamations and
inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she could only
tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had
brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieu-
tenant's commission in the shire. She had been watch-
ing 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 the windows now except a few of the officers,
who, in comparison with the stranger, were become 'stupid,
disagreeable fellows.' Some of them were to dine with the
Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her
husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation
also, if the family, from Longbourn would come in the even-
ing. This was agreed to: and Mrs. Philips protested that
they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The pros-
[230]
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pect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in
mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in
quitting the room, and was assured, with unwearying civility,
that they were perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she
had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane
would have defended either or both, had they appeared to
be wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than
her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by
admiring Mrs. Philips's manners and politeness. He pro-
tested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had
never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only
received him with the utmost civility, but had 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.
[231]
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AS no objection was made the young people's engage-
ment with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples
of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single eve-
ning during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Mery-
ton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they
entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted
their uncle's invitation, and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken
their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him
and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and
furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost
have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast par-
lour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey
much gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from
him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor, when
she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Cath-
erine'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 com-
parison 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 receiv-
ing, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined
them; and he found in Mrs. Philips 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 indif-
ferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of
waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
The gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham
walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither
[232]
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been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with
the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The offi-
cers 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, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior
to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine,
who followed them into the room.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost
every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy
woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agree-
able manner in which he immediately fell into conversation,
though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the
probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the com-
monest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered in-
teresting by the skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wick-
ham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into in-
significance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing;
but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips,
and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with
coffee and muffin.
When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity
of obliging her, in return, 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 of life--'
Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance,
but could not wait for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready de-
light was he received at the other table between Elizabeth
and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's en-
grossing 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 any one in particular. Allowing for the common de-
mands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure
to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him,
though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope
to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy.
[233]
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She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity,
however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began
the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was
from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a
hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying
there.
'About a month,' said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let
the subject drop, added, 'he is a man of very large property
in Derbyshire, I understand.'
'Yes,' replied Wickham; 'his estate there is a noble one.
A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met
with a person more capable of giving you certain informa-
tion on that head than myself -- for I have been connected
with his family, in a particular manner, from my infancy.'
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
'You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an as-
sertion, 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, warmly.
'I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I
think him very disagreeable.'
'I have no right to give _my_ opinion,' said Wickham, 'as
to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to
form one. I have known him too long and too well to be
a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But
I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish --
and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.'
'Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in
any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is
not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted
with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken
of by any one.'
'I cannot pretend to be sorry,' said Wickham, after a short
interruption, 'that he or that any man should not be esti-
mated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does
not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and
consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing man-
ners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.'
[234]
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'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 to all the world -- a sense of very great ill usage,
and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father,
Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I
can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being
grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His
behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily be-
lieve I could forgive him anything and everything, rather
than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory
of his father.'
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
further 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, especially, 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 know it to be a most respectable, agree-
able corps; and my friend Denny tempted me further by
his account of their present quarters, and the very great at-
tentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured
them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a
disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I
_must_ have employment and society. A military life is not
what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made
it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--
[235]
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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 presen-
tation 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 else-
where.'
'Good heavens!' cried Elizabeth; 'but how could _that_ be?
How could his will be disregarded? Why did not you seek
legal redress?'
'There was just such an informality in the terms of the
bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour
could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose
to doubt it -- or to treat it as a merely conditional recom-
mendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it
by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing.
Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago,
exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given
to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse
myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it.
I have a warm unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have
sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely.
I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are
very different sort of men, and that he hates me.'
'This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly dis-
graced.'
'Some time or other he _will_ be -- but it shall not be by _me._
Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose
_him.'_
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
'But what,' said she, after a pause, 'can have been his
motive? what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?'
'A thorough, determined dislike of me-- a dislike which I
cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the
late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne
with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to
[236]
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me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not
a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood --
the sort of preference which was often given me.'
'I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this -- though I
have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him --
I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in
general, but did not suspect him of descending to such
malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!'
After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, --
'I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of
the implacability of his resentments; of his having an unfor-
giving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.'
'I will not trust myself on the subject,' replied Wickham:
_'I_ can hardly be just to him.'
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time
exclaimed, 'To treat in such a manner the godson, the
friend, the favourite of his father!' She could have added,
'A young man, too, like _you,_ whose very countenance may
vouch for your being amiable.' But she contented herself
with -- 'And one, too, who had probably been his own com-
panion 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: in-
mates of the same house, sharing the same amusements,
objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life
in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, 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 es-
teemed 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 affection to myself.'
'How strange!' cried Elizabeth. 'How abominable! I
wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not
made him just to you. If from no better motive, that he
[237]
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should not have been too proud to be dishonest, -- for dis-
honesty I must call it.'
'It _is_ wonderful,' replied Wickham; 'for almost all his
actions may be traced to pride; and pride has often been
his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue
than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent;
and in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses
even than pride.'
'Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him
good?'
'Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous;
to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist
his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_
pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have
done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degen-
erate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of
the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also
_brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes
him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and
you will hear him generally cried up as the most atten-
tive and best of brothers.'
'What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?'
He shook his head. 'I wish I could call her amiable.
It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy; but she is too
much like her brother, -- very, very proud. As a child, she
was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me;
and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But
she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about
fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished.
Since her father's death her home has been London, where
a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.'
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects,
Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first,
and saying,--
'I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How
can Mr. Bingley, who seems good-humour itself, and is, I
really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a
man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr.
Bingley?'
'Not at all.'
[238]
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'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 com-
panion 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, -- allow-
ing 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. Philips. The
usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It
had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when
Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he
assured her, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of
the least importance; that he considered the money as a
mere trifle, and begged 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 chance of these
things, -- and happily I am not in such circumstances as to
make five shillings any object. There are, undoubtedly, many
who could not say the same; but, thanks to Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regard-
ing 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 relations were very intimately acquainted
with the family of de Bourgh.
'Lady Catherine de Bourgh,' she replied, 'has very lately
given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first
introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her
long.'
'You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and
Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt
to the present Mr. Darcy.'
'No, indeed. I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady
Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till
the day before yesterday.'
[239]
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'Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large
fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite
the two estates.'
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought
of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions,
vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise
of himself, if he were already self-destined to 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 mis-
leads him; and that, in spite of her being his patroness, she
is an arrogant, conceited woman.'
'I believe her to be both in a great degree,' replied Wick-
ham: '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 de-
rives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part
from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride
of her nephew, who chooses that every one connected with
him should have an understanding of the first class.'
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational ac-
count of it, and they continued talking together with mutual
satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest
of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There
could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's sup-
per party, but his manners, recommended him to everybody.
Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him.
She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of
what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not
time for her even to mention his name as they went, for
neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins was once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility
of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least
regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at sup-
per, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had
more to say than he could well manage before the carriage
stopped at Longbourn House.
[240]
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ELIZABETH related to Jane, the next day, what had
passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane lis-
tened with astonishment and concern: she knew not
how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley's regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question
the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as
Wickham. The possibility of his having really endured such
unkindness was enough to interest all her tender feelings;
and nothing therefore remained 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 daresay, 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 circum-
stances 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 in behalf of the interested people who have
probably been concerned in the business? Do clear _them,_
too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.'
'Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me
out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in
what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating
his father's favourite in such a manner, -- one whom his father
had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of
common humanity, no man who had any value for his char-
acter, 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 im-
posed 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.'
[241]
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'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 some of the
very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley
and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the
long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the
following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see
their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met,
and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself
since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid
little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible,
saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others.
They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an
activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying
off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agree-
able to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to
consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter,
and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation
from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card.
Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of
her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with
Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything
in Mr. Darcy's look and behaviour. The happiness antici-
pated 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. Wick-
ham, 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
[242]
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profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recre-
ation and amusement as desirable for everybody.'
Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the 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 opinion, I assure you,' said he, 'that
a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to
respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am
so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to
be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the
course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of solicit-
ing yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially;
a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to
the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.'
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully
proposed being engaged by Wickham for those very
dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead! -- her liveliness had
been never worse timed. There was no help for it, however.
Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was 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 the mistress of Huns-
ford 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 towards herself, and heard his frequent attempt at
a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more as-
tonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms,
it was not long before her mother gave her to understand
that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly agree-
able to _her._ Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the
hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the con-
[243]
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sequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the
offer, and, till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for
and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in
a pitiable state at this time; for from the day of the invitation
to the day of the ball there was such a succession of rain
as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no
officers, no news could be sought after; the very shoe-roses
for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might
have found some trial of her patience in weather which
totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with
Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday
could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Mon-
day endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
[244]
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TILL Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Nether-
field, 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 recollec-
tions 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 Bingley's invitation to the offi-
cers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute
fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny,
to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that
Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the
day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a signifi-
cant smile,--
'I do not imagine his business would have called him away
just now, if he had not wished 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 disap-
pointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility
to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards ap-
proached to make. Attention, forbearance, patience with
Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against
any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with
a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount
even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality pro-
voked her.
[245]
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But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though
every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it
could not dwell long on her spirits; and, having told all her
griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week,
she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the
oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of
distress: they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins,
awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and
often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all
the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a
couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment
of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was univer-
sally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to
Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when
she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took
her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,
without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked
away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her
own want of presence of mind: Charlotte tried to console her.
'I daresay you will find him very agreeable.'
'Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of
all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to
hate! Do not wish me such an evil.'
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy
approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help
cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow
her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in
the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth
made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at
the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to
stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours'
looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for
some time without speaking a word; and she began to imag-
ine that their silence was to last through the two dances,
and, at first, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancy-
ing that it would be the greater punishment to her partner
to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on
[246]
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the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause
of some minutes, she addressed him a second time, with--
'_I_t is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I
talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of
remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.'
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished
him to say should be said.
'Very well; that will do for the present. Perhaps, by and
by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter
than public ones; but _now_ we may be silent.'
'Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?'
'Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It
would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour to-
gether; and yet, for the advantage of _some,_ conversation
ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble
of saying as little as possible.'
'Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,
or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?'
'Both,' replied Elizabeth archly; 'for I have always seen
a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of
an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless
we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room,
and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a
proverb.'
'This is no very striking resemblance of your own charac-
ter, I am sure,' said he. 'How near it may be to _mine,_ I can-
not pretend to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait, undoubt-
edly.'
'I must not decide on my own performance.'
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they
had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her
sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered
in the affirmative; and, unable to resist the temptation, added,
'When you met us there the other day, we had just been
forming a new acquaintance.'
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_
overspread his features, but he said not a word; and Eliz-
abeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could
not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained
manner said,--
[247]
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'Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may
insure his _making_ friends; whether he may be equally ca-
pable of _retaining_ them, is less certain.'
'He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,' replied
Elizabeth, with emphasis, 'and in a manner which he is
likely to suffer from all his life.'
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing
the subject.
At that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to
them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side
of the room; but, on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped,
with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on his
dancing and his partner.
'I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir;
such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident
that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, how-
ever, 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 Miss Eliza (glancing
at her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congrat-
ulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy; -- but let
me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detain-
ing you from the bewitching converse of that young lady,
whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.'
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by
Darcy; but Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to
strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed, with a very
serious expression, towards Bingley and Jane, who were
dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he
turned to his partner, and said,--
'Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we
were talking of.'
'I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William
could not have interrupted any 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.'
[248]
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'I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there
can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our
different opinions.'
'No -- I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is
always full of something else.'
'The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes -- does
it?' said he, with a look of doubt.
'Yes, always,' she replied, without knowing what she said;
for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, 'I remem-
ber hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever
forgave; -- that your resentment, once created, was unap-
peasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being_
_created?'_
'I am,' said he, with a firm voice.
'And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?'
'I hope not.'
'It is particularly incumbent on those who never change
their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.'
'May I ask to what these questions tend?'
'Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,' said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity. 'I'm trying to make
it out.'
'And what is your success?'
She shook her head. 'I do not get on at all. I hear such
different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.'
'I can readily believe,' answered he, gravely, 'that reports
may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss
Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the pres-
ent moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance
would reflect no credit on either.'
'But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have
another opportunity.'
'I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,' he
coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the
other dance and parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied,
though not to an equal degree; for in Darcy's breast there
was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her, which soon
procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against an-
other.
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They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came
towards her, and, with an expression of civil disdain, thus
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 forgot to tell you, among his other communica-
tions, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr.
Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a
friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions;
for, as to Mr. Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false: for,
on the contrary, he has been always remarkably kind to him,
though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most
infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know
very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he
cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that
though my brother thought he could not well avoid including
him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad
to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming
into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I
wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss
Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,
considering his descent, one could not expect much better.'
'His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be
the same,' said Elizabeth, angrily; 'for I have heard you
accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr.
Darcy's steward, and of _that,_ I can assure you, he informed
me himself.'
'I beg your pardon,' replied Miss Bingley, turning away
with a sneer. 'Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant.'
'Insolent girl!' said Elizabeth to herself. 'You are much
mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry
attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful igno-
rance and the malice of Mr. Darcy.' She then sought her
eldest sister, who had undertaken to make inquiries on the
same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such
sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as
sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occur-
rences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings;
and, at that moment, solicitude for Wickham, resentment
[250]
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against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the
hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
'I want to know,' said she, with a countenance no less
smiling than her sister's, 'what you have learnt about Mr.
Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly en-
gaged to think of any third person, in which case you may
be sure of my pardon.'
'No,' replied Jane, 'I have not forgotten him; but I have
nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know
the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circum-
stances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he
will vouch for the good conduct, the probity and honour, of
his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has
deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say that by his account, as well
as his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable
young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and
has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.'
'Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself.'
'No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.'
'This account then is what he has received from Mr.
Darcy. I am perfectly 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 Eliz-
abeth warmly, 'but you must excuse my not being convinced
by assurances only. Mr. Bingley's defence of his friend was
a very able one, I daresay; but since he is unacquainted
with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from
that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of both gen-
tlemen 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 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
[251]
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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 to my patroness. I
happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to
the young lady who does the honours of this house the names
of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur!
Who would have thought of my meeting with -- perhaps -- a
nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I
am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me
to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and
trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.'
'You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?'
'Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having
done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew._
It will be in my power to assure him that her Ladyship was
quite well yesterday se'nnight.'
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme;
assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing
him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather
than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least
necessary there should be any notice on either side, and
that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened
to her with the determined air of following his own inclina-
tion, and when she ceased speaking, replied thus,--
'My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in
the world of your excellent judgment 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 be-
haviour is at the same time maintained. You must, therefore,
allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occa-
sion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of
[252]
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duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice,
which on every other subject shall be my constant guide,
though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
education and habitual study to decide on what is right than
a young lady like yourself;' and with a low bow he left her
to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she
eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so ad-
dressed 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 won-
der; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak, re-
plied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,
was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's
contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his
second speech; and at the end of it he only made him a slight
bow, and moved another way: Mr. Collins then returned to
Elizabeth.
'I have no reason, I assure you,' said he, 'to be dissatisfied
with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with
the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and
even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well
convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain
she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really
a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much
pleased with him.'
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pur-
sue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and
Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her
observations gave birth to made her perhaps almost as happy
as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in
all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could be-
stow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of en-
deavouring 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 con-
sidered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them
[253]
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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 of her expectation
that Jane would be soon married to Mr. Bingley. It was an
animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of
fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His
being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living
but three miles from them, were the first points of self-grat-
ulation; 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, more-
over, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as
Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
other rich men; and, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of
life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of
their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company
more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circum-
stance 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 at 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 to you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never rec-
ommend 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
[254]
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dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother,
she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by
her. The expression of his face changed gradually from
indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and
Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of
delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to
the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began
to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for
when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had
the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks
and silent entreaties did she endeavour to prevent such a
proof of complaisance, -- but in vain; Mary would not under-
stand 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 re-
ceiving amongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope
that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after
the pause of half a minute, began another. Mary's powers
were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was
weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies.
She looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane was very
composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters,
and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at
Darcy, who continued, however, impenetrably grave. She
looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary
should be singing all night. He took the hint, and, when
Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,--
'That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted
us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to
exhibit.'
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat dis-
concerted; 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
[255]
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company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can
be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for
there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector
of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make
such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself
and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own
sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for
his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his
dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as com-
fortable as possible. And I do not think it of light impor-
tance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners
toward 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 testi-
fying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.'
And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which
had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.
Many stared -- many smiled; but no one looked more amused
than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended
Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed, in
a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably
clever, good kind of young man.
To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an
agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during
the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play
their parts with more spirit, or finer success; and happy did
she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the exhi-
bition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not
of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must
have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, how-
ever, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing her rela-
tions was bad enough; and she could not determine whether
the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles
of the ladies, were more intolerable.
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She
was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly
by her side; and though he could not prevail with her to
dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with
[256]
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others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with some-
body else, and offered to introduce him to any young lady in
the room. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was
perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was, by del-
icate attentions, to recommend himself to her; and that he
should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the
whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project.
She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who
often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's
conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's
further notice: though often standing within a very short
distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough
to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her
allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to
depart; and by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for
their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was
gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were
wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of
fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to
themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at
conversation, and, by so doing, threw a languor over the
whole party, which was very little relieved by the long
speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley
and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the
hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour
to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in
equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane
were standing together a little detached from the rest, and
talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia
was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional ex-
clamation 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 particularly to Mr.
Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by
[257]
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eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the
ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful
pleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest
opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London,
whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house
under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the neces-
sary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding
clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at
Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having
another daughter married to Mr. Collins she thought with
equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal,
pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her
children; and though the man and the match were quite good
enough for _her,_ the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bing-
ley and Netherfield.
[258]
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THE next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr.
Collins made his declaration in form. Having re-
solved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of
absence extended only to the following Saturday, and hav-
ing no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to him-
self even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly
manner, with all the observances which he supposed a regu-
lar part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Eliza-
beth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after break-
fast, he addressed the mother in these words,--
'May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair
daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private
audience with her in the course of this morning?'
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of
surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly answered,--
'Oh dear! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very
happy -- I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty,
I want you upstairs.' And gathering her work together, she
was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out,--
'Dear ma'am, 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 will 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 em-
ployment, 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,
[259]
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so far from doing you any dis-service, rather adds to your
other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my
eyes had there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow
me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permis-
sion 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 mis-
taken. 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 will
be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying -- and,
moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of
selecting a wife, as I certainly did.'
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure,
being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near
laughing that she could not use the short pause he allowed in
any attempt to stop him farther, 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 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 recom-
mendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of
calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me
her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but
the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford, -- between our
pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss
de Bourgh's footstool, -- that she said, "Mr. Collins, you must
marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly,
choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake, and for your _own;_ let her
be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but
able to make a small income go a good way. This is my
advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to
Hunsford, and I will visit her." Allow me, by the way, to
observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of
the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her
manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and
vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when
[260]
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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 to Longbourn instead of my own neighbour-
hood, where I 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, how-
ever, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy my-
self without resolving to choose a wife from among his
daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as pos-
sible when the melancholy event takes place which, how-
ever, as I have already said, may not be for several years.
This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter my-
self it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated lan-
guage 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 pay-
ing me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals,
but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than 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 rather
an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you
[261]
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that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies
there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the
chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious
in my refusal. You could not make _me_ happy, and I am
convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would
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 that when I have the honour of seeing her again I
shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy,
and other amiable qualifications.'
'Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary.
You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the
compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy
and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power
to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer,
you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with
regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This
matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.' And
rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room,
had not Mr. Collins thus addressed her,--
'When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on
the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer
than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing
you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the es-
tablished custom of your sex to reject a man on the first
application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as much
to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true
delicacy of the female character.'
'Really, Mr. Collins,' cried Elizabeth, with some warmth,
'you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said
can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know
not how to express my refusal in such a way as may con-
vince you of its being one.'
'You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin,
that your refusal of my addresses are merely words of course.
[262]
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My reasons for believing it are briefly these:-- It does not
appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or
that the establishment I can offer would be any other than
highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with
the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own,
are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take
it into further consideration that, in spite of your manifold
attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of
marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily
so small, that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your
loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must, therefore,
conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I
shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love
by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant
females.'
'I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever
to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a
respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of
being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the
honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept
them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as
an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational
creature speaking the truth from her heart.'
'You are uniformly charming!' cried he, with an air of
awkward gallantry; 'and I am persuaded that, when sanc-
tioned by the express authority of both your excellent par-
ents, 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 with-
drew; determined, that if he persisted in considering her
repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to
her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a man-
ner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an ele-
gant female.
[263]
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MR. COLLINS was not left long to the silent con-
templation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet,
having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for
the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open
the door and with quick step pass her towards the stair-
case, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratu-
lated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy
prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received
and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and
then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview,
with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to
be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had stead-
fastly 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 pro-
posals, but she dared not to 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 my-
self directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and
does not know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it.'
'Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,' cried Mr. Col-
lins; 'but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know
not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife
to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness
in the marriage state. If, therefore, she actually persists
in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her
into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of temper,
she could not contribute much to my felicity.'
'Sir, you quite misunderstand me,' said Mrs. Bennet,
alarmed. 'Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these.
In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived.
[264]
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I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle
it with her, I am sure.'
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying in-
stantly to her husband, called out, as she entered the library,--
'Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are
all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry
Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him; and if
you do not make haste he will change his mind and not
have _her.'_
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered,
and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern, which
was not in the least altered by her communication.
'I have not the pleasure of understanding you,' said he,
when she had finished her speech. 'Of what are you
talking?'
'Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not
have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will
not have Lizzy.'
'And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hope-
less business.'
'Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you in-
sist upon her marrying him.'
'Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.'
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was sum-
moned to the library.
'Come here, child,' cried her father as she appeared. 'I
have sent for you on an affair of importance. I under-
stand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage.
Is it true?' Elizabeth replied that it was. 'Very well --
and this offer of marriage you have refused?'
'I have, sir.'
'Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother
insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?'
'Yes, or I will never see her again.'
'An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From
this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.
Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry
Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do.'_
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such
a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself
[265]
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that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was ex-
cessively disappointed.
'What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way?
You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.'
'My dear,' replied her husband, 'I have two small favours
to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my
understanding on the present occasion; and, secondly, of my
room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon
as may be.'
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her
husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to
Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by
turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but
Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and
Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes
with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her
manner varied, however, her determination never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on
what had passed. He thought too well of himself to compre-
hend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though
his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard
for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any
regret.
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas
came to spend the day with them. She was met in the
vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half-whisper,
'I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What
do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.'
Charlotte had hardly time to answer before they were
joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no
sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs.
Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject,
calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes
of all her family. 'Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,' she
added, in a melancholy tone; 'for nobody is on my side,
nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used, nobody feels
for my poor nerves.'
[266]
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Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane
and Elizabeth.
'Ay, there she comes,' continued Mrs. Bennet, 'looking as
unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we
were at York, provided she can have her own way. But I
tell you what. Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head
to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you
will never get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not
know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. I
shall not be able to keep you -- and so _I_ warn you. I have
done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,
you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you
will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in
talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure,
indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do
from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for
talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always
so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.'
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible
that any attempt to reason with or soothe her would only
increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without
interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr.
Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual,
and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,--
'Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your
tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversa-
tion together.'
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all
she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were
very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself
with walking to the window and pretending not to hear.
In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected con-
versation: -- '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
[267]
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fortunate as I have been, in early preferment; and, I trust, I
am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of
my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with
her hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never
so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose some-
what of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope,
consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my
dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your
daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr.
Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your
authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objec-
tionable in having accepted my dismission from your daugh-
ter's lips instead of your own; but we are all liable to error.
I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My
object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself,
with due consideration for the advantage of all your family;
and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg
leave to apologise.'
[268]
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THE discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at
an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the un-
comfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and oc-
casionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. As
for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed,
not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid
her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He
scarcely ever spoke to her; and the assiduous attentions which
he had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the
rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to
him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her
friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-
humour or ill-health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state
of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment
might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the
least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday,
and to Saturday he still 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 were well talked
over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.
'I found,' said he, 'as the time drew near, that I had bet-
ter not meet Mr. Darcy; -- that to be in the same room, the
same party with him for so many hours together, might be
more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant
to more than myself.'
She highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure
for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendations
which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and
another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and
[269]
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during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accom-
panying them was a double advantage: she felt all the com-
pliment 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 Ben-
net; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately.
The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed
paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read
it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular pas-
sages. 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 upstairs. When they
had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said,
'This is from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has sur-
prised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield
by this time, and are on their way to town, and without any
intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she
says.'
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised
the information of their having just resolved to follow their
brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that
day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The
next was in these words: -- 'I do not pretend to regret any-
thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my
dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to
enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have
known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separa-
tion by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence.
I depend on you for that.' To these high-flown expressions
Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and
though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she
saw nothing in it really to lament: it was not to be supposed
that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bing-
ley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was
persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it in the en-
joyment of his.
[270]
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'It is unlucky,' said she, after a short pause, 'that you
should not be able to see your friends before they leave the
country. But may we not hope that the period of future hap-
piness, to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive
earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse
you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in
London by them.'
'Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return
into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you.'
'When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that
the business which took him to London might be concluded
in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so,
and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to
town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have deter-
mined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged
to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of
my acquaintance are already there for the winter: I wish I
could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of
making one in 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 he
_should.'_
'Why will you think so? It must be his own doing; he
is his own master. But you do not know _all._ I _will_ read
you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no
reserves from _you._ "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister;
and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet
her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her
equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the
affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
something still more interesting from the hope we dare to
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
[271]
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them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My
brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent
opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and
a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call
Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With
all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing
to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the
hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so
many?" What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?'
said Jane, as she finished it. 'Is it not clear enough? Does
it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor
wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of
her brother's indifference; and that, if she suspects the na-
ture 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 the 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_ inter-
marriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second;
in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I daresay 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
[272]
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than when he took leave of you on Tuesday; or that it
will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of
being in love with you, he is very much in love with her
friend.'
'If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,' replied Jane, 'your
representation of all this might make me quite easy. But
I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of
wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this
case is, that she is deceived herself.'
'That is right. You could not have started a more happy
idea, since you will not take comfort in mine: believe her to
be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by
her, and must fret no longer.'
'But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the
best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all
wishing him to marry elsewhere?'
'You must decide for yourself,' said Elizabeth; 'and if,
upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of dis-
obliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the hap-
piness of being his wife, I advise you, by all means, to
refuse him.'
'How can you talk so?' said Jane, faintly smiling; 'you
must know that, though I should be exceedingly grieved at
their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.'
'I do not think you would; and that being the case, I can-
not consider your situation with much compassion.'
'But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never
be required. A thousand things may arise in six months.'
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with
the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the sug-
gestion of Caroline's interested wishes; and she could not for
a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or art-
fully spoken, could influence a young man so totally inde-
pendent of every one.
She represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what
she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing
its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding; and
she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affec-
tion sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return
to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart.
[273]
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They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the de-
parture of the family, without being alarmed on the score
of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communi-
cation 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 consola-
tion of thinking 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.
[274]
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THE Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases;
and again, during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas
so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an
opportunity of thanking her. 'It keeps him in good humour,'
said she, 'and I am more obliged to you than I can express.'
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being
useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of
her time. This was very amiable; but Charlotte's kindness
extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of: --
its object was nothing less than to secure her from any
return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them
towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and ap-
pearances were so favourable, that when they parted at
night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had
not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she
did injustice to the fire and independence of his character;
for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge
to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the
notice of his cousins, from a conviction that, if they saw him
depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he
was not willing to have the attempt known till its success
could be known likewise; for, though feeling almost secure,
and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encourag-
ing, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of
Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flat-
tering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper
window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out
to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she
dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her
there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would
allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfac-
tion of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly
[275]
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entreated her to name the day that was to make him the
happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be
waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle
with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was
favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm
that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and
Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and
disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon
that establishment were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for
their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful
alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most
eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give
little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were ex-
ceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with
more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how
many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir
William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr.
Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it
would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should
make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family
in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The
younger girls formed hopes of _coming_ _out_ a year or two
sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys
were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying
an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She
had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her
reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be
sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was
irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But
still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been
her object: it was the only honourable provision for well-
educated young women of small fortune, and, however un-
certain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now ob-
tained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever
been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least
agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it
must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she
[276]
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valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would
wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her reso-
lution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by
such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her the infor-
mation herself; and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he
returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was
of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept with-
out 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
other engagements might allow him to visit them.
'My dear madam,' he replied, 'this invitation is particu-
larly 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 disapproba-
tion here, my good sir? You had better neglect your rela-
tions 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 on your guard. Risk anything
rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be
raised by your coming to us again, which I should think
exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied
that _we_ shall take no offence.'
'Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited
by such affectionate attention; and, depend upon it, you will
speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this as well
[277]
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as 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 to find that he meditated a quick
return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he
thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls,
and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She
rated his abilities much higher than any of the others: there
was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her; and
though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that, if
encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example
as hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But
on the following morning every hope of this kind was done
away.
Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private
conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day
before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love
with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the
last day or two: but that Charlotte could encourage him
seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could en-
courage him herself; and her astonishment was consequently
so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and
she could not help crying out,--
'Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible!'
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had com-
manded in telling her story gave way to a momentary con-
fusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it
was no more than she expected, she soon regained her com-
posure, and calmly replied,--
'Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you
think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure
any woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as
to succeed with you?'
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making
a strong effort for it, was able to assure her, with tolerable
firmness, that the prospect of their relationship was highly
[278]
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grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable
happiness.
'I see what you are feeling,' replied Charlotte: 'you must
be surprised, very much surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins
was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to
think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have
done. I am not romantic, you know. I never was. I ask
only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Collins's
character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced
that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most
people can boast on entering the marriage state.'
Elizabeth quietly answered 'undoubtedly'; and, after an
awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family.
Charlotte did not stay much longer; and Elizabeth was then
left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time
before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuit-
able a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two
offers of marriage within three days was nothing in com-
parison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that
Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her
own; but she could not have supposed it possible that, when
called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte, the wife of Mr.
Collins, was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of
a friend disgracing herself, and sunk in her esteem, was
added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for
that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
[279]
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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 audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for
Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, pro-
tested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always un-
guarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,--
'Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?
Do you not know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?'
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could
have borne without anger such treatment: but Sir William's
good-breeding carried him through it all; and though he
begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information,
he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing
courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from
so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm
his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from
Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the ex-
clamations of her mother and sisters, by the earnestness of
her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily
joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
happiness that might be expected from the match, the ex-
cellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance
of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a
great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had
he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the
first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the
matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had
been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never
[280]
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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
all the mischief; and the other, that she herself had been
barbarously used by them all; and on these two points she
principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
console and nothing appease her. Nor did that day wear
out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see
Elizabeth without scolding her: a month passed away before
she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being
rude; and many months were gone before she could at all
forgive their daughter.
Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the
occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be
of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to dis-
cover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think
tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish
than his daughter!
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but
she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire
for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to con-
sider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envy-
ing 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 daugh-
ter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener
than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet's
sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough
to drive happiness away.
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint
which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth
felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist
between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made
her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude
and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken,
and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard
of his return.
[281]
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Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and
was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear
again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins
arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written
with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's
abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them,
with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having
obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas,
and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoy-
ing her society that he had been so ready to close with their
kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he
hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady
Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that
she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he
trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable
Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest
of men.
Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a
matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she
was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It
was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead
of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceed-
ingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all
people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs
of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater dis-
tress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth was comfortable on this sub-
ject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other
tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in
Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole win-
ter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which
she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous false-
hood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear -- not that Bingley was in-
different -- but that his sisters would be successful in keeping
him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so de-
structive of Jane's happiness, and so dishonourable to the
stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently
[282]
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recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters,
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of
Miss Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too
much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment.
As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of
course, more painful than Elizabeth's: but whatever she felt
she was desirous of concealing; and between herself and
Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But
as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom
passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her im-
patience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that
if he did not come back she should 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 the Monday fort-
night, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gra-
cious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too
happy, however, to need much attention; and, luckily for the
others, the business of love-making relieved them from a
great deal of his company. The chief of every day was
spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to
Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence
before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very
mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an
agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of
hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to
her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with
jealous abhorrence.
Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her
to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever
she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced
that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolv-
ing to turn herself and her daughters out of the house
as soon as Mr. Bennet was 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 my place in it!'
[283]
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'My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let
us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may
be the survivor.'
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, there-
fore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before.
'I cannot bear to think that they should have all this
estate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.'
'What should not you mind?'
'I should not mind anything at all.'
'Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of
such insensibility.'
'I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about
the entail. How any one could have the conscience to entail
away an estate from one's own daughters I cannot under-
stand; and all for t_he_ sake of Mr. Collins, too! Why should
he have it more than anybody else?'
'I leave it to yourself to determine,' said Mr. Bennet.
[284]
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MISS BINGLEY'S letter arrived, and put an end to
doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the as-
surance 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 pro-
fessed affection of the writer, that could give her any com-
fort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her
many attractions were again dwelt on; and Caroline boasted
joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to pre-
dict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been un-
folded in her former letter. She wrote also with great
pleasure of her brother's being an intimate of Mr. Darcy's
house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the lat-
ter with regard to new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief
of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was
divided between concern for her sister and resentment against
all others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being
partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really
fond of Jane she doubted no more than she had ever done;
and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on
the easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which
now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him
to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of their inclina-
tions. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacri-
fice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever
manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it,
as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject,
in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and
must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and
[285]
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yet, whether Bingley's regard had really died away, or were
suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he had been
aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of
him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister's
situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of
her feeling 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 con-
tinual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot
last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we
were before.'
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude,
but said nothing.
'You doubt me,' cried Jane, slightly colouring; 'indeed
you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the
most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I
have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to re-
proach him with. Thank God I have not _that_ pain. A
little time, therefore -- I shall certainly try to get the bet-
ter--'
With a stronger voice she soon added, 'I have this com-
fort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of
fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to any
one 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 goodwill.
You need not. There are few people whom I really love,
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and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the
world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day
confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human char-
acters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the
appearance of either merit or sense. I have met with two
instances lately: one I will not mention, the other is Char-
lotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it is un-
accountable!'
'My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these.
They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance
enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider
Mr. Collins's respectability, and Charlotte's prudent, steady
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 marries 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 your-
self or me that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger security for happiness.'
'I must think your language too strong in speaking of
both,' replied Jane; 'and i hope you will be convinced of it,
by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You
alluded to something else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I
cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not
to pain me by thinking _that_ _person_ to blame, and saying your
opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively
young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is
very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.
Women fancy admiration means more than it does.'
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'And men take care that they should.'
'If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I
have no idea of there being so much design in the world as
some persons imagine.'
'I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's
conduct to design,' said Elizabeth; 'but, without scheming
to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error
and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of atten-
tion to other people's feelings, and want of resolution, will
do the business.'
'And do you impute it to either of those?'
'Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you
by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me
whilst you can.'
'You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him.'
'Yes, in conjunction with his friend.'
'I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence
him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is
attached to me no other woman can secure it.'
'Your first position is false. They may wish many things
besides his happiness: they may wish his increase of wealth
and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who
has all the importance of money, great connections, and
pride.'
'Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,'
replied Jane; 'but this may be from better feelings than you
are supposing. They have known her much longer than they
have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But,
whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they
should have opposed their brother's. What sister would
think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something
very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me
they would not try to part us; if he were so they could not
succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make every-
body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy.
Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having
been mistaken -- or, at least it is slight, it is nothing in
comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his
sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which
it may be understood.'
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Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this
time Mr. Bingley's name was scarcely ever mentioned be-
tween them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his
returning no more; and though a day seldom passed in which
Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there seemed little
chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her
daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not
believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased
when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the
statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story
to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was, that
Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. 'So Lizzy,'
said he, one day, 'your sister is crossed in love, I find. I
congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be
crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to
think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her com-
panions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear
to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are
officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies
in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleas-
ant 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 always make the most
of it.'
Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dis-
pelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had
thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him
often, and to his other recommendations was now added that
of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had
already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had
suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and
publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to think
how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
had known anything of the matter.
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Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose
there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case
unknown to the society of Hertfordshire: her mild and
steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged
the possibility of mistakes; but by everybody else Mr. Darcy
was condemned as the worst of men.
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AFTER a week spent in professions of love and schemes
of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable
Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of
separation, however, might be alleviated on his side by
preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had rea-
son to hope that, shortly after his next return into Hert-
fordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him
the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at
Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his
fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their
father another letter of thanks.
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure
of receiving her brother and his wife, who came, as usual,
to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a
sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as
well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would
have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by
trade, and within view of his own warehouse, could have
been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner,? who was
several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips,
was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great
favourite with her Longbourn nieces. Between the two
eldest and herself especially there subsisted a very par-
ticular 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 on 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!
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it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins's
wife by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness.
He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him.
The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a
daughter married before I have, and that 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 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 any-
body else. However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you
tell us of long sleeves.'
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been
given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's corre-
spondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in
compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on
the subject. 'It seems likely to have been a desirable match
for Jane,' said she. 'I am sorry it went off. But these things
happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr.
Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few
weeks, and, when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconstancies 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 only from a half-
hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray,
how _violent_ _was_ Mr. Bingley's love?'
'I never saw a more promising inclination; he was grow-
ing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by
her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remark-
able. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies
by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself
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without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms?
Is not general incivility the very essence of love?'
'Oh yes! of that kind of love which I suppose him to have
felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her dis-
position, she may not get over it immediately. It had better
have happened to _you,_ Lizzy; you would have laughed your
self out of it sooner. But do you think she would be pre-
vailed on 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 dif-
ferent a part of town, all our connections are so different, and,
as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improb-
able 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 examina-
tion, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was
possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his af-
fection 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
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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 Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was
not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so
carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and
sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner.
When the engagement was for home, some of the officers
always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was
sure to be one; and on these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, ren-
dered suspicious by Elizabeth's warm commendation of him,
narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their prefer-
ence of each other was plain enough to make her a little un-
easy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject
before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the im-
prudence 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 acquaintance in
common; and, though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in
his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former
friends than she had been in the way of procuring.
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late
Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here, consequently,
was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing her
recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which
Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise
on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting
both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the
present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember
something 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.
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MRS. GARDINER'S caution to Elizabeth was punc-
tually and kindly given on the first favourable op-
portunity of speaking to her alone: after honestly
telling her what she thought, she thus went on:--
'You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely
because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not
afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be
on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to
involve him, in an affection which the want of fortune would
make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against _him:_
he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the
fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do
better. But as it is -- you must not let your fancy run away
with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it.
Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and good con-
duct, I am sure. 'You must not disappoint your father.'
'My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.'
'Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.'
'Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will
take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall
not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.'
'Elizabeth, you are not serious now.'
'I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am
not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But
he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever
saw -- and if he becomes really attached to me -- I believe it
will be better _that_ he should not. I see the imprudence of
it. Oh, that abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion
of me does me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable
to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wick-
ham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be
the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we
see, every day, that where there is affection young people
are seldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from
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entering into engagements with each other, how can I
promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures,
if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would
be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore,
is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe
myself his first object. When I am in company with him,
I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.'
'Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming
here so very often. At least you should not _remind_ your
mother of inviting him.'
'As I did the other day,' said Elizabeth, with a conscious
smile; 'very true it will be wise in me to refrain from _that._
But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on
your account that he has been so frequently invited this
week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of
constant company for her friends. But really, and upon
my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and
now I hope you are satisfied.'
Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having
thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted, -- a
wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point
without being resented.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had
been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up
his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great incon-
venience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast ap-
proaching; and she was at length so far resigned as to think
it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured
tone, that she _'wished_ they might be happy.' Thursday was
to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid
her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth,
ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good
wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out
of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte
said,--
'I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.'
_'That_ you certainly shall.'
'And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and
see me?'
'We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.'
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'I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise
me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.'
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little
pleasure in the visit.
'My father and Maria are to come to me in March,' added
Charlotte, 'and I hope you will consent to be of the party.
Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me 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 ever had been: that it should be
equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy
was over; and, though determined not to slacken as a cor-
respondent, it was for the sake of what had been rather
than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with
a good deal of eagerness: there could not but be curiosity
to know how she would speak of her new home, how she
would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare
pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read,
Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every
point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheer-
fully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned
nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture,
neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady
Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It
was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally
softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for
her own visit there to know the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister, to an-
nounce 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 ac-
counted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to
her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
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'My aunt,' she continued, 'is going to-morrow into that
part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling
in Grosvenor Street.'
She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen
Miss Bingley. 'I did not think Caroline in spirits,' were her
words, 'but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me
for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was
right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I
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 daresay I shall soon see
them here.'
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced
her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her
sister's being in town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him.
She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret
it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley's in-
attention. After waiting at home every morning for a
fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for
her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her
stay, and, yet more, the alteration of her manner, would
allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which
she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what
she felt:--
> 'My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
> her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have
> been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my
> dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think
> me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour
> was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at
> all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but,
> if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should
> be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;
> and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When
> she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it;
> she made a slight, formal apology for not calling before, said not a
> word of wishing to see me again, and was, in every respect, so altered
> a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to
> continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help
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> blaming, her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did;
> I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on her side.
> But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong,
> and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
> cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_
> know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will
> easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as
> he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may 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, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am
> certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by
> her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he
> is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were
> not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say
> that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I
> will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of
> what will make me happy, your affection, and the invariable kindness
> of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss
> Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again,
> of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
> not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant
> accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with
> Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable
> there. Yours,' etc.
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits
returned, as she considered that Jane would no longer be
duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the
brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish
for any renewal of his attentions. His character sank on
every review of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well
as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he
might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as, by Wickham's
account, she would make him abundantly regret what he
had thrown away.
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her
promise concerning that gentleman, and required informa-
tion; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give
contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent
partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was
the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful
enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it
without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly
touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that _she_
would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it.
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The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the
most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was
now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-
sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte's, did not
quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing,
on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to
suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her,
she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for
both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after
relating the circumstances, she thus went on: -- 'I am now
convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in
love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating
passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish
him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only
cordial towards _him,_ they are even impartial towards Miss
King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I
am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of
girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has
been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more in-
teresting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly
in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative
insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased
too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more
to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the
world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on, as
well as the plain.'
[300]
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WITH no greater events than these in the Longbourn
family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond
the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and some-
times cold, did January and February pass away. March
was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first
thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she
soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually
learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well
as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of
seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr.
Collins. There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with
such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home
could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome
for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give her a
peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she
would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything,
however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled accord-
ing to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir
William and his second daughter. The improvement of
spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan
became perfect as plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would
certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so
little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and
almost promised to answer her letter.
The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was
perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present
pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been
the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to
listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, remind-
ing her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de
Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her -- their opinion
of everybody -- would always coincide, there was a solicitude,
an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to him
[301]
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with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him con-
vinced 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 knight-
hood; and his civilities were worn out like his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they be-
gan it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As
they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-
room window watching their arrival: when they entered the
passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, look-
ing 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 shy-
ness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented
their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day
passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shop-
ping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first
subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than aston-
ished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though
Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were
periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope
that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her
the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch
Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different
times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former
had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's deser-
tion, 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 mer-
cenary.'
[302]
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'Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial
affairs between the mercenary and the prudent motive?
Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christ-
mas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be
imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with
only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
mercenary.'
'If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I
shall know what to think.'
'She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no
harm of her.'
'But he paid her not the smallest attention till her 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 indelicacy in directing his attentions
towards her so soon after this event.'
'A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all
those elegant decorums with other people may observe. If
_she_ does not object to it, why should _we?'_
_'Her_ not objecting does not justify _him._ It only shows
her being deficient in something herself -- sense or feeling.'
'Well,' cried Elizabeth, 'have it as you choose. He shall
be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.'
'No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be
sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so
long in Derbyshire.'
'Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men
who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live
in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all.
Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a
man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither
manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the
only ones worth knowing after all.'
'Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of dis-
appointment.'
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play,
she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accom-
[303]
{{prhprp304.jpg}}
pany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they pro-
posed taking in the summer.
'We have not quite 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. 'My dear, dear aunt,' she rapturously cried, 'what
delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour.
Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are 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 an 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 quarrelling
about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less
insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.'
[304]
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EVERY object in the next day's journey was new and in-
teresting 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 highroad for the lane to Hunsford,
every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning
expected to bring it in view. The paling 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 affection-
ately received. She saw instantly that her cousin's manners
were not altered by his marriage: his formal civility was just
what it had been; and he detained her some minutes at the
gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family.
They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out
the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as
soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second
time, with ostentatious formality, to his humble abode, and
punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she
could not help fancying that in displaying the good propor-
tion of the room, its aspect, and its furniture, he addressed
himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel
what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything
[305]
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seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify
him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with won-
der 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 seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Char-
lotte. 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 his garden was one of his most re-
spectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of
countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthful-
ness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much
as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and
cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter
the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with
a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could
number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many
trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the
views which his garden, or which the country or the king-
dom could boast, none were to be compared with the pros-
pect 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 en-
counter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while
Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and
friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to
have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and
everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and
consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit.
When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really a
great air of comfort throughout, and by Charlotte's evident
[306]
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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 din-
ner, 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 that she will
include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with
which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour
to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice
every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her Lady-
ship'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, in-
deed,' 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 Hertford-
shire news, and telling again what had been already written;
and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber,
had to meditate upon Charlotte's degree of contentment, to
understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing
with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done
very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would
pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexa-
tious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their
intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled
it all.
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room
getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to
speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a
moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent
hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door
and met Maria in the landing-place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out,--
[307]
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'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 she could be so thin and small!'
'She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in
all this wind. Why does she not come in?'
'Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest
of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.'
'I like her appearance,' said Elizabeth, struck with other
ideas. 'She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him
very well. She will make him a very proper wife.'
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate
in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Eliza-
beth's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in
earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and con-
stantly 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.
[308]
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MR. COLLINS'S triumph, in consequence of this in-
vitation, was complete. The power of displaying
the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards him-
self and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;
and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon
was such an instance of Lady Catherine's condescension
as he knew not how to admire enough.
'I confess,' said he, 'that I should not have been at all
surprised by her Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink
tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected,
from my knowledge of her affability, that it would hap-
pen. 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, includ-
ing the whole party) so immediately after your arrival?'
'I am the less surprised at what has happened,' replied
Sir William, 'from that knowledge of what the manners of
the great really are, which my situation in life has al-
lowed me to acquire. About the court, such instances of
elegant breeding are not uncommon.'
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next
morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was care-
fully instructing them in what they were to expect, that
the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid
a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said
to Elizabeth,--
'Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your
apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that ele-
gance of dress in us which becomes herself and daughter.
I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your
clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion for any-
thing more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of
[309]
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you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the dis-
tinction of rank preserved.'
While they were dressing, he came two or three times to
their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as
Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for
her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her Ladyship,
and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas,
who had been little used to company; and she looked for-
ward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehen-
sion as her father had done to his presentation at St.
James's.
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of
about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty
and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased
with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr.
Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly
affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of
the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether
had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm
was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did
not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth's courage did not fail
her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke
her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous
virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she
thought she could witness without trepidation.
From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed
out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished
ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-
chamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter,
and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great
condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins
had settled it with her husband that the office of introduc-
tion should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner,
without any of those apologies and thanks which he would
have thought necessary.
In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was
so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that
he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow,
and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter,
[310]
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frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her
chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found
herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the
three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was
a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which
might once have been handsome. Her air was not con-
ciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as
to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was
not rendered formidable by silence: but whatever she said
was spoken in so authoritative a tone as marked her self-
importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
Elizabeth's mind; and, from the observation of the day al-
together, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he
had represented.
When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance
and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr.
Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could al-
most 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 servants, and all the articles of plate which Mr. Col-
lins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he
took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her Ladyship's
desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish noth-
ing greater. He carved and ate and praised with de-
lighted alacrity; and every dish was commended first by
him, and then by Sir William, who was now enough re-
covered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner
[311]
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which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive
admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially
when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The
party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was
ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she
was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh -- the
former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Cath-
erine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-
time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching
how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some
other dish and fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought
speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing
but eat and admire.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was
little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which
she did without any intermission till coffee came in, de-
livering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a man-
ner as proved that she was not used to have her judgment
controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic con-
cerns familiarly and minutely, and 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 for dic-
tating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.
Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections
she knew the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins,
was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her at dif-
ferent times how many sisters she had, whether they were
older or younger than herself, whether any of them were
likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where
they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and
what had been her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt
all the impertinence of her questions, but answered them
very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,--
'Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think?
For your sake,' turning to Charlotte, 'I am glad of it; but
[312]
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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 oppor-
tunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every
spring for the benefit of masters.'
'My mother would have no objection, but my father hates
London.'
'Has your governess left you?'
'We never had any governess.'
'No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters
brought up at home without a governess! I never heard of
such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to
your education.'
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her
that had not been the case.
'Then who taught you? who attended to you? without a
governess, you must have been neglected.'
'Compared with some families, I believe we were; but
such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We
were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that
were necessary. Those who chose to be idle certainly
might.'
'Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent;
and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her
most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing
is to be done in education without steady and regular instruc-
tion, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful
how many families I have been the means of supplying in
[313]
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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 acci-
dentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted
with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's
calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treas-
ure. "Lady Catherine," said she, "you have given me a treas-
ure." 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 are mar-
ried! Your younger sisters must be very young?'
'Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full
young to be much in company. But, really, ma'am, I think it
would be very hard upon younger sisters that they should
not have their share of society and amusement, because the
elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early.
The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as
the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it
would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or del-
icacy of mind.'
'Upon my word,' said her Ladyship, 'you give your opinion
very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your
age?'
'With three younger sisters grown up,' replied Elizabeth,
smiling, 'your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.'
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a
direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the
first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much
dignified impertinence.
'You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, -- therefore
you need not conceal your age.'
'I am not one-and-twenty.'
When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over,
the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William,
and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss
de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the
honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party.
Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
[314]
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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 immedi-
ately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear
Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on
the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned
by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of
thankfulness on Mr. Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir
William's, they departed. As soon as they had driven from
the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her
opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really
was. But her commendation, though costing her some trou-
ble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very
soon obliged to take her Ladyship's praise into his own hands.
[315]
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SIR WILLIAM stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his
visit was long enough to convince him of his daugh-
ter's being most comfortably settled, and of her possess-
ing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often
met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins de-
voted his mornings to driving him out in his gig, and show-
ing 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 win-
dow in his own book room, which fronted the road. The
room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth at
first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
the dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized
room, and had a pleasanter aspect: but she soon saw that her
friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Col-
lins 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 infrequently stopped at the parsonage, and
had a few minutes conversation with Charlotte, but was
scarcely ever prevailed on to get out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to
Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it
necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that
there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she
could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now
[316]
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and then they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the
room during these visits. She examined into their employ-
ments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it
differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furni-
ture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake
of finding out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too
large for her family.
Elizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was
not in the commission of the peace for 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 quarrel-
some, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints,
and scold them into harmony and plenty.
The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about
twice a week: and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and
there being only one card-table in the evening, every such
entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other
engagements were few; as the style of living of the neigh-
bourhood in general was beyond the Collinses' reach. This,
however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she
spent her time comfortably enough: there were half-hours of
pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was
so fine for the time of year, that she had often great enjoy-
ment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she fre-
quently went while the others were calling on Lady Cath-
erine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the
park where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one
seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the
reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed
away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it
was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in
so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard,
soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy was expected there in
the course of a few weeks; and though there were not many
of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming
[317]
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would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their
Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hope-
less 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 fre-
quently 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 gentleman accompanied him.
Charlotte had seen them from her husband's room, crossing
the road, and immediately running into the other, told the
girls what an honour they might expect, adding,--
'I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr.
Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.'
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
compliment before their approach was announced by the door-
bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the
room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about
thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the
gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to
look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and, whatever might be his feelings
towards her friend, met her with every appearance of com-
posure. Elizabeth merely courtesied to him, without saying
a word.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with
the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very
pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight
observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for
some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however,
[318]
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his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth
after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
way; and, after a moment's pause, added,--
'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 further, and the gentlemen soon after-
wards went away.
[319]
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COLONEL FITZWILLIAM'S manners were very much
admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that
he must add considerably to the pleasure of their en-
gagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before
they received any invitation thither, for while there were
visitors in the house they could not be necessary; and it was
not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen's
arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and
then they were merely asked on leaving church to come
there in the evening. For the last week they had seen
very little of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colo-
nel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than
once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had only seen
at church.
The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper
hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room.
Her Ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their
company was by no means so acceptable as when she could
get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by
her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much
more than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: any-
thing was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs.
Collins's pretty friend had, moreover, caught his fancy very
much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agree-
ably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at
home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never
been half so well entertained in that room before; and they
conversed with so much spirit and flow as to draw the atten-
tion 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,--
[320]
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'What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you
are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me
hear what it is.'
'We are speaking of music, madam,' said he, when no
longer able to avoid a reply.
'Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects
my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if
you are speaking of music. There are few people in England,
I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than my-
self, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should
have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her
health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she
would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get
on, Darcy?'
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's
proficiency.
'I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,' said
Lady Catherine; 'and pray tell her from me, that she cannot
expect to excel if she does not practise a great deal.'
'I assure you, madam, he replied, 'that she does not need
such advice. She practises very constantly.'
'So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and
when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it
on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence
in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have
told Miss Bennet several times that she will never play really
well unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has
no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her,
to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in
Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you
know, in that part of the house.'
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding,
and made no answer.
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded
Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat
down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her.
Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as
before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
her, and, moving with his usual deliberation towards the
pianoforte, stationed himself so as to command a full view
[321]
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of the fair performer's countenance. Elizabeth saw what he
was doing, and at the first convenient pause turned to him
with an arch smile, and said,--
'You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all
this state to hear me. But 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 with every attempt to
intimidate me.'
'I shall not say that 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 acquaint-
ance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in
occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, are not your
own.'
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and
said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, 'Your cousin will give you a very
pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say.
I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well
able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where
I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit.
Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention
all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire -- and,
give me leave to say, very impolitic too -- for it is provoking
me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock
your relations to hear.'
'I am not afraid of you,' said he, smilingly.
'Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,' cried
Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'I should like to know how he behaves
among strangers.'
'You shall hear, then -- but prepare for something very
dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertford-
shire, you must know, was at a ball -- and at this ball, what
do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am
sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four dances,
though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge,
more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.'
'I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in
the assembly beyond my own party.'
[322]
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'True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.
Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers
wait your orders.'
'Perhaps,' said Darcy, 'I should have judged better had I
sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend
myself to strangers.'
'Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?' said Eliza-
beth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'Shall we ask him
why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the
world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?'
'I can answer your question,' said Fitzwilliam, 'without
applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the
trouble.'
'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,'
said Darcy, 'of conversing easily with those I have never seen
before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear
interested in their concerns as I often see done.'
'My fingers,' said Elizabeth, 'do not move over this in-
strument in the masterly manner which I see so many
women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and
do not produce the same expression. But then I have always
supposed it to be my own fault -- because I would not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_
fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior exe-
cution.'
Darcy smiled and said, 'You are perfectly right. You
have employed your time much better. No one admitted to
the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting.
We neither of us perform to strangers.'
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called
out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immedi-
ately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and,
after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy,--
'Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised
more, and could have the advantage of a London master.
She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is
not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a delightful
performer, had her health allowed her to learn.'
Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented
to his cousin's praise: but neither at that moment nor at any
[323]
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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 per-
formance, 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.
[324]
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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 im-
pertinent 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 apolo-
gised for his intrusion, by letting her know that he had under-
stood all the ladies 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 absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something;
and in this emergency recollecting _when_ she had seen him
last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he
would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she
observed,--
'How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last Novem-
ber, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise
to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I re-
collect 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 future. He has
many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and
engagements are continually increasing.'
'If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be
better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place
[325]
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entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there.
But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much
for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own,
and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same
principle.'
'I should not be surprised,' said Darcy, 'if he were to give
it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.'
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking
longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was
now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to
him.
He took the hint and soon began with, 'This seems a very
comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great
deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.'
'I believe she did -- and I am sure she could not have
bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.'
'Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.'
'Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having
met with one of the very few sensible women who would have
accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My
friend has an excellent understanding -- though I am not
certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest
thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however;
and, in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match
for her.'
'It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so
easy a distance of her own family and friends.'
'An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.'
'And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than
half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.'
'I should never have considered the distance as one of the
_advantages_ of the match,' cried Elizabeth. 'I should never
have said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.'
'It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire.
Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I
suppose, would appear far.'
As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth
fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be
thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she
answered,--
[326]
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'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 expense of travelling unimportant, dis-
tance becomes no evil. But that is not the case _here._ Mr.
and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a
one as will allow of frequent journeys -- and I am persuaded
my friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less
than _half_ the present distance.'
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said,
_'You_ cannot have a right to such very strong local attach-
ment. _You_ cannot have been always at Longbourn.'
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced
some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a news-
paper from the table, and, glancing over it, said, in a colder
voice,--
'Are you pleased with Kent?'
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on
either side calm and concise -- and soon put an end to by the
entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from their
walk. The _tete-a-tete_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the
mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet,
and, after sitting a few minutes longer, without saying much
to anybody, went away.
'What can be the meaning of this?' said Charlotte, as soon
as he was gone. 'My dear Eliza, he must be in love with
you, or he would never have called on us in this familiar way.'
But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very
likely, even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and, after
various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit
to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which
was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports
were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books,
and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be always within
doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasant-
ness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking
thither almost every day. They called at various times of the
morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now
and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all
[327]
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that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in
their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him
still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satis-
faction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration
of her former favourite, George Wickham; and though, in
comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness
in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners, she believed he might have
the best informed mind.
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was
more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as
he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening
his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of
necessity rather than of choice -- a sacrifice to propriety, not a
pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated.
Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitz-
william'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 have liked to
believe this change the effect of love, and the object of that
love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find
it out; she watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and
whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success.
He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expres-
sion of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, stead-
fast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much
admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence
of mind.
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility
of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at
the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the
subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might
only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted
not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would vanish, if
she could suppose him to be in her power.
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned
her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond com-
parison, the pleasantest 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.
[328]
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MORE than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within
the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all
the perverseness of the mischance that should bring
him where no one else was brought; and, to prevent its ever
happening again, took care to inform him, at first, that it was
a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second
time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the third.
It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for
on these occasions is was not merely a few formal inquiries
and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually
thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble
of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the
course of their third rencounter that he was asking some odd
unconnected questions -- about her pleasure in being at Huns-
ford, 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 reperusing
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 intended to close it with a call
at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?'
[329]
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'No, I should have turned in a moment.'
And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards
the Parsonage together.
'Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?' said she.
'Yes -- if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.'
'And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he
has at least great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not
know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing
what he likes than Mr. Darcy.'
'He likes to have his own way very well,' replied Colonel
Fitzwilliam. 'But so we all do. It is only that he has better
means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and
many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son,
you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.'
'In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very
little of either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known
of self-denial and dependence? When have you been pre-
vented 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 the want of
money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.'
'Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think
they very often do.'
'Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there
are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry
without some attention to money.'
'Is this,' thought Elizabeth, 'meant for me?' and she col-
oured 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 somebody at his disposal. I wonder
[330]
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he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that
kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present;
and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes
with her.'
'No,' said Colonel Fitzwilliam, 'that is an advantage which
he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guard-
ianship of Miss Darcy.'
'Are you indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian 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, con-
vinced 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 daresay she is one of the most tractable crea-
tures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some
ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I
think I have heard you say that you know them.'
'I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentle-
manlike 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 rea-
son 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 of course could not wish
to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the
lady's family it would be an unpleasant thing.'
'You may depend upon my not mentioning it.'
'And remember that I have not much reason for supposing
it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he
[331]
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congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from
the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but with-
out 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 know-
ing them to have been together the whole of last summer.'
'Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?'
'I understood that there were some very strong objections
against the lady.'
'And what arts did he use to separate them?'
'He did not talk to me of his own arts,' said Fitzwilliam,
smiling. 'He only told me what I have now told you.'
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swell-
ing with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam
asked her why she was so thoughtful.
'I am thinking of what you have been telling me,' said she.
'Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was
he to be the judge?'
'You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?'
'I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the
propriety of his friend's inclination; or why, upon his own
judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what
manner that 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 lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.'
This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a
picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with
an answer; and, therefore, abruptly changing the conversa-
tion, talked on indifferent matters till they reached the Par-
sonage. 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 con-
nected. There could not exist in the world _two_ men over
whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That
he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate
Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she had
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always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not
mislead him, _he_ was the cause -- his pride and caprice were
the cause -- of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued
to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness
for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and
no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
'There were some very strong objections against the lady,'
were Colonel Fitzwilliam's words; and these strong objections
probably were, her having one uncle who was a country
attorney, and another who was in business in London.
'To Jane herself,' she exclaimed, 'there could be no pos-
sibility of objection, -- all loveliness and goodness as she is!
Her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her
manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged
against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has
abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
respectability which he will probably never reach.' When
she thought of her mother, indeed, 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 con-
vinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of im-
portance in his friend's connections than from their want of
sense; and she was quite decided, as last, that he had been
partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by
the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned
brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards
the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr.
Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings,
where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing
that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as
much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her;
but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady
Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home.
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WHEN they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to
exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr.
Darcy, chose for her employment the examination
of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her be-
ing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was
there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication
of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line
of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had
been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding
from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly
disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded.
Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of un-
easiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on
the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery
he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her
sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his
visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a
still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself
be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery
of her spirits, by all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without re-
membering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel
Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at
all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy
about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the
sound of the door bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered
by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who
had once before called late in the evening, and might now
come to 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 a hurried manner he immediately began an
inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of
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hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold
civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting
up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came
towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:--
'In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will
not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ar-
dently I admire and love you.'
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She
stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he consid-
ered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he
felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He
spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart
to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of
tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its
being a degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment
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 in-
sensible 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 compas-
sion 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 at-
tachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found
impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it
would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As
he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a
favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety,
but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circum-
stance could only exasperate farther; and when he ceased the
colour rose into her cheeks and she said,--
'In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode
to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed,
however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that
obligation should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would
now thank you. But I cannot -- I have never desired your
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good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most un-
willingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one.
It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope
will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me
have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can
have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.'
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with
his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no
less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale
with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in
every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of
composure, and would not open his lips till he believed him-
self to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feel-
ings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he
said,--
'And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour
of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why,
with so little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But
it is of small importance.'
'I might as well inquire,' replied she, 'why, with so evident
a design 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 own feelings decided against
you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favour-
able, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to
accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps
for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?'
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed col-
our; but the emotion was short, and he listened without at-
tempting to interrupt her while she continued,--
'I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No
motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted
_there._ You dare not, you cannot, deny that you have been
the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from
each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for
caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disap-
pointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the
acutest kind.'
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She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he
was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved
by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a
smile of affected incredulity.
'Can you deny that you have done it?' she repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied, 'I have no wish
of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my
friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success.
Towards _him_ I have been kinder than towards myself.'
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil
reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely
to conciliate her.
'But it is not merely this affair,' she continued, 'on which
my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my
opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in
the recital which I received many months ago from Mr.
Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In
what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend your-
self? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose
upon others?'
'You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,'
said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened
colour.
'Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help
feeling an interest in him?'
'His misfortunes!' repeated Darcy, contemptuously, -- 'yes,
his misfortunes have been great indeed.'
'And of your infliction,' cried Elizabeth, with energy. 'You
have reduced him to his present state of poverty -- compara-
tive poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you
must know to have been designed for him. You have de-
prived 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 misfortunes 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 estima-
tion in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it
so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy
indeed! But, perhaps,' added he, stopping in his walk, and
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turning towards her, 'these offences might have been over-
looked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession
of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any seri-
ous design. These bitter accusations might have been sup-
pressed, 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 in-
feriority of your connections? To congratulate myself on
the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly
beneath my own?'
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment;
yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when
she said,--
'You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the
mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than
as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in
refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike
manner.'
She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she
continued,--
'You could not have made me 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, im-
pressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your
conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others,
were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on
which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike;
and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were
the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed
on to marry.'
'You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly com-
prehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of
what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so
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much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health
and happiness.'
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Eliza-
beth 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 weak-
ness, 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 pre-
vent his friend's marrying her sister, and which must appear
at least with equal force in his own case, was almost in-
credible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane,
his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he
could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he
had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he
had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the
consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.
She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound
of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she
was to encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her
away to her room.
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ELIZABETH awoke the next morning to the same
thoughts and meditations which had at length closed
her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise
of what had happened: it was impossible to think of anything
else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved
soon after breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise.
She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the
recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes coming there stopped
her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane
which led her 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 differ-
ence in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure
of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her
walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the
sort of grove which edged the park: he was moving that
way; and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly
retreating. But the person who advanced was now near
enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,
pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing
herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr.
Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that
time reached it also; and, holding out a letter, which she in-
stinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, 'I
have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of
meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that
letter?' and then, with a slight bow, turned again into the
plantation, and was soon out of sight.
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest
curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still in-
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creasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets
of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand.
The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way
along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings,
at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--
> 'Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the appre-
> hension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or re-
> newal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.
> I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself,
> by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be
> too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the
> perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had
> not my character required it to be written and read. You must,
> therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention;
> your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it
> of your justice.
>
> 'Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
> magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned
> was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached
> Mr. Bingley from your sister, -- and the other, that I had, in defiance
> of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the
> immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham.
> Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my
> youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had
> scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had
> been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to
> which the separation of two young persons whose affection could
> be the growth of only a few weeks could bear no comparison. But
> from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally
> bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future
> secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives
> has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself,
> I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive
> to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be
> obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long
> in Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley
> preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country.
> But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I
> had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had
> often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour
> of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William
> Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to your
> sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He
> spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be
> undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
> attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
> Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister
> I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and
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> engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard; and
> I remained convinced, from the evening's scrutiny, that though she
> received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by
> any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here.
> I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your
> sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been
> misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not
> been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity
> of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given
> the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her
> temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was
> desirous of believing her indifferent is certain; but I will venture
> to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced
> by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because
> I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished
> it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those
> which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force
> of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection
> could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were
> other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and
> existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeav-
> oured 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 of that total
> want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
> herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
> father: -- pardon me, -- it pains me to offend you. But amidst your
> concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure
> at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider
> that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the
> like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your
> elder sister than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of
> both. I will only say, farther, that from what passed that evening
> my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement
> heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend
> from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Nether-
> field for London on the day following, as you, I am certain, re-
> member, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted
> is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness had been equally
> excited with my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered;
> and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their
> brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We
> accordingly went -- and there I readily engaged in the office of
> pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
> described and enforced them earnestly. But however this remon-
> strance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do
> not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had
> it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in
> giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to
> return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, regard. But
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> Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on
> my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that
> he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade
> him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had
> been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame
> myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my
> conduct, in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satis-
> faction; 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, how-
> ever, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing
> more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your
> sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives
> which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I
> have not yet learnt to condemn them. -- With respect to that other,
> more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can
> only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with
> my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant;
> but of the truth of what I shall relate I can summon more than one
> witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very
> respectable man, who had for many years the management of all
> the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of
> his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and
> on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore
> liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and after-
> wards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father,
> always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been
> unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not
> only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always
> engaging, he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
> church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.
> As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
> of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the
> want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
> of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
> of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
> seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not
> have. Here again I shall give you pain -- to what degree you only
> can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
> has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
> unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My
> excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
> Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particu-
> larly 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
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> 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 the 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 con-
> nection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him
> to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town,
> I believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere
> pretence; and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life
> of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of
> him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had
> been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the
> presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no diffi-
> culty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law
> a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being
> ordained, if I would present him to the living in question -- of which
> he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I
> had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten
> my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for re-
> fusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition
> of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his cir-
> cumstances -- and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to
> others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
> appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I know not.
> But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
> I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
> myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
> me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel
> no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years
> my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew,
> Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken
> from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and
> last summer she went with the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate;
> and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
> proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
> Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
> by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to
> Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of
> his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
> herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
> fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence,
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> I am happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I
> joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement;
> and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and
> offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father,
> acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
> how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
> any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the
> place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
> her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
> sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help
> supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong
> inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This,
> madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
> been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
> false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
> Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of false-
> hood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be
> wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything con-
> cerning either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion
> certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all
> this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough
> of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the
> truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to
> the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relation-
> ship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors
> of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every
> particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should
> make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same
> cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the pos-
> sibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity
> of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning.
> I will only add, God bless you.
>
> 'Fitzwilliam Darcy.'
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IF Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not
expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had
formed no expectation at all of its contents. But, such
as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly she went
through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they ex-
cited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined.
With amazement did she first understand that he believed
any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she
persuaded that he could have no explanation to give, which
a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his
account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read
with an eagerness which hardly left her power of compre-
hension; 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 in-
sensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account
of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too
angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed
no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his
style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
insolence.
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of
Mr. Wickham -- when she read, with somewhat clearer at-
tention, a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow
every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so
alarming an affinity to his own history of himself -- her feel-
ings 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.
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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 her-
self as well as she could, she again began the mortifying
perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded her-
self 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 particu-
lars immediately following, of Wickham's resigning all pre-
tensions 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 en-
tirely blameless throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled
not to lay to Mr. Wickham's charge exceedingly shocked
her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice.
She had never heard of him before his entrance into the
shire militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion
of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former
way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but
what he told himself. As to his real character, had informa-
tion been in her power, she had never felt a wish of in-
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quiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established
him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to
recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait
of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the
attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of
virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would
endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idle-
ness and vice of many years' continuance. But no such rec-
ollection befriended her. She could see him instantly be-
fore her, in every charm of air and address, but she could
remember no more substantial good than the general appro-
bation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social
powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this
point a considerable while, she once more continued to read.
But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed
between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning
before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every
particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself -- from whom she
had previously received the information of his near concern
in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on
applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkward-
ness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the
conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such
a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's
corroboration.
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in
conversation between Wickham and herself in their first
evening at Mr. Philips's. Many of his expressions were still
fresh in her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impro-
priety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered
it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of put-
ting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency
of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that
he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy --
that Mr. Darcy might leave t_he_ 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 Nether-
field family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no
[348]
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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 pre-
vent his exposing the son.
How differently did everything now appear in which he
was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the
consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and
the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the modera-
tion 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 for-
tune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the
preference which she believed she had most incautiously
shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in further 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 ac-
quaintance which had latterly brought them much together,
and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways -- seen any-
thing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust -- any-
thing that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; --
that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued
-- that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,
and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of
his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;
-- that had his actions been what Wickham represented them,
so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have
been concealed from the world; and that friendship between
a person capable of it and such an amiable man as Mr.
Bingley was incomprehensible.
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy
nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had
been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
'How despicably have I acted!' she cried. 'I, who have
prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued my-
self on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous
candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or
[349]
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blameless distrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet,
how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not
have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has
been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and
offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of
our acquaintance I have courted prepossession and ignorance,
and driven reason away where either was concerned. Till
this moment, I never knew myself.'
From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts
were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr.
Darcy's explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient; and
she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second
perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions, in
one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other?
He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her
sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering
what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Neither could she
deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that
Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that
there was a constant complacency in her air and manner, not
often united with great sensibility.
When she came to that part of the letter in which her
family were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet
merited, reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The
justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial; and
the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having
passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression
on his mind than on hers.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt.
It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt
which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family;
and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had, in
fact, been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected
how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such
impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything
she had ever known before.
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way
to every variety of thought, reconsidering events, determin-
ing probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could,
[350]
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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 re-
flections 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 Fitz-
william had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping
for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she
could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in
missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam
was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter.
[351]
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THE two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and
Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to
make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring
home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected,
after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings.
To Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine and
her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great
satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship, importing that she
felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having
them all to dine with her.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting
that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been
presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think,
without a smile, of what her Ladyship's indignation would
have been. 'What would she have said? how would she have
behaved?' were questions with which she amused herself.
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings
party. 'I assure you I feel it exceedingly,' said Lady Cath-
erine; 'I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as
I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men;
and know them to be so much attached to me! They were
excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear
Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely -- more, I think, than last year.
His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.'
Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw
in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and
daughter.
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet
seemed out of spirits; and immediately accounting for it
herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again
so soon, she added,--
'But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to
[352]
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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 invita-
tion,' replied Elizabeth; 'but it is not in my power to accept
it. I must be in town next Saturday.'
'Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks.
I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so
before you came. There can be no occasion for your going
so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another
fortnight.'
'But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my
return.'
'Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother
can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a
father. And if you will stay another _month_ complete, it will
be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I
am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson
does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good
room for one of you -- and, indeed, if the weather should
happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both,
as you are neither of you large.'
'You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide
by our original plan.'
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. 'Mrs. Collins, you must
send a servant with them. You know I always speak my
mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women trav-
elling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must
contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always
be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation
in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last
summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go
with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy of Pem-
berley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
propriety in a different manner. I am excessively at-
tentive to all those things. You must send John with the
young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me
to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to _you_
to let them go alone.'
'My uncle is to send a servant for us.'
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'Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he?
I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of those
things. Where shall you change horses? Oh, Bromley,
of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will he
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 for-
gotten 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 to-
wards its writer were at times widely different. When she
remembered the style of his address, she was still full of
indignation: but when she considered how unjustly she had
condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of
compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general
character respect: but she could not approve him; nor could
she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest
inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour
there was a constant source of vexation and regret: and in
the unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier
chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, con-
tented 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
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flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of
Longbourn, they would be going there for ever.
Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern;
and Mr. Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her
former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had
lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his
conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the
implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous
then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happi-
ness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of
her own family!
When to these recollections was added the development
of Wickham's character, it may be easily believed that the
happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before were
now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her
to appear tolerably cheerful.
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the
last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last
evening was spent there; and her Ladyship again inquired
minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them
directions as to the best method of packing, and was so
urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to
undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescen-
sion, 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 courtesy and hold out her hand to both.
[355]
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ON Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for
breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared;
and he took the opportunity of paying the parting
civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
'I know not.,Miss Elizabeth,' said he, 'whether Mrs. Collins
has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to
us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without
receiving her thanks for it. The favour of your company
has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there
is to tempt any one 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 every-
thing in our power to prevent your spending your time un-
pleasantly.'
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of
happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment;
and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind at-
tentions she had received, must make _her_ feel the obliged.
Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling solemnity
replied,--
'It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have
passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done
our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to
introduce you to very superior society, and from our connec-
tion with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble
home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Huns-
ford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation
with regard to Lady Catherine's family is, indeed, the sort of
extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast.
You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually
we are engaged there. In truth, I must acknowledge that,
with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
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not think any one abiding in it an object of compassion while
they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.'
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings;
and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth
tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
'You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that
you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions
to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of; and
altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has
drawn an unfortunate -- but on this point it will be as well
to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal
felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one
mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most
remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us.
We seem to have been designed for each other.'
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness
where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add,
that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts.
She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them
interrupted by the entrance of 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 de-
pendent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened
on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be
ready.
After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth
was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins; and as they
walked down the garden, he was commissioning her with
his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter,
and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though un-
known. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the
door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly
reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
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hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of
Rosings.
'But,' he added, 'you will of course wish to have your
humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks
for their kindness to you while you have been here.'
Elizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed
to be shut, and the carriage drove off.
'Good gracious!' cried Maria, after a few minutes silence,
'it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how
many things have happened!'
'A great many, indeed,' said her companion, with a sigh.
'We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking
tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!'
Elizabeth privately added, 'And how much I shall have to
conceal.'
Their journey was performed without much conversation,
or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Huns-
ford they reached Mr. Gardiner's house, where they were to
remain a few days.
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of
studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which
the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane
was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be
leisure enough for observation.
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could
wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr.
Darcy's proposals. To know that she had the power of re-
vealing 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 some-
thing of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister further.
[358]
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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 upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the
place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watch-
ing the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed
a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually
affords, exclaiming, 'Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable
surprise?'
'And we mean to treat you all,' added Lydia; 'but you
must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the
shop out there.' Then showing her purchases, -- 'Look here,
I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty:
but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to
pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up
any better.'
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with
perfect unconcern, 'Oh, but there were two or three much
uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-
coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very
tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears
this summer, after the shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight.'
'Are they, indeed?' cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satis-
faction.
'They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do
so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would
be such a delicious scheme, and I daresay would hardly
cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go, too, of
all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we
shall have!'
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'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 to table. 'What do you think? It is excellent
news, capital news, and about a certain person that we all
like.'
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter
was told that he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,--
'Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You
thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I daresay
he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But
he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw
such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news: it
is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King --
there's for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool;
gone to stay. Wickham is safe.'
'And Mary King is safe!' added Elizabeth; 'safe from a
connection imprudent as to fortune.'
'She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.'
'But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,'
said Jane.
'I am sure there is not on _his._ I will answer for it, he
never cared three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a
nasty little freckled thing?'
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of
such coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
_sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had formerly
harboured and fancied liberal!
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage
was ordered; and, after some contrivance, the whole party,
with all their boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwel-
come addition of Kitty's and Lydia's purchases, were seated
in it.
'How nicely we are crammed in!' cried Lydia. 'I am glad
I brought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having
another band-box! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and
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snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first
place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you
went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you
had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would
have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be
quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-
twenty! Lord! how ashamed I should be of not being
married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Philips wants
you so to get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had
better have taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would
have been any fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be
married before any of you! and then I would _chaperon_ you
about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's! Kitty and me were
to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a
little dance in the evening (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me
are _such_ friends!); and so she asked the two Harringtons to
come; but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by
herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed
up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a
lady, -- only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but
Colonel and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt,
for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you
cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and
Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came
in, they did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed!
and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And
_that_ made the men suspect something, and then they soon
found out what was the matter.'
With such kind 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 Long-
bourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but
there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wick-
ham'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.'
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Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the
Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various
were the subjects which occupied them: Lady Lucas was
inquiring of Maria, across the table, after the welfare and
poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly en-
gaged, 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 Miss Lucases; and
Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was
enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to any-
body 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 me drew up all
the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and
I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick;
and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very
handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest
cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we
would have treated you too. And then when we came away
it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the
coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were
so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud,
that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!'
To this Mary very gravely replied, 'Far be it from me,
my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would
doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds.
But I confess they would have no charms for _me._ I should
infinitely prefer a book.'
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom
listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never
attended to Mary at all.
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls
to walk to Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but
Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be
said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day
before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was an-
other reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as pos-
sible. The comfort to _her,_ of the regiment's approaching
removal, was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they
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were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing
more to plague her on his account.
She had not been many hours at home, before she found
that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a
hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her
parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the
smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the
same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though
often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at
last.
[363]
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ELIZABETH'S impatience to acquaint Jane with what
had happened could no longer be overcome; and at
length, resolving to suppress every particular in which
her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,
she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
between Mr. Darcy and herself.
Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong
sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth
appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in
other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have
delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recom-
mend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappi-
ness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
'His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,' said she,
'and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how
much it must increase his disappointment.'
'Indeed,' replied Elizabeth, 'I am heartily sorry for him;
but he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away
his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for
refusing him?'
'Blame you! Oh, no.'
'But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of
Wickham?'
'No -- I do not know that you were wrong in saying what
you did.'
'But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened
the very next day.'
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its
contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a
stroke was this for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone
through the world without believing that so much wickedness
existed in the whole race of mankind as was here collected
in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such
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discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the prob-
ability of error, and to seek to clear 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 Mr.
Darcy's, but you shall do as you choose.'
It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted
from Jane.
'I do not know when I have been more shocked,' said she.
'Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor
Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have
suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge
of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of
his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must
feel it so.'
'Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by
seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such
ample justice, that I am growing every moment more uncon-
cerned 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 good-
ness, 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 dis-
like of that kind. One may be continually abusive without
saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something
witty.'
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'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 was
very uncomfortable -- I may say unhappy. And with no one
to speak to of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say
that I had not been so very weak, and vain, and nonsensical,
as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!'
'How unfortunate that you should have used such very
strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy,
for now they _do_ appear wholly undeserved.'
'Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness
is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been
encouraging. There is one point on which I want your
advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to
make our acquaintance 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 own opinion?'
'That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not
authorised me to make his communication public. On the
contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to
be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to
undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will
believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so
violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am
not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore,
it will not signify to anybody here what he really is. Some
time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at
their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
say nothing about it.'
'You are quite right. To have his errors made public
might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what
he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We
must not make him desperate.'
The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conver-
sation. 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
[366]
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either. But there was still something lurking behind, of
which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate
the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister
how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was
knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sen-
sible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between
the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encum-
brance of mystery. 'And then,' said she, 'if that very im-
probable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able
to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable
manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be
mine till it has lost all its value!'
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe
the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy.
She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Hav-
ing 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 first attachments often
boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and
prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and
all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite
to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have
been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity.
'Well, Lizzy,' said Mrs. Bennet, one day, 'what is your
opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I
am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I
told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find
out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
a very undeserving young man -- and I do not suppose there
is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now.
There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the
summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is
likely to know.'
'I do not believe that 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 that 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.'
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But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such
expectation she made no answer.
'Well, Lizzy,' continued her mother, soon afterwards, 'and
so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well,
I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep?
Charlotte is an excellent manager, I daresay. If she is half
as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is noth-
ing extravagant in _their_ housekeeping, I daresay.'
'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
quite as their own, I daresay, whenever that happens.'
'It was a subject which they could not mention before me.'
'No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make
no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if
they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own,
so much the better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that
was only entailed on me.'
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THE first week of their return was soon gone. The sec-
ond began. It was the last of the regiment's stay in
Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbour-
hood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost uni-
versal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat,
drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employ-
ments. Very frequently were they reproached for this in-
sensibility 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 remembered what she had
herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years
ago.
'I am sure,' said she, 'I cried for two days together when
Colonel Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should
have broke my heart.'
'I am sure I shall break _mine,'_ said Lydia.
'If one could but go to Brighton!' observed Mrs. Bennet.
'Oh yes! -- if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is
so disagreeable.'
'A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.'
'And my aunt Philips 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 before been so much disposed to pardon his inter-
ference 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
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wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to
Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman,
and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each
other, and out of their _three_ months' acquaintance they had
been intimate _two._
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of
Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortifica-
tion of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inatten-
tive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in
restless ecstasy, calling for every one's congratulations,
and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining
at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was
peevish.
'I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well
as Lydia,' said she, 'though I am _not_ her particular friend.
I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and
more too, for I am two years older.'
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and
Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this
invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings
as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the
death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the
latter; and, detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to
let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of
Lydia's general behaviour, the little advantage she could
derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster,
and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with
such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then
said,--
'Lydia will never be easy till 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 dis-
advantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice
of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner, nay, which has
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already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently
in the affair.'
'Already arisen!' repeated Mr. Bennet. 'What! has she
frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy.
But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot
bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a
regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who
have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.'
'Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to
resent. It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am
now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the
world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance
and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia's character.
Excuse me, -- for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant
spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not
to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the
reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed; and she
will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made
herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt, too, in the worst
and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction be-
yond 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 admi-
ration will excite. In this danger Kitty is also comprehended.
She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle,
and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised
wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be
often involved in the disgrace?'
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject;
and, affectionately taking her hand, said in reply,--
'Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and
Jane are known, you must be respected and valued; and you
will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of --
or I may say, three -- very silly sisters. We shall have no
peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let
her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor
to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be
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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 dis-
appointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however,
to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was
confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over
unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part
of her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her
conference with her father, their indignation would hardly
have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia's
imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility
of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of
fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with
officers. She saw herself the object of attention to tens and
to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the
glories of the camp: its tents stretched forth in beauteous
uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and
dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw her-
self seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.
Had she known that 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 the melan-
choly 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 re-
turn, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former
partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the
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very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation
and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present be-
haviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of
displeasure; for the inclination he soon testified of renewing
those attentions 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 gal-
lantry; 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 in Mery-
ton, he dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and
so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good-
humour, that, on his making some 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 were acquainted
with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a
moment's recollection, and a returning smile, replied that he
had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he
was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked
him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of
indifference, he soon afterwards added, 'How long did you
say that 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 on
acquaintance.'
'Indeed!' cried 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.'
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'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 mean-
ing. 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 either his mind or manners were in a state of im-
provement; but that, from knowing him better, his disposi-
tion was better understood.'
Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened com-
plexion 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 feelings towards Mr. Darcy,
will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that
he is wise enough to assume even the _appearance_ of what is
right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not
to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such
foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the
sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose
good opinion and judgment 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 an-
swered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that
he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances,
and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the
evening passed with the _appearance,_ on his side, of usual
cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and
possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs.
Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early
the next morning. The separation between her and her
family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only
[374]
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one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and
envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the
felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions
that she would not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself
as much as possible, -- advice which there was every reason
to believe would be 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.
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HAD Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own
family, she could not have formed a very pleasing
picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her
father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good-humour which youth and beauty generally give, had
married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal
mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real
affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had van-
ished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were
overthrown.
But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek com-
fort for the disappointment which his own imprudence
had brought on in any of those pleasures which too
often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.
He was fond of the country and of books; and from these
tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he
was very little otherwise indebted than as her ignorance and
folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort
of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to
his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are want-
ing, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as
are given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety
of her father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen
it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his
affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget
what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts
that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum
which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own chil-
dren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt
so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the
children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully
aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of
talents -- talents which, rightly used, might at least have pre-
[376]
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served the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable
of enlarging the mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure,
she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the
regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before;
and at home she had a mother and sister, whose constant
repinings at the dulness of everything around them threw a
real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the
disturbers of her brain were removed, her other sister, from
whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was
likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a
situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a
camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been
sometimes found before, that an event to which she had
looked forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place,
bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was
consequently necessary to name some other period for the
commencement of actual felicity; to have some other point on
which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again
enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour
to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts: it
was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours
which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made
inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the scheme
every part of it would have been perfect.
'But it is fortunate,' thought she, 'that I have something
to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my
disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with
me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister's absence, I
may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure
realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only
warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.'
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often
and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters
were always long expected, and always very short. Those to
her mother contained little else than that they were just re-
turned from the library, where such and such officers had
[377]
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attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful orna-
ments 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 to the camp; and
from her correspondence with her sister there was still less
to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer,
were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence,
health, good-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at
Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The fami-
lies 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 men-
tion an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and
malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment
should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour
was now fast approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting
of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at
once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr.
Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out
till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month; and as that left too short a period for them
to go so far and see so much as they had proposed, or at
least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on,
they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more
contracted tour; and, according to the present plan, were to
go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that county
there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their
three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong
attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some
years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few
days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all
the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or
the Peak.
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Elizabeth was excessively disappointed: she had set her
heart on seeing the Lakes; and still thought there might have
been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied --
and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right
again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas
connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without
thinking of Pemberley and its owner. 'But surely,' said she,
'I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few
petrified spars, without his perceiving me.'
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks
were to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But
they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their
four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The chil-
dren, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger
boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense
and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to
then; in every way -- teaching them, playing with them, and
loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and
set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty
and amusement. One enjoyment was certain -- that of suit-
ableness as companions -- a suitableness which comprehended
health and temper to bear inconveniences -- cheerfulness to
enhance every pleasure -- and affection and intelligence, which
might supply it among themselves if there were disappoint-
ments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of
Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through
which their route thither lay -- Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick,
Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are sufficiently known. A
small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the
little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former
residence, and where she had lately learned that some ac-
quaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having
seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five
miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found, from her aunt, that
Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road;
nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their
[379]
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route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an in-
clination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
'My love, should not you like to see a place of which you
have heard so much?' said her aunt. 'A place, too, with
which so many of your acquaintance are connected. Wick-
ham 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 great houses:
after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine
carpets or satin curtains.'
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. 'If it were merely a
fine house richly furnished,' said she, 'I should not care about
it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some
of the finest woods in the country.'
Elizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce.
The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the
place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed
at the very idea; and thought it would be better to speak
openly to her aunt, than to run such a risk. But against this
there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could
be the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the absence
of the family were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the
chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place,
what was the name of its proprietor, and, with no little alarm,
whether the family were down for the summer. A most
welcome negative followed the last question; and her alarms
being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was
revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could
readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she
had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
[380]
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ELIZABETH, as they drove along, watched for the first
appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturba-
tion; 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, situ-
ated on the opposite side of the 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
[381]
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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,
from which they had descended, receiving increased abrupt-
ness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every dis-
position of the ground was good; and she looked on the
whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and
the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with
delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were
beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome,
and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor;
but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was
neither gaudy nor uselessly fine, -- with less of splendour,
and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
'And of this place,' thought she, 'I might have been mis-
tress! With these rooms I might have now been familiarly
acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might
have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as
visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,' recollecting herself,
'that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been
lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.'
This was a lucky recollection -- it saved her from something
like regret.
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her
master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At
length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and
she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied
that he was; adding, 'But we expect him to-morrow, with a
large party of friends.' How rejoiced was Elizabeth that
their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed
a day.
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She ap-
proached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended,
amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her
aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper
came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had
been brought up by him at his own expense. 'He is now
[382]
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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 Eliza-
beth could not return it.
'And that,' said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures, 'is my master -- and very like him. It was drawn
at the same time as the other -- about eight years ago.'
'I have heard much of your master's fine person,' said
Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; 'it is a handsome face.
But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.'
Mrs. Reynolds's 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
upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
This room was my late master's favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very
fond of them.'
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being
among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss
Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
'And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?' said Mr.
Gardiner.
'Oh yes -- the handsomest young lady that ever was seen;
and so accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In
the next room is a new instrument just come down for her
-- a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with
him.'
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, en-
couraged her communicativeness by his questions and re-
marks: Mrs. Reynolds, either from 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?'
[383]
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'Not so much as I could wish, sir: but I daresay 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 what 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 had a
cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
since he was four years old.'
This was praise of all others most extraordinary, most
opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man
had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was
awakened: she longed to hear more; and was grateful to
her uncle for saying,--
'There are very few people of whom so much can be said.
You are lucky in having such a master.'
'Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world,
I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed
that they who are good-natured when children are good-
natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-
tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.'
Elizabeth almost stared at her. 'Can this be Mr. Darcy?'
thought she.
'His father was an excellent man,' said Mrs. Gardiner.
'Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just
like him -- just as affable to the poor.'
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient
for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point.
She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of
the rooms, and the price of the furniture in vain. Mr. Gar-
diner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice, to
which he attributed her excessive commendation of her mas-
ter, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy
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on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great
staircase.
'He is the best landlord, and the best master,' said she,
'that ever lived. Not like the wild young men nowadays, who
think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his ten-
ants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some
people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything
of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men.'
'In what an amiable light does this place him!' thought
Elizabeth.
'This fine account of him,' whispered her aunt as they
walked, 'is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our
poor friend.'
'Perhaps we might be deceived.'
'That is not very likely; our authority was too good.'
On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown
into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater
elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were
informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss
Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at
Pemberley.
'He is certainly a good brother,' said Elizabeth, as she
walked towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight when she
should enter the room. 'And this is always the way with
him,' she added. 'Whatever can give his sister any pleasure,
is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would
not do for her.'
The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal 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 intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they
could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth
walked on in quest of the only face whose features would be
known to her. At last it arrested her -- and she beheld a
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striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over
the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture,
in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they
quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it
had been taken in his father's lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a
more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever
felt in 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 was in his guardianship! How
much of pleasure or pain it was 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 fa-
vourable to his character; and as she stood before the canvas
on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself,
she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of grat-
itude 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 lawn 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 each
were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely
started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise;
but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure,
at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his
approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment
[386]
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impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his
resemblance to the picture they had just been examining,
been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw
Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on behold-
ing his master, must immediately have told it. They stood
a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, aston-
ished 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 in-
creasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impro-
priety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the
few minutes in which they continued together were some
of the most uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem
much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none
of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to
the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly
spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and after stand-
ing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recol-
lected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration
of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly
engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She
was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there
was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a dis-
graceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might
seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again!
Oh! why did she come? or, why did he thus come a day
before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his dis-
crimination; for it was plain that he was that moment ar-
rived, 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 amaz-
ing! -- but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her
family! Never in her life had she seen his manner so little
[387]
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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 ap-
proaching: but it was some time before Elizabeth was sen-
sible 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 dis-
tinguished 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 that
moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought
of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still
dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt
himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which
was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of
pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had
not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on
her absence of mind roused her, and she felt the necessity of
appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for
a while, ascended some of the higher ground; whence, in
spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to
wander, were many charming views of the valley, the oppo-
site 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
[388]
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the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed
to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge,
and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought
only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her
niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their
way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in
the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr.
Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very
fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking
to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst
wandering on in this slow manner, they were again sur-
prised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what
it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
them, and at no great distance. The walk, being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him
before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least
more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to
appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to
meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he
would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted
while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view;
the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a
glance she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility:
and, to imitate his politeness, she began as they met to admire
the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words
'delightful' and 'charming,' when some unlucky recollections
obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her
might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and
she said no more.
Mr. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her
pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of
introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility
for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly
suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance
of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
revolted in his offer to herself. 'What will be his surprise,'
thought she, 'when he knows who they are! He takes them
now for people of fashion.'
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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 expec-
tation of his decamping; as fast as he could from such dis-
graceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connec-
tion was evident: he sustained it, however, with fortitude:
and, so far from going away, turned back with them, and
entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth
could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was con-
soling that he should know she had some relations for whom
there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to
all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression,
every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard
Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there
as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbour-
hood, 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 her
wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceed-
ingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her aston-
ishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she re-
peating, 'Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed?
It cannot be for _me,_ it cannot be for _my_ sake that his man-
ners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not
work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should
still love me.'
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in
front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places,
after descending to the brink of the river for the better in-
spection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a
little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fa-
tigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm
inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her
husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they
walked on together. After a short silence the lady first spoke.
She wished him to know that she had been assured of his
absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began
[390]
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by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected -- 'for
your housekeeper,' she added, 'informed us that you would
certainly not be here till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately
expected in the country.' He acknowledged the truth of it
all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned
his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party
with whom he had been travelling. 'They will join me early
to-morrow,' he continued, 'and among them are some who
will claim an acquaintance with you, -- Mr. Bingley and his
sisters.'
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts
were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's
name had been last mentioned between them; and if she
might judge from _his_ complexion, his mind was not very
differently engaged.
'There is also one other person in the party,' he continued
after a pause, 'who more particularly wishes to be known to
you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much to introduce my
sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?'
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it
was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded
to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy
might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of
her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory;
it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in
thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impos-
sible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of intro-
ducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind.
They soon outstripped the others; and when they had reached
the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of
a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house -- but she declared
herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At
such a time much might have been said, and silence was very
awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo
on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been
travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with
[391]
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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 the ut-
most politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the car-
riage, 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 any-
thing they had expected. 'He is perfectly well behaved,
polite, and unassuming,' said her uncle.
'There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure,'
replied her aunt; 'but it is confined to his air, and is not un-
becoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though
some people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.'
'I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us.
It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was
no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Eliza-
beth 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
us that he was so disagreeable?'
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that
she had liked him better when they 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 about fishing, as he might
change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds.'
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken 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 Wick-
ham. 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
[392]
{{prhprp393.jpg}}
not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be
sure, the good lady who showed us the house did give him a
most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing aloud
sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and _that,_
in the eye of a servant, comprehends every virtue.'
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and, therefore,
gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she
could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent,
his actions were capable of a very different construction;
and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wick-
ham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertford-
shire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of
all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been con-
nected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it
to be such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they
were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures,
every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she
was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the
interesting spots in its environs, to think of anything else.
Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had no
sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions
of an intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to
leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends;
and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder,
of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above all, of his wishing her to
be acquainted with his sister.
[393]
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ELIZABETH had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring
his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching
Pemberley; and was, consequently, resolved not to be
out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her
conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
own arrival at Lambton these visitors came. They had been
walking about the place with some of their new friends, and
were just returned 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 lady in a
curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately rec-
ognising the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no
small degree of surprise to her relations by acquainting them
with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt
were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner
as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of
the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a
new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it
before, but they now felt that there was no other way of
accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by
supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-
born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
Elizabeth's feelings was 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 com-
pose 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
introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth
[394]
{{prhprp395.jpg}}
see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embar-
rassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had
heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the ob-
servation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a
word from her beyond a monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth;
and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed,
and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less
handsome than her brother, but there was sense and good-
humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly un-
assuming 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 differ-
ent feelings.
They had not been long together before 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 un-
affected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing
her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general, way,
after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-
humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less inter-
esting personage than to herself. They had long wished to
see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a
lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of
Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
each with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they
soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that
one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of the
lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident
enough.
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
[395]
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in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was
most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to
give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was
ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be
pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
and oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any
of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could
fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once
or twice pleased herself with the notion that as he looked at
her he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this
might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to
Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular
regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify
the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied;
and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they
parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
recollection of Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and
a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her,
had he dared.
He observed to her, at a moment when the others were
talking together, and in a tone which had something of real
regret, that, it 'was a very long time since he had had the
pleasure of seeing her'; and, before she could reply, he added,
'It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Nether-
field.'
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he
afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by
any of the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn.
There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding
remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them
meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr.
Darcy himself; but whenever she did catch a glimpse she
saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he
said she heard an accent so far removed from _hauteur_ or
disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improve-
ment of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however
[396]
{{prhprp397.jpg}}
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 inter-
course a few months ago would have been a disgrace; when
she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very
relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their
last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the
change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind,
that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being
visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at
Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she
seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence
or unbending reserve, as now when no importance could
result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed
would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both
of Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them above half an hour; and
when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister
to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before
they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence
which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of know-
ing how _she,_ whom the invitation most concerned, felt
disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned
away her head. Presuming, however, that this studied avoid-
ance 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 ven-
tured 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 satisfac-
[397]
{{prhprp398.jpg}}
tion, though while it was passing the enjoyment of it had
been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or
hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only
long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and
then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's
curiosity; it was not their wish to force her communication.
It was evident that she was much better acquainted with
Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident
that he was very much in love with her. They saw much
to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well;
and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault
to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness;
and had they drawn his character from their own feelings
and his servant's report, without any reference to any other
account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognised 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 re-
jected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight.
They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he
probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the
inhabitants of a small market town where the family did not
visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal
man, and did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that
he was not held there in much estimation; for though the
chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imper-
fectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that on his
quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him,
which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this
evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it
passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her
feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two
whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She certainly
[398]
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did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and
she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dis-
like against him that could be so called. The respect created
by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first un-
willingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant
to her feelings; 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 manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust
accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had
been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,
seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve
the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of re-
gard, 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 excited not only astonish-
ment but gratitude -- for to love, ardent love, it must be at-
tributed; 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 hap-
piness of both that she should employ the power, which her
fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on the renewal
of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and
niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming
to 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 polite-
ness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly
expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning.
They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though
[399]
{{prhprp400.jpg}}
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 by noon.
[400]
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CONVINCED as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's
dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not
help feeling how very unwelcome her appearance at
Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with
how much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would
now be renewed.
On reaching the house they were shown through the hall
into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful
for summer. Its windows, opening to the ground, admitted
a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the
house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which
were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this room 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 that embarrassment
which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing
wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves in-
ferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gar-
diner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only
by a courtesy; and on their being seated, a pause, awkward
as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments.
It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-
looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of
discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either
of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with
occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried
on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough
to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence,
when there was least danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched
by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word,
especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This
[401]
{{prhprp402.jpg}}
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 aroused by receiving from her
a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered
with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said no
more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced
by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a
variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not
take place till after many a significant look and smile from
Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her
of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat;
and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches,
soon collected them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of
deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appear-
ance 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
[402]
{{prhprp403.jpg}}
which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her
attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy,
on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk;
and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and her-
self to get acquainted, and forwarded, as much as possible,
every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley
saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took
the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,--
'Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the shire militia removed
from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.'
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's
name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was
uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections
connected with him gave her a moment's distress; but, exert-
ing herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged
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 dis-
compose Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to
whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensi-
bility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps,
to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which
some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not
a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated
elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where
secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bing-
ley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to con-
ceal it, from that very wish which Elizabeth had long ago
attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He
had certainly formed such a plan; and without meaning that
it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively
concern for the welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his
emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared
[403]
{{prhprp404.jpg}}
not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered
in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more.
Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recol-
lected 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 recommenda-
tion was enough to insure her favour: his judgment could not
err; and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave
Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than
lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon,
Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of
what she had been saying to his sister.
'How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,'
she cried: 'I never in my life saw any one 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 ad-
dress, he contented himself with coolly replying that he per-
ceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, -- no
miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.
'For my own part,' she rejoined, 'I must confess that I
never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin;
her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not
at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing
marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of
the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes
been called so fine, I never could perceive anything extraor-
dinary 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 Eliza-
beth, this was not the best method of recommending herself;
but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at
last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she ex-
[404]
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pected. He was resolutely silent, however; and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued,--
'I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire,
how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed
beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night,
after they had been dining at Netherfield, _"She_ a beauty! I
should as soon call her mother a wit." But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her
rather pretty at one time.'
'Yes,' replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer,
'but _that_ was only when I first knew her; for it is many
months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest
women of my acquaintance.'
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one
any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred
during their visit, as they returned, except what had particu-
larly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of
everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person
who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his
sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of everything but him-
self; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner
thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly
gratified by her niece's beginning the subject.
[405]
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ELIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in
not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at
Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed
on each of the mornings that had now been spent there;
but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justi-
fied, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one
of which was marked that it had been mis-sent elsewhere.
Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the
direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters
came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them
in quiet, set off by themselves. The one mis-sent must be
first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The
beginning contained an account of all their little parties and
engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but
the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in
evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was
to this effect:--
'Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has
occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am
afraid of alarming you -- be assured that we are all well.
What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came
at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from
Colonel Forster, to inform us that she had gone off to Scot-
land with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wick-
ham! 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,
[406]
{{prhprp407.jpg}}
that we never let them know what has been said against
him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Satur-
day night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not
missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was
sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed
within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason
to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his
wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude,
for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid
you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what
I have written.'
Without allowing herself time for consideration and
scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this
letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the
utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a
day later than the conclusion of the first.
'By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my
hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but
though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that
I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly
know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and
it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr.
Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious
to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much
reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Fors-
ter 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., intend-
ing to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clap-
ham, but no farther; for on entering that place, they re-
moved 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 Hert-
fordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes,
[407]
{{prhprp408.jpg}}
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 dis-
tress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother
believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many
circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be
married privately in town than to pursue their first plan;
and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young
woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I
suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve
to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend
upon their marriage: he shook his head when I expressed
my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be
trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room.
Could she exert herself, it would be better, but this is not
to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life
saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having con-
cealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confi-
dence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy,
that you have been spared something of these distressing
scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I
long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to
press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen
again to do what I have just told you I would not; but cir-
cumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging
you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear
uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting
it, though I have still something more to ask of the former.
My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly,
to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure
I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him
to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and
Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-mor-
row evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
assistance would be everything in the world; he will imme-
diately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his
goodness.'
[408]
{{prhprp409.jpg}}
'Oh! where, where is my uncle?' cried Elizabeth, darting
from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to fol-
low him, without losing a moment of the time so precious;
but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant,
and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover him-
self enough 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. Gar-
diner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; I
have not an instant to lose.'
'Good God! what is the matter?' cried he, with more
feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, 'I will not
detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant, go after
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you
cannot go yourself.'
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and
she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to
pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she com-
missioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made
her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress
home instantly.
On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support
herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible
for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a
tone of gentleness and commiseration, 'Let me call your
maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present
relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are
very ill.'
'No, I thank you,' she replied, endeavouring to recover
herself. 'There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite
well, I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I
have just received from Longbourn.'
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few
minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched
suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his con-
cern, 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 any one.
My youngest sister has left all her friends -- has eloped; has
[409]
{{prhprp410.jpg}}
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 pre-
vented 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 has gone to London, and Jane has written to
beg my uncle's immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I
hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know
very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man
to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I
have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!'
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
'When _my_ eyes were open 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 medita-
tion; his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon
observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sink-
ing; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She
could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his
self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom,
afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the 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.
[410]
{{prhprp411.jpg}}
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
Lydia -- the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them
all -- soon swallowed up every private care; and covering
her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost
to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes,
was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice
of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, 'I am afraid
you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I any-
thing 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 con-
solation to such distress! But I will not torment you with
vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your
thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sis-
ter'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. Con-
ceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible. I know it
cannot be long.'
He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed
his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion
than there was at present reason to hope, and, leaving his
compliments for her relations, with only one serious parting
look went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it
was that they should ever see each other again on such
terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings
in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over
the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions
and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings
which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
Elizabeth's change of sentiment will be neither improbable
nor faulty. But if otherwise, if the regard springing from
such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison
of what is so often described as arising on a first inter-
view with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that
[411]
{{prhprp412.jpg}}
she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method,
in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might,
perhaps, authorize her to seek the other less interesting
mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's
infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she
reflected on that wretched business. Never since reading
Jane's second letter had she entertained a hope of Wick-
ham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise
was the least of all her feelings on this development. While
the contents of the first letter remained on her mind, she
was all surprise, all astonishment, that Wickham should
marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had
appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural.
For such an attachment as this she might have sufficient
charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be de-
liberately engaging in an elopement, without the intention
of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from
falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in
Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but
she was convinced that Lydia had wanted only encourage-
ment to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one offi-
cer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their
attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had
been continually fluctuating, but never without an object.
The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards
such a girl -- oh! how acutely did she now feel it.
She was wild to be at home -- to hear, to see, to be upon
the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall
wholly upon her, in a family so deranged; a father absent, a
mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attend-
ance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be
done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the
utmost importance, and till he entered the room the misery
of her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had
hurried back in alarm, supposing, by the servant's account,
[412]
{{prhprp413.jpg}}
that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause
of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and
dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy,
though Lydia had never been a favourite with them. Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not
Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner
readily promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth,
though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of grati-
tude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything
relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were
to be off as soon as possible. 'But what is to be done
about Pemberley?' cried Mrs. Gardiner. 'John told us Mr.
Darcy was here when you sent for us; -- was it so?'
'Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our
engagement. _That_ is all settled.'
'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 disclose the real truth! Oh that I knew how it was!'
But wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only 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 ex-
cuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw
the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner, meanwhile, having
settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done
but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morn-
ing, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to
Longbourn.
[413]
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'I HAVE been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,' said
her uncle, as they drove from the town; 'and really,
upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined
than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of 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 stay-
ing 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 it. I cannot
think so very ill of Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so
wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?'
'Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every
other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should
be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on
to Scotland, if that had been the case?'
'In the first place,' replied Mr. Gardiner, 'there is no
absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.'
'Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a hackney
coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of
them were to be found on the Barnet road.'
'Well, then, -- supposing them to be in London. They
may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no
more exceptionable purpose. It is not likely that money
should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike
them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.'
[414]
{{prhprp415.jpg}}
'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. Wick-
ham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attrac-
tions has she beyond youth, health, and good humour, that
could make him for her sake forego every chance of bene-
fiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge;
for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might
produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it
will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step for-
ward; and he might imagine, from my father's behaviour,
from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed
to give to what was going forward in his family, that he
would do as little and think as little about it, as any fat_he_r
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 other terms
than marriage?'
'It does seem, and it is most shocking, indeed,' replied
Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, 'that a sister's sense of
decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt.
But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing
her justice. But she is very young; she has never been
taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-
year, nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to noth-
ing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to
dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner,
and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since
the shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but
love flirtation, and officers, has been in her head. She
has been doing everything in her power, by thinking
and talking on the subject, to give greater -- what shall I
call it? -- susceptibility to her feelings; which are na-
turally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham
has every charm of person and address that can captivate
a woman.'
[415]
{{prhprp416.jpg}}
'But you see that Jane,' said her aunt, 'does not think so
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 be-
lieve 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 in-
sinuating.'
'And do you really know all this?' cried Mrs. Gardiner,
whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all
alive.
'I do, indeed,' replied Elizabeth, colouring. 'I told you
the other day of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and
you, yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner
he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance
and liberality towards him. And there are other circum-
stances 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 returned home the shire was to leave Meryton
in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither
Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary
to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And
even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs.
Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character
never occurred to me. That _she_ could be in any danger from
the deception never entered my head. That such a conse-
[416]
{{prhprp417.jpg}}
quence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far
enough from my thoughts.'
'When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had
no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?'
'Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affec-
tion 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 dis-
tinguished _her_ by any particular attention; and, conse-
quently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild
admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the
regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again be-
came her favourites.'
It may be easily believed that, however little of novelty
could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this
interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could
detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey.
From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there
by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and, sleeping
one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time
the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that
Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise,
were standing on the steps of the house, as they entered the
paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the
joyful surprise that lighted up their faces and displayed it-
self 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 downstairs from her mother's apartment, imme-
diately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears
filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether
anything had been heard of the fugitives.
[417]
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'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 once. He wrote me a few lines on
Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give
me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He
merely added, that he should not write again, till he had
something of importance to mention.'
'And my mother -- how is she? How are you all?'
'My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits
are greatly shaken. She is upstairs, and will have great
satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her
dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite
well.'
'But you -- how are you?' cried Elizabeth. 'You look pale.
How much you must have gone through!'
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly
well; and their conversation, which had been passing while
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children,
was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party.
Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked
them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions
which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated
by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no in-
telligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however,
which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well,
and that every morning would bring some letter, either
from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and,
perhaps, announce the 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 re-
gret, 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 be principally owing.
[418]
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'If I had been able,' said she, 'to carry my point in going
to Brighton with all my family, _this_ would not have hap-
pened: but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her.
Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight?
I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if
she had been well looked after. I always thought they were
very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled,
as I always am. Poor, dear child! And now here's Mr.
Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and
what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us
out, before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind
to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.'
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr.
Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her
and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London
the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every
endeavour for recovering Lydia.
'Do not give way to useless alarm,' added he: 'though it
is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to
look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left
Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of
them; and till we know that they are not married, and have
no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over
as lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother,
and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street,
and then we may consult together as to what is to be
done.'
'Oh, my dear brother,' replied Mrs. Bennet, 'that is ex-
actly 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 things, keep
Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state
I am in -- that I am frightened 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
[419]
{{prhprp420.jpg}}
that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she
has seen me, for she does not know which are the best
warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you
will contrive it all.'
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his
earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recom-
mending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her
fears; and after talking with her in this manner till din-
ner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings
on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her
daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there
was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family,
they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she
had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the
servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better
that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they
could most trust, should comprehend all her fears and
solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and
Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate
apartments to make their appearance before. One came from
her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of
both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was
visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister,
or the anger which she had herself incurred in the business,
had given something more of fretfulness than usual to the
accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of
herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave
reflection, soon after they were seated at table,--
'This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be
much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and
pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of
sisterly consolation.'
Then perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying,
she added, 'Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may
draw from it this useful lesson: -- that loss of virtue in a
female is irretrievable, that one false step involves her in
endless ruin, that her reputation is no less brittle than it is
[420]
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beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her
behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.'
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too
much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, con-
tinued to console herself with such kind of moral extrac-
tions 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 lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event,
which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former
continued the subject by saying, 'But tell me all and every-
thing about it which I have not already heard. Give me
further particulars. What did Colonel Forster say? Had
they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever.'
'Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some
partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him
any alarm. I am so grieved for him. His behaviour was
attentive and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in
order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of
their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey.'
'And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not
marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had
Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?'
'Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing
anything of their plan, and would not give his real opinion
about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
marrying, and from _that_ I am inclined to hope he might have
been misunderstood before.'
'And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you
entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?'
'How was it possible that such an idea should enter our
brains? I felt a little uneasy -- a little fearful of my sister's
happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his
conduct had not been always quite right. My father and
mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent a
[421]
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match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural tri-
umph 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 ill of Wickham
himself? Does he know his real character?'
'I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham
as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and
extravagant; and since this sad affair has taken place, it is
said that he left Meryton greatly in debt: but I hope this may
be false.'
'Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we
knew of him, this could not have happened!'
'Perhaps it would have been better,' replied her sister.
'But to expose the former faults of any person, without
knowing what their present feelings were, seemed un-
justifiable.'
'We acted with the best intentions.'
'Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's
note to his wife?'
'He brought it with him for us to see.'
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to
Elizabeth. These were the contents:--
> 'My Dear Harriet -- You will laugh when you know where I am
> gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow
> morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and
> if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there
> is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should
> never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You
> need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not
> like it, for it will make the surprise the greater when I write to
> them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will
> be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
> Pratt for not keeping my engagement and dancing with him to-night.
> Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him
> I will dance with him at the next ball we meet with great pleasure.
> I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish
> you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown
> before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel
> Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey. -- Your affec-
> tionate friend, Lydia Bennet.'
[422]
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'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
in the object of her 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 any one 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 Philips 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 could
be of use to us.'
'She had better have stayed at home,' cried Elizabeth:
'perhaps she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as
this, one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance
is impossible; condolence, insufferable. Let them triumph
over us at a distance, and be satisfied.'
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which
her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the
recovery of his daughter.
[423]
{{prhprp424.jpg}}
'He meant, I believe,' replied Jane, 'to go to Epsom, the
place where they last changed horses, see the postilions, and
try if anything could be made out from them. His principal
object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach
which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare
from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into
another might be remarked, he meant to make inquiries at
Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the
coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to
make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to
find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know
of any other designs that he had formed; but he was in
such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discom-
posed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as
this.'
[424]
{{prhprp425.jpg}}
THE whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr.
Bennet the next morning, but the post came in with-
out bringing a single line from him. His family
knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent
and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had
hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he
had no pleasing intelligence to send, but even of _that_ they
would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had
waited only for the letters before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving
constant information of what was going on; and their uncle
promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to
Longbourn as soon as he could, to the great consolation of
his sister, who considered it as the only security for her
husband's not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in
Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her
presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in
their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort
to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the
design of cheering and heartening them up, though, as she
never came without reporting some fresh instance of
Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went
away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but
three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He
was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place,
and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction,
had been extended into every tradesman's family. Every-
body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the
world; and everybody began to find out that they had
always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth,
[425]
{{prhprp426.jpg}}
though she did not credit above half of what was said, be-
lieved enough to make her former assurance of her sister's
ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still
less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the
time was now come, when, if they had gone to Scotland,
which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must
in all probability have gained some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his
wife received a letter from him: it told them that on his
arrival he had immediately found out his brother, and per-
suaded 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, be-
fore they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not
expect any success from this measure; but as his brother
was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He
added, that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present
to leave London, and promised to write again very soon.
There was also a postscript to this effect:--
'I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find
out, if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in
the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connec-
tions who would be likely to know in what part of the town
he has now concealed himself. If there were any one that
one could apply to, with a probability of gaining such a clue
as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I daresay,
do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But,
on second thoughts, perhaps Lizzy could tell us what relations
he has now living better than any other person.'
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this
deference for her authority proceeded; but it was not in her
power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature
as the compliment deserved.
She had never heard of his having had any relations,
except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead
many years. It was possible, however, that some of his
[426]
{{prhprp427.jpg}}
companions in the shire might be able to give more in-
formation; and though she was not very sanguine in ex-
pecting it, the application was a something to look for-
ward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but
the most anxious part of each was when the post was ex-
pected. The arrival of letters was the first grand object
of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever
of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and
every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of
importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter
arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr.
Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all
that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and
Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were,
looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:--
> 'My Dear Sir -- I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and
> my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction
> you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed
> by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.
> Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your
> respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the
> bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can
> remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate
> so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circum-
> stance that must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent's mind.
> The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in com-
> parison 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 con-
> solation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that
> her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty
> of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
> you are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined
> by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter,
> to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in appre-
> hending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to
> the fortunes of all the others: for who, as Lady Catherine herself
> condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?
> And this consideration leads me, moreover, to reflect, with aug-
> mented 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 advise you, then, my dear sir, to console yourself
[427]
{{prhprp428.jpg}}
> as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your
> attention for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own
> heinous offence. -- I am, dear sir,' 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 relation with whom he kept up any connection,
and it was certain that he had no near one living. His
former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had
been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms
of particular friendship with any of them. There was no
one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give
any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in
addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations; for
it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind
him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster be-
lieved that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary
to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal
in the town, but his debts of honour were still more for-
midable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these
particulars from the Longbourn family; Jane heard them
with horror. 'A gamester!' she cried. 'This is wholly un-
expected; I had not an idea of it.'
Mr. Gardiner added, in his letter, that they might expect
to see their father at home on the following day, which was
Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill success of all their
endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty
that he would return to his family and leave it to him to do
whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for con-
tinuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this,
she did not express so much satisfaction as her children ex-
pected, 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 her children should go to London at the
[428]
{{prhprp429.jpg}}
same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, there-
fore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought
its master back to Longbourn.
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about
Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her
from that part of the world. His name had never been
voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and the
kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed,
of their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in
nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return, that
could come from Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family rendered any
other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary;
nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from _that,_
though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well ac-
quainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that,
had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the
dread of Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have
spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of
his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he
had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of
the business that had taken him away, and it was some time
before his daughters had courage to speak of it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he 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.
[429]
{{prhprp430.jpg}}
'She is happy, then,' said her father, drily; 'and her
residence there will probably be of some duration.'
Then, after a short silence, he continued, 'Lizzy, I bear
you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last
May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of
mind.'
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch
her mother's tea.
'This is a parade,' cried he, '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 night-cap 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.
'_I_f 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 least
learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No
officer is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass
through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, un-
less you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
never to stir out of doors, till you can prove that you have
spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.'
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began
to cry.
'Well, well,' said he, 'do not make yourself unhappy. If
you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you
to a review at the end of them.'
[430]
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TWO days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and
Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery be-
hind 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 mas-
ter 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 upstairs
with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who
said,--
'If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking
towards the little copse.'
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the
hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father,
who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood
on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of
running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister,
panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried
out,--
'Oh, papa, what news? what news? have you heard from
my uncle?'
'Yes, I have had a letter from him by express.'
'Well, and what news does it bring -- good or bad?'
[431]
{{prhprp432.jpg}}
'What is there of good to be expected?' said he, taking the
letter from his pocket; 'but perhaps you would like to read it.'
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now
came up.
'Read it aloud,' said their father, 'for I hardly know myself
what it is about.'
> 'Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
>
> 'My Dear Brother -- At last I am able to send you some tidings
> of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope 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 par-
> ticulars I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are dis-
> covered; I have seen them both--'
'Then it is as I always hoped,' cried Jane: 'they are mar-
ried!'
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 children
> after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter
> into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred
> pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering every-
> thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought
> myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no
> time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily
> comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circum-
> stances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.
> The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to
> say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are
> discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.
> If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in
> your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately
> give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement.
> There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town
> again; therefore stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my dili-
> gence and care. Send back your answer as soon 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?'
[432]
{{prhprp433.jpg}}
'Wickham is not so undeserving; then, as we have thought
him,' said her sister. 'My dear father, I congratulate you.'
'And have you answered the letter?' said Elizabeth.
'No; but it must be done soon.'
Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more
time before he wrote.
'Oh, my dear father,' she cried, 'come back and write
immediately. Consider how important every moment is in
such a case.'
'Let me write for you,' said Jane, 'if you dislike the trouble
yourself.'
'I dislike it very much,' he replied; 'but it must be done.'
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked
towards the house.
'And may I ask?' said Elizabeth; 'but the terms, I sup-
pose, 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 I am ever to
pay him.'
'Money! my uncle!' cried Jane, 'what do you mean, sir?'
'I mean that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on
so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life,
and fifty after I am gone.'
'That is very true,' said Elizabeth; 'though it had not
occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and
something still to remain! Oh, it must be my uncle's doings!
Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself.
A small sum could not do all this.'
'No,' said her father. 'Wickham's a fool if he takes her
with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds: I should be
sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our
relationship.'
'Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half
such a sum to be repaid?'
Mr. Bennet made no answer; and each of them, deep in
thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their
[433]
{{prhprp434.jpg}}
father then went to the library to write, and the girls walked
into the breakfast-room.
'And they are really to be married!' cried Elizabeth,
as soon as they were by themselves. 'How strange this
is! and for _this_ we are to be thankful. That they
should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and
wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice!
Oh, Lydia!'
'I comfort myself with thinking,' replied Jane, 'that he
certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard
for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards
clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or
anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his
own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten
thousand pounds?'
'If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have
been,' said Elizabeth, 'and how much is settled on his side on
our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done
for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own.
The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited.
Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her ad-
vantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge.
By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness
does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve
to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees
my aunt!'
'We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either
side,' said Jane: 'I hope and trust they will yet be happy.
His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he
is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection
will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so
quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time
make their past imprudence forgotten.'
'Their conduct has been such,' replied Elizabeth, 'as
neither you, nor I, nor anybody, can ever forget. It is use-
less to talk of it.'
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They
went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether
[434]
{{prhprp435.jpg}}
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 upstairs 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 in-
deed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She
will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I
knew how it would be -- I knew he would manage everything.
How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But
the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister
Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to
your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,
stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will
put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How
merry we shall be together when we meet!'
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to
the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to
the obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them
all under.
'For we must attribute this happy conclusion,' she added,
'in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that
he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.'
'Well,' cried her mother, 'it is all very right; who should
do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his
own, I and my children must have had all his money, you
know; and it is the first time we have ever had anything from
him except a few presents. Well! I am so happy. In a
[435]
{{prhprp436.jpg}}
short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham!
How well it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June.
My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can't
write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will
settle with your father about the money afterwards; but
the things should be ordered immediately.'
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico,
muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some
very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some dif-
ficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure
to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed, would be
of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be
quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into
her head.
'I will go to Meryton,' said she, 'as soon as I am dressed,
and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I
come back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty,
run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a
great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for
you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have
you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be
married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make
merry at her wedding.'
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth
received her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick
of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might
think with freedom. Poor Lydia's situation must, at best,
be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she had need to be
thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward,
neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be
justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they
had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages
of what they had gained.
[436]
{{prhprp437.jpg}}
MR. BENNET had very often wished, before this
period of his life, that, instead of spending his whole
income, he had laid by an annual sum, for the better
provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his
duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to
her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be
purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one
of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her
husband might then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little ad-
vantage to any one should be forwarded at the sole expense
of his brother-in-law; and he was determined, if possible,
to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the
obligation as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held
to be perfectly useless; for, of course, they were to have a
son. This 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 suc-
cessively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and
Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been
certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired
of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had
no turn for economy; and her husband's love of independence
had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on
Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it
should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will
of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia
at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could
have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him.
In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his
brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered
[437]
{{prhprp438.jpg}}
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 Wick-
ham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be
done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present
arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the
loser, by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with
her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents
in money which passed to her through her mother's hands,
Lydia's expenses had been very little within that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his
side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his chief
wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business
as possible. When the first transports of rage which had
produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally
returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
despatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he
was quick in its execution. He begged to know further par-
ticulars of what he was indebted to his brother; but was
too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
The good news quickly spread through the house; and
with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It
was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure,
it would have been more for the advantage of conversation,
had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the hap-
piest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some dis-
tant farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of, in
marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-
doing, which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old
ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit in this change
of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery
was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down-
stairs, but on this happy day she again took her seat at the
head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No senti-
ment 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 accom-
plishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on
those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new car-
[438]
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riages, and servants. She was busily searching through the
neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter; and,
without knowing or considering what their income might
be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
'Haye Park might do,' said she, 'if the Gouldings would
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 Purvis Lodge, the
attics are dreadful.'
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption
while the servants remained. But when they had with-
drawn, he said to her, 'Mrs. Bennet, before you take any,
or all of these houses, for your son and daughter, let us
come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will
not encourage the imprudence 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 pro-
tested that she should receive from him no mark of affection
whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly com-
prehend 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 that 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
[439]
{{prhprp440.jpg}}
have more confidently depended; but at the same time there
was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have
mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of
disadvantage from it individually to herself; for at any
rate there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had
Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most honourable
terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would con-
nect himself with a family, where to every other objection
would now be added an alliance and relationship of the
nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he
should shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she
had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not
in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was
humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly
knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she
could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to
hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining
intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been
happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should
meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he
know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only
four months ago would now have been 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 judgment, information, and knowl-
edge of the world, she must have received benefit of
greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring
multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a
different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the
other, was soon to be formed in their family.
[440]
{{prhprp441.jpg}}
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in toler-
able independence she could not imagine. But how little of
permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were
only brought together because their passions were stronger
than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr.
Bennet's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances
of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family;
and concluded with entreaties that the subject might never
be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his
letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved
on quitting the militia.
> 'It was greatly my wish that he should do so,' he added, 'as soon
> as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me
> in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both
> on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go
> into the Regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still
> some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has
> the promise of an ensigncy in General ____'s regiment, now quar-
> tered 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 dif-
> ferent people, where they may each have a character to preserve,
> they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster,
> to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he
> will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near
> Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged
> myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar
> assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a
> list, according to his information? He has given in all his debts;
> I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our direc-
> tions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his
> regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I under-
> stand from Mrs. Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing
> you all before she leaves the south. She is well, and begs to be
> dutifully remembered to you and her mother. -- Yours, etc.
>
> 'E. Gardiner.'
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of
Wickham's removal from the shire, as clearly as Mr.
Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased
with it. Lydia's being settled in the north, just when she
had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for
she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides,
it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regi-
[441]
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ment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so
many favourites.
'She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,' said she, 'It will be quite
shocking to send her away! And there are several of the
young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may
not be so pleasant in General ____'s regiment.'
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of
being admitted into her family again, before she set off for
the north, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane
and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their
sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed
on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly, yet
so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband
at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
prevailed on to think as they thought and act as they wished.
And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she
should be able to show her married daughter in the neigh-
bourhood, 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 Long-
bourn. 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.
[442]
{{prhprp443.jpg}}
THEIR sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and
Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt
for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them at
____, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane
more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would
have attended herself had _she_ been the culprit, and was
wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast-
room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs.
Bennet, as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband
looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious,
uneasy.
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was
thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped
forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture;
gave her hand with an affectionate smile to Wickham, who
followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an alacrity
which showed no doubt of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then
turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather
gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The
easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to
provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Ben-
net was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, un-
abashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister
to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at
length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room,
took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with
a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself; but
his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character
and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles
and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship,
[443]
{{prhprp444.jpg}}
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 con-
fusion suffered no variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her
mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wick-
ham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring
after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good-
humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her
replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest
memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected
with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her
sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
'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, Eliza-
beth 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 de-
termined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass
next to him, and took off my glove and let my hand just
rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring,
and then I bowed and smiled like anything.'
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran
out of the room; and returned no more till she heard them
passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then
joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade,
walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her
eldest sister, 'Ah, Jane I take your place now, and you must
go lower, because I am a married woman.'
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at
[444]
{{prhprp445.jpg}}
first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to
see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours,
and to hear herself called 'Mrs. Wickham' by each of them;
and in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring
and boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two house-
maids.
'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?'
'O 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
daresay there will be some balls, and I will take care to get
good partners for them all.'
'I should like it beyond anything!' said her mother.
'And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of
my sisters behind you; and I daresay I shall get husbands
for them before the winter is over.'
'I thank you for my share of the favour,' said Elizabeth;
'but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.'
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with
them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he
left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a
fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be
so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about
with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home.
These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle
was even more desirable to such as did think than such as
did not.
Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth
had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She
had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied,
from the reason of things, that their elopement had been
[445]
{{prhprp446.jpg}}
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 com-
petition with him. He did everything best in the world; and
she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of Septem-
ber than anybody 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 under-
stand 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.
[446]
{{prhprp447.jpg}}
Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle
was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone.
And then, you know, when once they get together, there is
no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what
to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were
beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But,
luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time, and then
we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he
_had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off,
for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.'
'Mr. Darcy!' repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
'Oh yes! he was to come there with Wickham, you know.
But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said
a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will
Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!'
'If it was to be a 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 curi-
osity; 'we will ask you no questions.'
'Thank you,' said Lydia; 'for if you did, I should cer-
tainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be so 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 im-
probable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily
seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt,
to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropped, if it
were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended.
'You may readily comprehend,' she added, 'what my curi-
osity must be to know how a person unconnected with any
of us, and, comparatively speaking, a stranger to our family,
should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write
[447]
{{prhprp448.jpg}}
instantly, and let me understand it -- unless it is, for very
cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems
to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satis-
fied with ignorance.'
'Not that I _shall_ though,' she added to herself, and she
finished the letter; 'and, my dear aunt, if you do not tell me
in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to
tricks and stratagems to find it out.'
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to
speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall;
Elizabeth was glad of it: -- till it appeared whether her in-
quiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be
without a confidante.
[448]
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ELIZABETH had the satisfaction of receiving an an-
swer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She
was no sooner in possession of it, than hurrying
into the little copse, where she was least likely to be inter-
rupted, 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 impertinence. Your
> uncle is as much surprised as I am; and nothing but the belief of
> your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he
> has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be
> more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn,
> your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and
> was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I
> arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems
> to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out
> where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen
> and talked with them both -- Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From
> what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves,
> and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The
> motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself
> that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to
> make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or
> confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken
> pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to
> lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to
> speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward,
> and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by
> himself. If he _had_ _another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace
> him. He had been some days in town before he was able to discover
> them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more
> than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for
> his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge,
[449]
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> who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed
> from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did
> not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, and
> has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge
> was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to
> her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But it was
> two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She
> would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,
> for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wick-
> ham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and
> had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have
> taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend
> procured the wished-for direction. They were in ____ Street. He
> saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first
> object with her, he acknowledged had been to persuade her to quit
> her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon
> as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance
> as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on
> remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she
> wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She
> was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not
> much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained,
> he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very
> first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been _his_
> design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment on
> account of some debts of honour which were very pressing; and
> scrupled not to lay all the ill consequences of Lydia's flight on her
> own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately;
> and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about
> it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he
> knew he should have nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked why he
> did not marry your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not
> imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something
> for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage.
> But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished
> the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some
> other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
> to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. They met
> several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham, of
> course, wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced
> to be reasonable. Everything being settled between _them,_ Mr.
> Darcy's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and
> he first called in Gracechurch Street the evening before I came home.
> But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen; and Mr. Darcy found, on
> further 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
[450]
{{prhprp451.jpg}}
> again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said
> before, they had a great deal of talk together. They met again on
> Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before
> Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn.
> But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy
> is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused
> of many faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing
> was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
> I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it)
> your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled
> it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman
> or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced
> to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was
> forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which
> went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this
> morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation
> that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise
> where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no further than yourself,
> or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been
> done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting,
> I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another
> thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her,_ and his commission
> purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone
> was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve
> and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character had
> been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received
> and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in this;
> though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve, can be
> answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my
> dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would
> never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another_
> _interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned
> again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it
> was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding
> took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish.
> I believe I have now told you everything. 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 stayed 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 there-
> fore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to
> her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to her the
> wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness she had
> brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for
> I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked; but
> then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes
> had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and,
[451]
{{prhprp452.jpg}}
> as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us
> the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thurs-
> day. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this
> opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say before)
> how much I like him? His behaviour to us has, in every respect,
> been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding
> and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more
> liveliness, and _that,_ if he marry _prudently,_ his wife may teach him.
> I thought him very sly; he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
> slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive me, if I have been very
> presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me
> from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the
> park. A low phaeton with a nice little pair of ponies would be the
> very thing. But I must write no more. The children have been
> wanting me this half-hour. -- 'Yours very sincerely,
>
> 'M. Gardiner'
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter
of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether
pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and
unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what
Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion
of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time
dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved
beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed
them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in
which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom
he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced
to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally
bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and
whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce.
He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither
regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had
done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by
other considerations; and she soon felt that even her vanity
was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection
for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as
able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence
against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of
Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the con-
nection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed
to think how much. But he had given a reason for his
[452]
{{prhprp453.jpg}}
interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief.
It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong;
he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;
and though she would not place herself as his principal
inducement, she could perhaps believe that remaining par-
tiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where
her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was
painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under
obligations to a person who could never receive a return.
They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every-
thing, to him. Oh how heartily did she grieve over every
ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy
speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she
was humbled; but she was proud of him, -- proud that in a
cause of compassion and honour he had been able to get the
better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation
of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it
pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure,
though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both
she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat and her reflections by some
one's approach; and, before she could strike into another
path, she was overtaken by Wickham.
'I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear
sister?' said he, as he joined her.
'You certainly do,' she replied with a smile; 'but it does
not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.'
'I should be sorry, indeed, if it were. _We_ were always
good friends, and now we are better.'
'True. Are the others coming out?'
'I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in
the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find,
from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen
Pemberley.'
She replied in the affirmative.
'I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it
would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my
way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper,
I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond
[453]
{{prhprp454.jpg}}
of me. But of course she did not mention my name to
you.'
'Yes, she did.'
'And what did she say?'
'That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid
had -- not turned out well. At such a distance as _that,_ you
know, things are strangely misrepresented.'
'Certainly,' he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped
she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,--
'I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We
passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be
doing there.'
'Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,'
said Elizabeth. 'It must be something particular to take him
there at this time of year.'
'Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at
Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that
you had.'
'Yes; he introduced us to his sister.'
'And do you like her?'
'Very much.'
'I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved
within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not
very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she
will turn out well.'
'I daresay 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 must 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 noth-
ing. One ought not to repine; but, to be sure, it would
have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retire-
ment 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?'
[454]
{{prhprp455.jpg}}
'I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as_ _good,_
that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of
the present patron.'
'You have! Yes, there was something in _that;_ I told you
so from the first, you may remember.'
'I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-
making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at
present; that you actually declared your resolution of never
taking orders, and that the business had been compromised
accordingly.'
'You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You
may remember what I told you on that point, when first we
talked of it.'
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she
had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her
sister's sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with a
good-humoured smile,--
'Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you
know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I
hope we shall be always of one mind.'
She held out her hand: he kissed it with affectionate
gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they
entered the house.
[455]
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MR. WICKHAM was so perfectly satisfied with this
conversation, that he never again distressed him-
self, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by intro-
ducing 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?'
'O Lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years,
perhaps.'
'Write to me very often, my dear.'
'As often as I can. But you know married women have
never much time for writing. My sisters may write to _me._
They will have nothing else to do.'
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than
his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many
pretty things.
'He is as fine a fellow,' said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they
were out of the house, 'as ever I saw. He simpers, and
smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud
of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a
more valuable son-in-law.'
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for
several days.
'I often think,' said she, 'that there is nothing so bad as
parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without
them.'
'This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying
a daughter,' said Elizabeth. 'It must make you better satis-
fied that your other four are single.'
[456]
{{prhprp457.jpg}}
'It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because
she is married; but only because her husband's regiment
happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would
not have gone so soon.'
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her
into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the
agitation of hope, by an article of news, which then began
to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had
received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who
was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked
at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head, by turns.
'Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,'
(for Mrs. Philips first brought her the news). 'Well, so
much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is
nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see
him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to
Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_
happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we
agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so,
it is quite certain he is coming?'
'You may depend on it,' replied the other, 'for Mrs.
Nichols was in Meryton last night: I saw her passing by,
and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it;
and she told me that it was certainly 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.
[457]
{{prhprp458.jpg}}
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 com-
ing there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough
to come without it.
'Yet it is hard,' she sometimes thought, 'that this poor
man cannot come to a house, which he has legally hired,
without raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to him-
self.'
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed
to be her feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth
could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it.
They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often
seen them.
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between
their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought
forward again.
'As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,' said Mrs.
Bennet, 'you will wait on him of course.'
'No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and
promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my
daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent
on a fool's errand again.'
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such
an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentle-
men, on his returning to Netherfield.
'Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,' said he. 'If he wants our
society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will
not spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every
time they go away and come back again.'
'Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you
do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my
asking him to dine here, I am determined. We must have
Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen
with ourselves, so there will be just room at the table for
him.'
[458]
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Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to
bear her husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying
to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in
consequence of it before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival
drew near,--
'I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,' said Jane to
her sister. 'It would be nothing; I could see him with
perfect indifference; but I can hardly bear to hear it thus
perpetually talked off. My mother means well; but she does
not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what
she says. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is
over!'
'I wish I could say anything to comfort you,' replied
Elizabeth; 'but it is wholly out of my power. You must
feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a
sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much.'
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assist-
ance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it,
that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might
be as long as it could. She counted the days that must
intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of
seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-
room window enter the paddock, and ride towards the
house.
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy.
Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth,
to satisfy her mother, went to the window -- she looked -- she
saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister.
'There is a gentleman with him, mamma,' said Kitty;
'who can it be?'
'Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am
sure I do not know.'
'La!' replied Kitty, 'it looks just like that man that used
to be with him before. Mr. what's his name -- that tall, proud
man.'
'Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! -- and so it does, I vow.
Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome
here to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very
sight of him.'
[459]
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Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She
knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore
felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in
seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his
explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough.
Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and
their mother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her
resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend,
without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had
sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane,
to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment
towards him.
To Jane he could be only a man whose proposals she
had refused, and whose merits she had undervalued;
but to her own more extensive information he was the
person to whom the whole family were indebted for the
first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and
just, as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at
his coming -- at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn,
and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what
she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in
Derbyshire.
The colour which had been driven from her face returned
for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of
delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that
space of time that his affection and wishes must still be
unshaken; but she would not be secure.
'Let me first see how he behaves,' said she; 'it will then
be early enough for expectation.'
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and
without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity
carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was
approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual,
but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received
them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour
equally free from any symptom of resentment, or any unnec-
essary complaisance.
[460]
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Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow,
and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which
it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance
at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and she thought,
more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than
as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps, he could
not in her mother's presence be what he was before her
uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable,
conjecture.
Bingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that
short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed.
He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility
which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when
contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her
courtesy and address of his friend.
Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed
to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most pain-
ful 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 con-
fusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by her:
perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it had not
been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends
when he could not to herself. But now several minutes
elapsed, without bringing the sound of his voice; and when
occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she
raised her eyes to his face, she as often found him looking
at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the
ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was
disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.
'Could I expect it to be otherwise?' said she. 'Yet why
did he come?'
She was in no humour for conversation with any one 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.
[461]
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'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. In was in the
_Times_ and the _Courier,_ I know; though it was not put in as
it ought to be. It was only said, "Lately, George Wickham,
Esq., to Miss Lydia Bennet," without there being a syllable
said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up, too, and I wonder
how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did
you see it?'
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.
Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,
therefore, she could not tell.
'It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
married,' continued her mother; 'but at the same time, Mr.
Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken away from me.
They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward it
seems, and there they are to stay, I do not know how long.
His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his
leaving the shire, and of his being gone into the Regu-
lars. 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
coveys for you.'
Elizabeth's misery increased at such unnecessary, such
officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at
present, as had flattered them a year ago, everything, she was
[462]
{{prhprp463.jpg}}
persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclu-
sion. At that instant she felt that years of happiness could
not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful
confusion.
'The first wish of my heart,' said she to herself, 'is never
more to be in company with either of them. Their society
can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness
as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!'
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer
no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief,
from observing how much the beauty of her sister rekindled
the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in,
he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed
to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as
handsome as she had been last year; as good-natured, and as
unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that
no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really
persuaded that she talked as much as ever; but her mind was
so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she
was silent.
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was
mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and
engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days' time.
'You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,' she added;
'for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take
a family dinner with us as soon as you returned. I have not
forgot, you see; and I assure you I was very much dis-
appointed that you did not come back and keep your engage-
ment.'
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
something of his concern at having been prevented by busi-
ness. 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.
[463]
{{prhprp464.jpg}}
AS soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to re-
cover 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 at all that gave her pleasure.
'He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and
aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears
me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why
silent? Teasing, teasing man! I will think no more about
him.'
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by
the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful
look which showed her better satisfied with their visitors than
Elizabeth.
'Now,' said she, 'that this first meeting is over, I feel
perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never
be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines
here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that on both
sides we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.'
'Yes, very indifferent indeed,' said Elizabeth, laughingly.
'Oh, Jane! take care.'
'My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in
danger now.'
'I think you are in very great danger of making him as
much in love with you as ever.'
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and
Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the
happy schemes which the good-humour and common polite-
ness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Long-
bourn; and the two who were most anxiously expected, to
the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very
[464]
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good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth
eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place
which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas,
forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room,
he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round,
and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself
by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his
friend. He bore it with noble indifference; and she would
have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be
happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr.
Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such during dinner-time
as showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded
than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth that, if left wholly to
himself, Jane's happiness, and his own, would be speedily
secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence,
she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for
she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as
far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one
side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation
would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their
discourse; but she could see how seldom they spoke to each
other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever
they did. Her mother's ungraciousness made the sense of
what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind; and
she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to
tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by
the whole of the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some
opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the
visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into
something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious
salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the
period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentle-
men came was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost
made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as
[465]
{{prhprp466.jpg}}
the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening
must depend.
'If he does not come to me, _then,'_ said she, 'I shall give
him up for ever.'
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he
would have answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had
crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was making
tea and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a con-
federacy, 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 every one to whom he
spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to
coffee, and then was enraged against herself for being so
silly!
'A man who has once been refused! How could I ever
be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there
one among the sex who would not protest against such a
weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There
is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings.'
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
coffee-cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of say-
ing,--
'Is your sister at Pemberley still?'
'Yes; she will remain there till Christmas.'
'And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?'
'Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone
on to Scarborough these three weeks.'
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished
to converse with her, he might have better success. He
stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at
last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he
walked away.
When the tea things were removed, and the card-tables
placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping
to be soon joined by him, when all her views were over-
[466]
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thrown 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 pleas-
ure. 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 everything has
passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was
as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted
to a turn -- and everybody said they never saw so fat a
haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had
at the Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged
that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose
he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear
Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long
said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what
do you think she said besides? "Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall
have her at Netherfield at last!" She did, indeed. I do
think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived -- and her
nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome:
I like them prodigiously.'
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits: she had
seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane to be convinced
that she would get him at last; and her expectations of
advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so
far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not
seeing him there again the next day to make his proposals.
'It has been a very agreeable day,' said Miss Bennet to
Elizabeth. 'The party seemed so well selected, so suitable
one with the other. I hope we may often meet again.'
Elizabeth smiled.
'Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me.
It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy
his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man
[467]
{{prhprp468.jpg}}
without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied,
from what his manners now are, that he never had any de-
sign of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of
generally pleasing, than any other man.'
'You are very cruel,' said her sister; 'you will not let me
smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.'
'How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how
impossible in others! But why should you wish to persuade
me that I feel more than I acknowledge?'
'That is a question which I hardly know how to answer.
We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not
worth knowing. Forgive _me_; and if you persist in indiffer-
ence, do not make me your confidante.'
[468]
{{prhprp469.jpg}}
A FEW days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again,
and alone. His friend had left him that morning for
London, but was to return home in ten days' time.
He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good
spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but,
with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself en-
gaged elsewhere.
'Next time you call,' said she, 'I hope we shall be more
lucky.'
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc.;
and if she would give him leave, would take an early oppor-
tunity of waiting on them.
'Can you come to-morrow?'
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
invitation was accepted with alacrity.
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were
none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's
room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half-finished,
crying out,--
'My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come --
Mr. Bingley is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make
haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and
help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair.'
'We will be down as soon as we can,' said Jane, 'but I
daresay Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went
upstairs 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 pre-
vailed 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 upstairs to her
instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed,
[469]
{{prhprp470.jpg}}
Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Cath-
erine for a considerable time, without making any impres-
sion on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when
at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, 'What is the mat-
ter, mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What
am I to do?'
'Nothing, child, nothing. I did not wink at you.' She then
sat still five minutes longer; but, unable to waste such a
precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,--
'Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,' took her out
of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which
spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty
that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
Bennet half opened the door and called out,--
'Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.'
Elizabeth was forced to go.
'We may as well leave them by themselves, you know,' said
her mother as soon as she was in the hall. 'Kitty and I are
going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room.'
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but
remained quietly in the hall till she and Kitty were out of
sight, then returned into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bing-
ley was everything that was charming, except the professed
lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered
him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and
he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and
heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay to supper; and
before he went away an engagement was formed, chiefly
through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming
next morning to shoot with her husband.
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference.
Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley;
but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must
speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the
stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded
that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's con-
currence.
[470]
{{prhprp471.jpg}}
Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr.
Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on.
The latter was much more agreeable than his companion
expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in
Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric,
than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course re-
turned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's
invention was again at work to get everybody 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 her returning to the drawing-room, when her letter
was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was rea-
son to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her.
On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley
standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest
conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each
other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward
enough; but _hers_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable
was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of go-
ing 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 confi-
dence 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 any one but myself. He is gone to
[471]
{{prhprp472.jpg}}
my father already. Oh, Lizzy, to know that what I have to
relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family; how
shall I bear so much happiness?'
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely
broken up the card party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapid-
ity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had
given them so many previous months of surprise and vexa-
tion.
'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, and most reasonable end!'
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose con-
ference 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 upstairs. She will be down in a moment,
I daresay.'
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 rela-
tionship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then,
till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to
say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in
spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because
they had for basis the excellent understanding and super-
excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feel-
ing and taste between her and himself.
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the
satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave such a glow of 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,--
[472]
{{prhprp473.jpg}}
'Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy
woman.'
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him
for his goodness.
'You are a good girl,' he replied, 'and I have great pleasure
in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt
of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no
means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that noth-
ing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will
cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your
income.'
'I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money
matters would be unpardonable in _me.'_
'Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,' cried his
wife, 'what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five
thousand a year, and very likely more.' Then addressing her
daughter, 'Oh, my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am
sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure
you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as
soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertford-
shire 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 inter-
est with her for objects of happiness which she might in
future be able to dispense.
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield;
and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every
winter.
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always
remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous
neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him
an invitation to dinner, which he thought himself obliged to
accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her
sister; for while he was present Jane had no attention to be-
[473]
{{prhprp474.jpg}}
stow on any one else: but she found herself considerably
useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must
sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always attached
himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking of her; and
when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same
means of relief.
'He has made me so happy,' said she, one evening, 'by
telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town
last spring! I had not believed it possible.'
'I suspected as much,' replied Elizabeth. 'But how did he
account for it?'
'It must have been his sisters' doing. They were certainly
no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot won-
der at, since he might have chosen so much more advantage-
ously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they
will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to
be contented, and we shall be on good terms again: though
we can never be what we once were to each other.'
'That is the most unforgiving speech,' said Elizabeth, 'that
I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed,
to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.'
'Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town
last November he really loved me, and nothing but a persua-
sion of _my_ being indifferent would have prevented his com-
ing down again?'
'He made a little mistake, to be sure; but it is to the credit
of his modesty.'
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his
diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good
qualities.
Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the
interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most
generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a
circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
'I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever ex-
isted!' 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,
[474]
{{prhprp475.jpg}}
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. Philips, 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.
[475]
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ONE morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement
with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of
the family were sitting together in the dining-room,
their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the
sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four
driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for
visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of
any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither
the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it,
was familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that some-
body was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Ben-
net to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk
away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and
the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though
with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open, and
their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
They were of course all intending to be surprised: but
their astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the
part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly un-
known to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
She entered the room with an air more than usually un-
gracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than
a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying
a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother
on her Ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduc-
tion 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?'
[476]
{{prhprp477.jpg}}
'Yes, madam,' said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a
Lady Catherine. 'She is my youngest girl but one. My
youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere
about the ground, 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 Cath-
erine, 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 com-
pany.'
'Go, my dear,' cried her mother, 'and show her Ladyship
about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with
the hermitage.'
Elizabeth obeyed; and, running into her own room
for her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As
they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the
doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pro-
nouncing 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
[477]
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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 rea-
son of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own con-
science, must tell you why I come.'
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
'Indeed, you are mistaken, madam; I have not been at all
able to account for the honour of seeing you here.'
'Miss Bennet,' replied her Ladyship, in an angry tone, 'you
ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however
insincere _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so.
My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and
frankness; and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall
certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming
nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only
your sister was on the point of being most advantageously
married, but that _you,_ that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in
all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my
own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scan-
dalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as
to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on
setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments
known to you.'
'If you believed it impossible to be true,' said Elizabeth,
colouring with astonishment and disdain, 'I wonder you took
the trouble of coming so far. What could your Ladyship
propose by it?'
'At once to insist upon having such a report universally
contradicted.'
'Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,' said
Elizabeth coolly, 'will be rather a confirmation of it; if, in-
deed, 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?'
[478]
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'I never heard that it was.'
'And can you likewise declare that there is no _foundation_
for it?'
'I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your
Ladyship. _You_ may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose
to answer.'
'This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of
marriage?'
'Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.'
'It ought to be so; it must be so while he retains the use
of his reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a
moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes
to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn
him in.'
'If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.'
'Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been
accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest
relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his
dearest concerns.'
'But you are not entitled to know _mine;_ nor will such
behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit.'
'Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you
have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No,
never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to _my_ _daughter._ Now, what
have you to say?'
'Only this, -- that if he is so, you can have no reason to
suppose he will make an offer to me.'
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then re-
plied,--
'The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From
their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It
was the favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of hers.
While in their cradles we planned the union; and now, at the
moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accom-
plished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman
of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly
unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of
his friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh?
Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have
[479]
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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 com-
pletion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by hon-
our 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 no-
ticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the
inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and de-
spised by every one connected with him. Your alliance will
be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by
any of us.'
'These are heavy misfortunes,' replied Elizabeth. 'But
the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources
of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she
could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.'
'Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is
this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is
nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You
are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the
determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be
dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any
person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking
disappointment.'
_'That_ will make your Ladyship's situation at present more
pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me.'_
'I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My daugh-
ter 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 an-
cient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on both sides
is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
every member of their respective houses; and what is to
divide them? -- the upstart pretensions of a young woman
[480]
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without family, connections, or fortune! Is this to be en-
dured? But it must not, shall not be! If you were sensible
of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in
which you have been brought up.'
'In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I a gentleman's
daughter; so far we are equal.'
'True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But what was
your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not
imagine me ignorant of their condition.'
'Whatever my connection may be,' said Elizabeth, 'if your
nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.'
'Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?'
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of
obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she
could not but say, after a moment's deliberation,--
'I am not.'
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
'And will you promise me never to enter into such an
engagement?'
'I will make no promise of the kind.'
'Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected
to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive
yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go
away till you have given me the assurance I require.'
'And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intim-
idated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your Ladyship
wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giv-
ing you the wished-for promise make _their_ marriage at all
more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would
_my_ refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on
his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the argu-
ments with which you have supported this extraordinary ap-
plication have been as frivolous as the application was ill-
judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think
I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far
your nephew might approve of your interference in his af-
fairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern
yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned
no further on the subject.'
[481]
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'Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done.
To all the objections I have already urged I have still another
to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest
sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young
man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the ex-
pense of your father and uncle. And is _such_ a girl to be my
nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, who is the son of his late
father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth! -- of
what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be
thus polluted?'
'You can _now_ have nothing further to say,' she resentfully
answered. 'You have insulted me in every possible method.
I must beg to return to the house.'
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and
they turned back. Her Ladyship was highly incensed.
'You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of
my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider
that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of
everybody?'
'Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know
my sentiments.'
'You are then resolved to have him?
'I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in
that manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my
happiness, without reference to _you,_ or to any person so
wholly unconnected with me.'
'It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse
to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are
determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and
make him the contempt of the world.'
'Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,' replied Elizabeth,
'has any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No
principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr.
Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or
the indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by
his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern
and the world in general would have too much sense to
join in the scorn.'
'And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve!
Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine,
[482]
{{prhprp483.jpg}}
Miss Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I
came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but depend
upon it I will carry my point.'
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on till they were at
the door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she
added,--
'I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compli-
ments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I
am most seriously displeased.'
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to per-
suade her Ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly
into it herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she
proceeded upstairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the
door of her dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would
not come in again and rest herself.
'She did not choose it,' said her daughter; 'she would go.'
'She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the
Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare-
say; and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as
well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say
to you, Lizzy?'
Elizabeth was forced to give in to a little falsehood here;
for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was
impossible.
[483]
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THE discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary
visit threw Elizabeth into could not be easily over-
come; nor could she for many hours learn to think of
it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had
actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings for
the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement
with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but
from what the report of their engagement could originate,
Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that
_his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, and _her_ being the
sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation
of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply
the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the
marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently to-
gether. And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for
through their communication with the Collinses, the report,
she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had only set
_that_ down as almost certain and immediate which _she_ had
looked forward to as possible at some future time.
In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she
could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible
consequence of her persisting in this interference. From
what she had said of her resolution to prevent the marriage,
it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an application
to her nephew; and how he might take a similar representa-
tion of the evils attached to a connection with her she dared
not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affec-
tion 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
[484]
{{prhprp485.jpg}}
to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained
much good sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do,
which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of
so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine
him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could
make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his
engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must
give way.
'If, therefore an excuse for not keeping his promise should
come to his friend within a few days,' she added, 'I shall
know how to understand it. I shall then give over every
expectation, every wish, of his constancy. If he is satis-
fied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained
my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
at all.'
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
visitor had been, was very great: but they obligingly satisfied
it with the same kind of supposition which had appeased
Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much
teasing on the subject.
The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was
met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter
in his hand.
'Lizzy,' said he, 'I was going to look for you: come into
my room.'
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what
he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its
being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It
suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine,
and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explana-
tions.
She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat
down. He then said,--
'I have received a letter this morning that has astonished
me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you
ought to know its contents. I did not know before that I
had _two_ daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me
congratulate you on a very important conquest.'
[485]
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The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the in-
stantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew,
instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most
to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that
his letter was not rather addressed to herself, when her
father continued,--
'You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration
in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_
sagacity to discover the name of your admirer. This letter
is from Mr. Collins.'
'From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?'
'Something very much to the purpose, of course. He
begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of
my eldest daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by
some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not
sport with your impatience by reading what he says on that
point. What relates to yourself is as follows: -- "Having thus
offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and
myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on
the subject of another, of which we have been advertised by
the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed,
will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her eldest sister
has resigned it; and the chosen partner of her fate may be
reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious per-
sonages in this land."'
'Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?'
'"This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with
everything 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 Eliza-
beth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a pre-
cipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of
course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of."'
'Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But
now it comes out.'
'"My motive for cautioning you is as follows: -- We have
reason to imagine that his aunt. Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
does not look on the match with a friendly eye."'
_'Mr._ _Darcy,_ you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I
_have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched
[486]
{{prhprp487.jpg}}
on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose
name would have given the lie more effectually to what they
related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to
see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in his
life! It is admirable!'
Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could
only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been
directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
'Are you not diverted?'
'Oh yes. Pray read on.'
'"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her
Ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual con-
descension, 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 hear-
ing 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 exceedingly diverted. But it
is so strange!'
[487]
{{prhprp488.jpg}}
'Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on
any other man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect
indifference and _your_ pointed dislike make it so delightfully
absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up
Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay,
when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the
preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impu-
dence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy,
what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to
refuse her consent?'
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh;
and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was
not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been
more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were
not. It was necessary to laugh when she would rather have
cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by what he
said of Mr. Darcy's indifference; and she could do nothing
but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, per-
haps, instead of his seeing too _little,_ she might have fancied
too _much._
[488]
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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 be-
fore 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 Eliza-
beth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very
little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to
talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution;
and, perhaps, he might be doing the same.
They walked toward the Lucases', because Kitty wished to
call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for mak-
ing it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went
boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her reso-
lution to be executed; and while her courage was high she
immediately said,--
'Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake
of giving relief to my own feelings care not how much I may
be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for
your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I
have known it I have been most anxious to acknowledge to
you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of
my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to
express.'
'I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,' replied Darcy, in a tone of
surprise and emotion, 'that you have ever been informed of
what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I
did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.'
[489]
{{prhprp490.jpg}}
'You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness
first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the mat-
ter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particu-
lars. 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 for his situation, now forced herself to speak;
and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to under-
stand 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 eyes, she might have seen how well the expression of
heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
but though she could not look she could listen; and he
told her of feelings which, in proving of what impor-
tance 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
[490]
{{prhprp491.jpg}}
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling
emphatically on every expression of the latter, which,
in her Ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her
perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a re-
lation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise
from her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But,
unluckily for her Ladyship, its effect had been exactly
contrariwise.
'It taught me to hope,' said he, 'as I had scarcely ever
allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your
disposition to be certain that had you been absolutely, irrevo-
cably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to
Lady Catherine frankly and openly.'
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, 'Yes, you
know enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that._
After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have
no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.'
'What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For
though your accusations were ill founded, formed on mis-
taken 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 an-
nexed 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 recollec-
tion of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my
expressions, during the whole of it, is now, and has been
many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so
well applied, I shall never forget: "Had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner." Those were your words. You
know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured
me; though it was some time, I confess, before I was reason-
able 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
[491]
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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 effects on her had been, and how
gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
'I knew,' said he, 'that what I wrote must give you pain,
but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.
There was one part, especially the opening of it, which I
should dread your having the power of reading again. I can
remember some expressions which might justly make you
hate me.'
'The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it
essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we
have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalter-
able, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that
implies.'
'When I wrote that letter,' replied Darcy, 'I believed my-
self 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 remem-
brance gives you pleasure.'
'I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind.
_Your_ retrospections must be so totally void of reproach,
that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy,
but, what is much better, of ignorance. But with _me,_ it
is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot,
which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being
all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child
[492]
{{prhprp493.jpg}}
I was taught what was _right,_ but I was not taught to cor-
rect my temper. I was given good principles, but left to
follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only
son (for many years an only _child),_ I was spoiled by my
parents, who, though good themselves (my father particu-
larly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, en-
couraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbear-
ing, 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 Eliza-
beth! What do I owe you! You taught me a lesson
hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you
I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt
of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were
all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being
pleased.'
'Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?'
'Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I
believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.'
'My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally,
I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits
might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me
after _that_ evening!'
'Hate you! I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger
soon began to take a proper direction.'
'I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of
me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for
coming?'
'No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.'
'Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being
noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no
extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect
to receive _more_ than my due.'
'My object _then,'_ replied Darcy, 'was to show you, by
every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to
resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to
lessen your ill-opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs
had been attended to. How soon any other wishes intro-
[493]
{{prhprp494.jpg}}
duced 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 acquaint-
ance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption;
which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption,
she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from
Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed before
he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a
purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful
a subject for 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 ex-
amining their watches, that it was time to be at home.
'What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!' was
a wonder which introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs.
Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had
given him the earliest information of it.
'I must ask whether you were surprised?' said Elizabeth.
'Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon
happen.'
'That is to say, you had given your permission. I
guessed as much.' And though he exclaimed at the term,
she found that it had been pretty much the case.
'On the evening before my going to London,' said he,
'I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to
have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred
to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and
impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had
the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed
myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your
sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive
that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of
their happiness together.'
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of
directing his friend.
'Did you speak from your own observation,' said she,
'when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely
from my information last spring?'
[494]
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'From the former. I had narrowly observed her, during
the two visits which I had lately made her here; and I was
convinced of her affection.'
'And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
conviction to him.'
'It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffi-
dence had prevented his depending on his own judgment
in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made every-
thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a
time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow
myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three
months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept
it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am per-
suaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt
of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
now.'
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been
a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that
he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too
early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he con-
tinued the conversation till they reached the house. In the
hall they parted.
[495]
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'MY dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking
to?' was a question which Elizabeth received from
Jane as soon as she entered the 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 ex-
traordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed;
the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a dis-
position in which happiness overflows in mirth: and Eliz-
abeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was
happy than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate
embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She
anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situ-
ation became known: she was aware that no one liked him
but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do
away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion
was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was
absolutely incredulous here.
'You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! Engaged to
Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me: I know it
to be impossible.'
'This is a wretched beginning, indeed! My sole depend-
ence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me,
if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak noth-
ing 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
[496]
{{prhprp497.jpg}}
now; but in such cases as these a good memory is unpardon-
able. 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 ques-
tion -- are you quite certain that you can be happy with
him?'
'There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us
already that we are to be the happiest couple in the world.
But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a
brother?'
'Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or
myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of
it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well
enough? Oh, Lizzy, do anything rather than marry without
affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?'
'Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought
to do when I tell you all.'
'What do you mean?'
'Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do
Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry.'
'My dearest sister, now _be,_ be serious. I want to talk very
seriously. Let me know everything that I am to know with-
out delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?'
'It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know
when it began; but I believe I must date it from my first
seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.'
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however,
produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by
her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on
that article, Miss Bennet had nothing further to wish.
'Now I am quite happy,' said she, 'for you will be as
happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it
for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed
him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there
can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But,
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How
[497]
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little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and
Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another, not to
_you.'_
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had
been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state
of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name
of his friend: but now she would no longer conceal from
her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.
'Good gracious!' cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a
window the next morning, 'if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is
not coming here again with our dear Bingley! What can
he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here?
I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something
or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall
we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again,
that he may not be in Bingley's way.'
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a
proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be
always giving him such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so ex-
pressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no
doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said
aloud, 'Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in
which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?'
'I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,' said Mrs.
Bennet, 'to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a
nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.'
'It may do very well for the others,' replied Mr. Bingley;
'but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it
Kitty?'
Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy
professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount,
and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went upstairs to
get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying,--
'I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have
that disagreeable man all to yourself; but I hope you will
not mind it. It is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there
is no occasion for talking to him except just now and then,
so do not put yourself to inconvenience.'
[498]
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During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's con-
sent should be asked in the course of the evening: Elizabeth
reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She
could not determine how her mother would take it; some-
times doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would
be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man; but
whether she were violently set against the match, or violently
delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would
be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense; and she
could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first
raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her dis-
approbation.
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the
library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her
agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her
father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy, and
that it should be through her means; that _she,_ his favourite
child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was
a wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy
appeared again, when, looking at him, she was a little re-
lieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the
table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pre-
tending 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 opin-
ions had been more reasonable, her expressions more mod-
erate! It would have spared her from explanations and
professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but
they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some
confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
'Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He
is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and
fine carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?'
'Have you any other object,' said Elizabeth, 'than your
belief of my indifference?'
[499]
{{prhprp500.jpg}}
'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 per-
fectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; then
pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms.'
'Lizzy,' said her father, 'I have given him my consent.
He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare
refuse anything which he condescended to ask. I now give
it to _you,_ if you are resolved on having him. But let me
advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition,
Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respect-
able, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you
looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would
place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage.
You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child,
let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to respect
your partner in life. You know not what you are about.'
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in
her reply; and, at length, by repeated assurances that Mr.
Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining the
gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone,
relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the
work of a day, but had stood the test of many months' sus-
pense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities,
she did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him
to the match.
'Well, my dear,' said he, when she ceased speaking, 'I
have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you.
I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less
worthy.'
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him
what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard
her with astonishment.
'This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy
did everything; 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
[500]
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him; but these violent young lovers carry everything 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 com-
posure. Everything was too recent for gaiety, but the eve-
ning passed tranquilly away; there was no longer anything
material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and famili-
arity would come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night,
she followed her, and made the important communication.
Its effect was most extraordinary; for, on first hearing it,
Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable.
Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could com-
prehend what she heard, though not in general backward
to credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that
came in the shape of a lover to any of them. She began
at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up,
sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
'Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me!
Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it? And is it really
true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you
will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you
will have! Jane's is nothing to it -- nothing at all. I am so
pleased -- so happy. Such a charming man! so handsome!
so tall! Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having
disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook it.
Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Everything that is
charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a
year! Oh, Lord! what will become of me? I shall go dis-
tracted.'
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not
be doubted; and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion
[501]
{{prhprp502.jpg}}
was heard only by herself, soon went away. But before
she had been three minutes in her room, her mother fol-
lowed 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 license -- you must and shall be
married by a special license. But, my dearest love, tell me
what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may
have it to-morrow.'
This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to
the gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that,
though in the certain possession of his warmest affection,
and secure of her relations' consent, there was still some-
thing to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much
better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in
such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not
to speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him
any attention, or mark her deference for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking
pains to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon
assured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.
'I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,' said he. 'Wick-
ham, perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like your
husband quite as well as Jane's.'
[502]
{{prhprp503.jpg}}
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 man-
ners -- my behaviour to _you_ was at least always bordering on
the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing
to give you pain than not. Now, be sincere; did you ad-
mire me for my impertinence?
'For the liveliness of your mind I did.'
'You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very
little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of
deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with
the women who were always speaking, and looking, and
thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused and interested
you, because I was so unlike _them._ Had you not been
really amiable you would have hated me for it: but in spite
of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings
were always noble and just; and in your heart you thoroughly
despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There
-- I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and
really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure you know no actual good of me --
but nobody thinks of _that_ when they fall in love.'
'Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to
Jane, while she was ill at Netherfield?'
'Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But
make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are
under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as
[503]
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much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find
occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as
may be; and I shall begin directly, by asking you what
made you so unwilling to come to the point at last? What
made you so shy of me, when you first called, and after-
wards 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 en-
couragement.'
'But I was embarrassed.'
'And so was I.'
'You might have talked to me more when you came to
dinner.'
'A man who had felt less might.'
'How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer
to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it!
But I wonder how long you _would_ have gone on, if you
had been left to yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have
spoken if I had not asked you! My resolution of thanking
you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
_Too_ _much_ I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral,
if our comfort springs from a breach of promise, for I
ought not to have mentioned the subject? This will never
do.'
'You need not distress yourself. The moral will be
perfectly fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to
separate us were the means of removing all my doubts. I
am not indebted for my present happiness to your eager
desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
to wait for an 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 in-
tended any more serious consequences?'
'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
[504]
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your sister was 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 Cathe-
rine what is to befall her?'
'I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth.
But it ought to be done; and if you will give me a sheet
of paper it shall be done directly.'
'And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by
you, and admire the evenness of your writing, as another
young lady once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not
be longer neglected.'
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy
with Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never
yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's long letter; but now, having
that to communicate which she knew would be most wel-
come, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and imme-
diately wrote as follows:--
> 'I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have
> done, for your long, kind, satisfactory detail of particulars; but, to
> say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than
> really existed. But now suppose as much as you choose; give a
> loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight
> which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually
> married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon,
> and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank
> you again and again for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so
> silly as to wish it? Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will
> go round the park every day. I am the happiest creature in the
> world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but no 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 can be spared
> 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 return for his last.
> 'Dear Sir -- I must trouble you once more for congratulations.
> Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Cath-
> erine 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 ap-
proaching marriage were all that was affectionate and in-
[505]
{{prhprp506.jpg}}
sincere. She wrote even to Jane on the occasion, to express
her delight, and repeat all her former professions of regard.
Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and though
feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a
much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar
information was as sincere as her brother's in sending it.
Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her
delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her
sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn
family heard that the Collinses were come themselves to
Lucas Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon
evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly
angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that Char-
lotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get
away till the storm was blown over. At such a moment the
arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth,
though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes
think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy
exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He
could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he compli-
mented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the
country, and expressed his hopes of their all meeting fre-
quently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he
did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out
of sight.
Mrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and, perhaps, a
greater tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as
well as her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak
with the familiarity which Bingley's good humour en-
couraged, yet, whenever she did speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet,
at all likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she
could to shield him from the frequent notice of either, and
was ever anxious to keep him to herself, and to those of her
family with whom he might converse without mortification;
and though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this
[506]
{{prhprp507.jpg}}
took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward
with delight to the time when they should be removed from
society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and
elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
[507]
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HAPPY for all her maternal feelings was the day on
which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserv-
ing daughters. With what delighted pride she after-
wards 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 es-
tablishment of so many of her children produced so happy
an effect as to make her a sensible amiable, well-informed
woman for the rest of her life; though, perhaps, it was lucky
for her husband, who might not have relished domestic
felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally
nervous and invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his
affection for her drew him oftener from home than any-
thing else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley,
especially when he was least expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a
twelvemonth. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton
relations was not desirable even to his easy temper, or her
affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then
gratified: he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to
Derbyshire: and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every
other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each
other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of
her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to
what she had generally known, her improvement was great.
She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and,
removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she became,
by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of
Lydia's society she was of course carefully kept; and though
Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with
her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father
would never consent to her going.
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Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and
she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplish-
ments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone.
Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she could
still moralise over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty
and her own, it was suspected by her father that she sub-
mitted to the change without much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no
revolution from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with
philosophy the conviction that Elizabeth must now become
acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood
had before been unknown to her; and, in spite of everything
was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be pre-
vailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter
which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage ex-
plained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself,
such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:--
> 'My Dear Lizzy -- I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half so
> well as I do my dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a
> great comfort to have you so rich; and when you have nothing else
> to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like
> a place at court very much; and I do not think we shall have quite
> money enough to live upon without some help. Any place would
> do of about three or four hundred a year; but, however, do not speak
> to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not. -- Yours,' etc.
As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty
and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was
in her power to afford, by the practice of what might be
called economy in her own private expenses, she frequently
sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so ex-
travagant 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 was sure of
being applied to for some little assistance towards discharg-
ing their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was un-
settled in the extreme. They were always moving from
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place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always
spending more than they ought. His affection for her soon
sank into indifference: hers lasted a little longer; and, in
spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the
claims to reputation which her marriage had given her.
Though Darcy could never receive him at Pemberley, yet,
for Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profes-
sion. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her hus-
band was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and
with the Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed 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 mar-
riage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of
visiting at Pemberley, she dropped all her resentment; was
fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy
as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Eliza-
beth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attach-
ment 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. Him who had always in-
spired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affec-
tion she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind
received knowledge, which had never before fallen in her
way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend
that a woman may take liberties with her husband, which
a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten
years younger than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage
of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine
frankness of her character, in her reply to the letter which
announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very
abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all inter-
course was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's per-
suasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and
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seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance
on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to
her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife
conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them
at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,
but visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners they were always on the most inti-
mate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them;
and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude
towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire,
had been the means of uniting them.
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Mark Twain on Jane Austen, 1898:
'Every time I read "Pride and Prejudice",
I want to dig her up and hit her
over the skull with her own shin-bone."
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