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. Bennett made no answer. "Do not you want to know
who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently. "You want to tell me,
and I have no objection to hearing it." This was invitation enough.
"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by
a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on
Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it
that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession
before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end
of next week." "What is his name?" "Bingley." "Is
he married or single?" "Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man
of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our
girls!" "How so? how can it affect them?" "My dear Mr.
Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You must know
that I am thinking of his marrying one of them." "Is that his design
in settling here?" "Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is
very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must
visit him as soon as he comes." "I see no occasion for that. You and
the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be
still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like
you the best of the party." "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly
have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary
now. When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking
of her own beauty." "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty
to think of." "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley
when he comes into the neighbourhood." "It is more than I engage for,
I assure you." "But consider your daughters. Only think what an
establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined
to go, merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new
comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him, if
you do not." "You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley
will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him
of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though
I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will
do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she
is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you
are always giving her the preference." "They have none of them much
to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like
other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."
"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take
delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You
mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old
friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at
least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope
you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year
come into the neighbourhood." "It will be no use to us, if twenty
such should come since you will not visit them." "Depend upon it, my
dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was
so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that
the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife
understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develope. She was a
woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she
was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to
get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
Mr. Bennet was among
the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to
visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go;
and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It
was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter
employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, "I hope Mr.
Bingley will like it Lizzy." "We are not in a way to know what Mr.
Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to
visit." "But you forget, mama," 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
neices 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 soKitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces." "Kitty has no
discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times them
ill." "I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty
fretfully. "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?" "To-morrow
fortnight." "Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs.
Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her
to introduce him, for she will not know him herself." "Then, my dear,
you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to
her." "Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
with him myself; how can you be so teazing?" "I honour your
circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot
know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture,
somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her neices must stand their
chance; and therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline
the office, I will take it on myself." The girls stared at their father.
Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense, nonsense!" "What can be the
meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do you consider the
forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I
cannot quite agree with you there. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady
of deep reflection I know, and read great books, and make extracts." Mary
wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. "While Mary is
adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr.
Bingley." "I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife. "I am
sorry to hear that; but why did not you tell me so before? If I had known as
much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him. It is very
unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the
acquaintance now." The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished;
that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult
of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while. "How good it was in you, my dearMr. 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 chuse," said Mr. Bennet;
and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
"What an excellent father you have, girls," said she, when the door
was shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his
kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so
pleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but for your
sakes, we would do any thing. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare
say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball." "Oh!"
said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I'm
the tallest." The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon
he would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
dinner.
Not all that Mrs.
Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the
subject was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of
Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions,
ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them
all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of
their neighbour Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had
been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a
large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a
certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's
heart were entertained. "If I can but see one of my daughters happily
settled at Netherfield," said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all
the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for." In a
few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten minutes
with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight
of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the
father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of
ascertaining from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black
horse. An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had
Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping,
when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in
town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honour of their
invitation, &c. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine
what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire;
and she began to fear that he might be always flying about from one place to
another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted
her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to
bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved
over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by
hearing, that instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London,
his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room, it
consisted of only five altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of
the eldest, and another young man. Mr. Bingley was good looking and
gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His
sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law,
Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the
attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien;
and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his
entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be
a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr.
Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening,
till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he
was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased;
and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a
most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the
principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at
Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast
between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once
with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the
rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of
his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most
disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come
there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose
dislike of his general behaviour, was sharpened into particular resentment, by
his having slighted one of her daughters. Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by
the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that
time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a
conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few
minutes, to press his friend to join it. "Come, Darcy," said he,
"I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in
this stupid manner. You had much better dance." "I certainly shall
not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my
partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters
are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room, whom it would not be a
punishment to me to stand up with." "I would not be so fastidious as
you are," cried Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met
with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are
several of them you see uncommonly pretty." "You are dancing with the
only handsome girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest
Miss Bennet. "Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But
there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty,
and I dare say, very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce
you." "Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a
moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
said, "She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in
no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by
other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you
are wasting your time with me." Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy
walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him.
She told the story however with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous. The evening
altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her
eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced
with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much
gratified by this, as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth
felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the
most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet
learnt to care for at a ball. They returned therefore in good spirits to
Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal
inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless of
time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the
event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather
hoped that all his wife's views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he
soon found that he had a very different story to hear. "Oh! my dearMr.
Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most delightful
evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired,
nothing could be like it. Every body said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley
thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of that my
dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only creature in the
room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so
vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all:
indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was
going down the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and
asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and
the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two
sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger ----" "If he had had any
compassion for me," cried her husband impatiently, "he would not have
danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of his partners. Oh! that he
had sprained his ancle in the first dance!" "Oh! my dear,"
continued Mrs. Bennet, "I am quite delighted with him. He is so
excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life
saw any thing more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown ----" Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested
against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another
branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy. "But I can assure
you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his
fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So
high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and
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."
When Jane and Elizabeth
were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley
before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him. "He is just
what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible, good humoured,
lively; and I never saw such happy manners! -- so much ease, with such perfect
good breeding!" "He is also handsome," said Elizabeth,
"which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character
is thereby complete." "I was very much flattered by his asking me to
dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment." "Did not
you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments
always take you by surprise, and me never. What could be more natural than his
asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as
pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that.
Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You
have liked many a stupider person." "DearLizzy!" "Oh! you
are a great deal too apt you know, to like people in general. You never see a
fault in any body. 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 it every where. 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." "Certainly not; at first. But they are very
pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her
brother and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very
charming neighbour in her." Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not
convinced; their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than
her sister, and with a judgment too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies;
not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of being
agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were rather
handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, had
a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than
they ought, and of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every
respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were
of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed
on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been
acquired by trade. Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an
hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. -- Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good
house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best
knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of
his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase. His sisters
were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but though he was now
established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside
at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than
fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.
Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental
recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it and into it for
half an hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied
with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately. Between him
and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a great opposition of
character. -- Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness,
ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast
to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the
strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his
judgment the highest opinion. In understanding Darcy was the superior. Bingley
was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time
haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not
inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls
in his life; every body 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.
Within a short walk of
Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir
William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a
tolerable fortune and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the
King, during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly.
It had given him a disgust to his business and to his residence in a small
market town; and quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and unshackled by business,
occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For though elated by his
rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention
to every body. By nature inoffensive, friendly and obliging, his presentation
at St. James's had made him courteous. Lady Lucas was a very good kind of
woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. -- They had
several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman,
about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's intimate friend. That the Miss Lucases and
the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and
the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to
communicate. "You began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs.
Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. "You were Mr. Bingley's
first choice." "Yes; -- but he seemed to like his second
better." "Oh! -- you mean Jane, I suppose -- because he danced with
her twice. To be sure that did seem as if he admired her -- indeed I rather
believe he did -- I heard something about it -- but I hardly know what --
something about Mr. Robinson." "Perhaps you mean what I overheard
between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's
asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think
there were a great many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the
prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question -- Oh! the eldest
Miss Bennet beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point."
"Upon my word! -- Well, that was very decided indeed -- that does seem as
if -- but however, it may all come to nothing you know." "My
overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza," said Charlotte.
"Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he? -- Poor
Eliza! -- to be only just tolerable." "I beg you would not put it
into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable
man that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me
last night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his
lips." "Are you quite sure, Ma'am? -- is not there a little
mistake?" said Jane. -- "I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to
her." "Aye -- because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield,
and he could not help answering her; -- but she said he seemed very angry at
being spoke to." "Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that
he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance. With them he is
remarkably agreeable." "I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he
had been so very agreeable he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess
how it was; every body says that he is ate up with pride, and I dare say he had
heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball
in a hack chaise." "I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,"
said Miss Lucas, "but I wish he had danced with Eliza." "Another
time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with him, if I were
you." "I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you never to dance with
him." "His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend me so
much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder
that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, every thing in his favour,
should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be
proud." "That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I
could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."
"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
reflections, "is a very common failing I believe. By all that I have ever
read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is
particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish
a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or
imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often
used synonimously. 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.
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 every
body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their
kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in all probability
from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident
whenever they met, that he did admire her; and to her it was equally evident
that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for
him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered
with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general,
since Jane united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of
the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. "It may
perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose on the
public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very
guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object
of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor
consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of
gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave
any to itself. We can all begin freely -- a slight preference is natural
enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love
without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew more
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may
never do more than like her, if she does not help him on." "But she
does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceived her
regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too." "Remember,
Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do." "But if a
woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find
it out." "Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though
Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and
as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore
make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When
she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she
chuses." "Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth,
"where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married; and if
I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should
adopt it. But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As
yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with
him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined
in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand
his character." "Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him,
she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have been also spent together -- and four evenings
may do a great deal." "Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to
ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect
to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been
unfolded." "Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success
with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she
had as good a chance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character
for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the
dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so
similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They
always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the
person with whom you are to pass your life." "You make me laugh,
Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would
never act in this way yourself." Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's
attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was
herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr.
Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her
without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only
to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends
that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was
rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her
form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in
spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable
world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly
unaware; -- to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable no where, and
who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. He began to wish to know
more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her
conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William
Lucas's, where a large party were assembled. "What does Mr. Darcy
mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with
Colonel Forster?" "That is a question whichMr. Darcy only can
answer." "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know
that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin
by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him." On his
approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention
of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him,
which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,
"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well
just now, when I was teazing 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 teazed," 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 any body and every body! -- If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you
would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down
before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best
performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well;
if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There
is a fine old saying, which every body here is of course familiar with --
""Keep your breath to cool your porridge,"" -- and I shall
keep mine to swell my song." Her performance was pleasing, though by no
means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the
entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at
the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only
plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was
always impatient for display. Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though
vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and
conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than
she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much
more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long
concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs,
at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases and two or
three officers joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy
stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to
the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own
thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William
thus began. "What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr.
Darcy! -- There is nothing like dancing after all. -- I consider it as one of
the first refinements of polished societies." "Certainly, Sir; -- and
it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies
of the world. -- Every savage can dance." Sir William only smiled.
"Your friend performs delightfully;" he continued after a pause, on
seeing Bingley join the group; -- "and I doubt not that you are an adept
in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy." "You saw me dance at Meryton, I
believe, Sir." "Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure
from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?" "Never,
sir." "Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the
place?" "It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can
avoid it." "You have a house in town, I conclude?" Mr. Darcy
bowed. "I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself -- for I am fond
of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London
would agree with Lady Lucas." He paused in hopes of an answer; but his
companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving
towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and
called out to her, "My dearMiss Eliza, why are not you dancing? -- Mr.
Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable
partner. -- You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is
before you." And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy,
who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she
instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,
"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. -- I entreat you
not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner." Mr.
Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her hand; but
in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose
by his attempt at persuasion. "You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza,
that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this
gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am
sure, to oblige us for one half hour." "Mr. Darcy is all
politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling. "He is indeed -- but
considering the inducement, my dearMiss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his
complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?" Elizabeth looked
archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman,
and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,
"I can guess the subject of your reverie." "I should imagine
not." "You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
evenings in this manner -- in such society; and indeed I am quite of your
opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the
nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! -- What would I
give to hear your strictures on them!" "Your conjecture is totally
wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating
on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty
woman can bestow." Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face,
and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such
reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity, "Miss Elizabeth
Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I
am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite? -- and pray when
am I to wish you joy?" "That is exactly the question which I expected
you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to
love, from love to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me
joy." "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the
matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed,
and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you." He listened to
her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this
manner, and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed
long.
Mr. Bennet's property
consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which,
unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in default of heirs male, on a
distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in
life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an
attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister
married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their father, and succeeded
him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of
trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither
three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's
shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia,
were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant
than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was
necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the
evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always
contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well
supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia
regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton
was the 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 unknown before. They could
talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of
which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed
to the regimentals of an ensign. After listening one morning to their effusions
on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed, "From all that I can collect
by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the
country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced." Catherine
was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference,
continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing
him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.
"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should
be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
of any body'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 dearMr.
Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and
mother. -- When they get to our age I dare say they will not think about
officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat
myself very well -- and indeed so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young
colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall
not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the
other night at Sir William's in his regimentals." "Mama," cried
Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so
often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very
often standing in Clarke's library." Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by
the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from
Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled
with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
"Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well,
Jane make haste and tell us; make haste, my love." "It is from Miss
Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud. "My dear Friend,
"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we
shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole
day's te--te-a`-te--te 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. Bennett, are not they?"
"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."
"But if you have got them to day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's
purpose will be answered." She did at last extort from her father an
acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go
on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful
prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long
before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane
certainly could not come back. "This was a lucky idea of mine,
indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet, more than once, as if the credit of making it
rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all
the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant
from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth: "My dearest
Lizzy, "I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of
my returning home till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones --
therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me -- and
excepting a sore-throat and head-ache there is not much the matter with me.
"Yours, &c." "Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when
Elizabeth had read the note aloud, "if your daughter should have a
dangerous fit of illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that
it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders." "Oh! I
am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds.
She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very
well. I would go and see her, if I could have the carriage." Elizabeth,
feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not
to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking was her only alternative. She
declared her resolution. "How can you be so silly," cried her mother,
"as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be
seen when you get there." "I shall be very fit to see Jane -- which
is all I want." "Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father,
"to send for the horses?" "No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid
the walk. The distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I
shall be back by dinner." "I admire the activity of your
benevolence," observed Mary, "but every impulse of feeling should be
guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion
to what is required." "We will go as far as Meryton with you,"
said Catherine and Lydia. -- Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three
young ladies set off together. "If we make haste," said Lydia, as
they walked along, "perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before
he goes." In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the
lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone,
crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of
the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the
warmth of exercise. She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but
Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
-- That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty
weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was
received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother's manners there
was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. --
Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was
divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her
complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone.
The latter was thinking only of his breakfast. Her enquiries after her sister
were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up,
was very feverish and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to
be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear
of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she
longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could
attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness
she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her. When breakfast was over,
they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when
she saw how much affection and solicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary
came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had
caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was
followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached
acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other
ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact nothing to do
elsewhere. When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go; and
very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern in
parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the
chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth
most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to
acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.
At five o'clock the two
ladies retired to dress, and at half past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner.
To the civil enquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the
pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she
could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The
sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were
grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they
disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and
their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike. Their brother, indeed,
was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His
anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and
they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was
considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss
Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whomElizabeth 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 stile, no taste, no beauty. Mrs.
Hurst thought the same, and added, "She has nothing, in short, to
recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her
appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild." "She did
indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at
all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a
cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!" "Yes, and her petticoat; I hope
you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the
gown which had been let down to hide it, not doing its office." "Your
picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was all
lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well, when she
came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my
notice." "You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss
Bingley; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see
yoursister make such an exhibition." "Certainly not." "To
walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her
ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to
me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town
indifference to decorum." "It shews 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 attorney in Meryton." "Yes; and
they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside." "That is
capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. "If they
had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would
not make them one jot less agreeable." "But it must very materially
lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,"
replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it
their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however,
they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till
summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her
at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her
asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should
go down stairs 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 any thing else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such
censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am not a great reader, and I have
pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have
pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by
seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then
walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to
fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection
were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and
though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth
assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.
"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should
have left so small a collection of books. -- What a delightful library you have
at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied,
"it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have
added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot
comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."
"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as
delightful as Pemberley." "I wish it may." "But I would
really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley
for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than
Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy
will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles."
"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley
by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what
passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it
wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr.
Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much
grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I
am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's
height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met
with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so
extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is
exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young
ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are."
"All young ladies accomplished! My dearCharles, what do you mean?"
"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net
purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard
a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was
very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of
accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is
applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse,
or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your
estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a
dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really
accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.
"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in
your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great
deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant,
"no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass
what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music,
singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and
besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will
be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy,
"and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement
of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your
knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing
any." "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the
possibility of all this?" "I never saw such a woman. I never saw such
capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe,
united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice
of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter
complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation
was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza
Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one
of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by
undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my
opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly,"
replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is
meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for
captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss
Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she
could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately;
while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service,
recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This,
she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their
brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early
in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite
uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced
their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no
better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that
every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
Elizabeth passed the
chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of
being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early
received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two
elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of his amendment, however,
she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit
Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately
dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied
by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very
miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming,
she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health
would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to
her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who
arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little
while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and
three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them
with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
"Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too
ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must
trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried
Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear
of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss
Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every
possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in
her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for
such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill
indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the
world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the
sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing
to her. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over
that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to
Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you
have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"
replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I
should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself
as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of
you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?"
cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes -- I understand you
perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so
easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens.
It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less
estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother,
"remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are
suffered to do at home." "I did not know before," continued Bingley
immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing
study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing. They
have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy,
"can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country
neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society."
"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet,
offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure
you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town."
Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned
silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over
him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great
advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The
country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I
am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I
am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I
can be equally happy in either." "Aye -- that is because you have the
right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to
think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are
mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite
mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people
to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be
true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not
meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families."
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance.
His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a
very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might
turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at
Longbourn since her coming away. "Yes, she called yesterday with her
father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley -- is not he? so much
the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy! -- He has always something to say
to every body. -- That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy
themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the
matter." "Did Charlotte dine with you?" "No, she would go
home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I
always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up
differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are
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 any body better
looking. It is what every body 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. Every thing nourishes what is strong already. But
if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good
sonnet will starve it entirely away." Darcy only smiled; and the general
pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing
herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and
after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for
his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr.
Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to
be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon
afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her
daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other
during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax
Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a
ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal
spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the
officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended
her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal therefore to address Mr.
Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise;
adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not
keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.
"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your
sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of the ball. But
you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself
satisfied. "Oh! yes -- it would be much better to wait till Jane was well,
and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when
you have given your ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving
one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does
not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks
of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be
prevailed on to join in their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's
witticisms on fineeyes.
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 hand-writing,
or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the
perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious
dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How
delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer.
"You write uncommonly fast." "You are mistaken. I write rather
slowly." "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the
course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think
them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to
yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I
have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do
not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."
"Thank you -- but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive
to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to
hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in
raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it
infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to
defer your raptures till I write again? -- At present I have not room to do
them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in
January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr.
Darcy?" "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is
not for me to determine." "It is a rule with me, that a person who
can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not
do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother --
"because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of
four syllables. -- Do not you, Darcy?" "My stile of writing is very
different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles
writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and
blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to
express them -- by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to
my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said
Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more
deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often
only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And
which of the two do you call my little recent piece of modesty?" "The
indirect boast; -- for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because
you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of
execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The
power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor,
and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When
you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting
Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself -- and yet what is there so very laudable
in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of
no real advantage to yourself or any one else?" "Nay," cried
Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things
that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said
to myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I
did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before
the ladies." "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means
convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite
as dependant 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 shewn him off now much more than he did
himself." "I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by
your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my
temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no
means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could." "Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original
intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?" "Upon
my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for
himself." "You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to
call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to
stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that
the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of
his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in
favour of its propriety." "To yield readily -- easily -- to the
persuasion of a friend is no merit with you." "To yield without
conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either." "You
appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and
affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a
request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly
speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well
wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion
of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend
and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of
no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with
the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?" "Will it not be
advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more
precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as
well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?" "By
all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in
the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy
were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay
him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more aweful object than
Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house
especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do." Mr. Darcy
smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended;
and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he
had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.
"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. -- "You dislike
an argument, and want to silence this." "Perhaps I do. Arguments are
too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out
of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like
of me." "What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on
my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter." Mr. Darcy took
her advice, and did finish his letter. When that business was over, he applied
to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley
moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that
Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly
negatived, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they
were thus employed Elizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some
music books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were
fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he
disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however at last,
that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and
reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person
present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for
his approbation. After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the
charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her -- "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss
Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?" She smiled, but
made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.
"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say
""Yes,"" that you might have the pleasure of despising my
taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating
a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all -- and now despise me if you
dare." "Indeed I do not dare." Elizabeth, having rather expected
to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of
sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront
anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her.
He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous;
and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some
assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to
provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage,
and planning his happiness in such an alliance. "I hope," said she,
as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will
give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as
to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the
younger girls of running after the officers. -- And, if I may mention so
delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on
conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses." "Have you any
thing 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 eye-lashes, 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, "in running
away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the
disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path
just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said, --
"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with
them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are. -- You are
charmingly group'd, 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.
When the ladies removed
after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from
cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two
friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so
agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen
appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe
an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at
their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no
longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned 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 to 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 assured him that no one intended to
play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her.
Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and
Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings,
joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss
Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress
through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making
some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any
conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite
exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only
chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said,
"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 any thing than
of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw
aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest 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 chuses, before it begins -- but as for the ball, it is quite a
settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send
round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she
replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is
something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would
surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order
of the day." "Much more rational, my dearCaroline, I dare say 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 feeling she resolved on one effort more;
and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you
to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. -- I assure you it is
very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was
surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the
real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the
novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and
unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but
he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their
chusing 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 any thing, 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 chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's
confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious
that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; -- if the first,
I should be completely in your way; -- and if the second, I can admire you much
better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking?" cried Miss
Bingley. "I never heard 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. Teaze 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. Teaze 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, 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 the best of men,
nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a
person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly,"
replied Elizabeth -- "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of
them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims
and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. --
But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps
that is not possible for 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 understanding. My temper I dare not
vouch for. -- It is I believe too little yielding -- certainly too little for
the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others
so soon as I ought, nor their 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." "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 every body." "And yours," he replied with a
smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a
little music," -- cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she
had no share. -- "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her
sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano forte was opened, and
Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel
the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
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 Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring
herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not
propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get
home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his
sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. -- Against
staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved -- nor did she much
expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as
intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's
carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design
of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of
wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the
morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had
proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded
her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow
that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that
it would not be safe for her -- that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was
firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome
intelligence -- Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted
him more than he liked -- and Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teazing
than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
sign of admiration should now escape him, nothing that could elevate her with
the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in
confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words
to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by
themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and
would not even look at her. On Sunday, after morning service, the separation,
so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth
increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when
they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her
to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly,
she even shook hands with the former. -- Elizabeth took leave of the whole
party in the liveliest 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 admire, and some new observations of thread-bare
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.
"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 dropt 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." 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 whichMrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she
continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from
a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything
about. "It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet,
"and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by
his manner of expressing himself." "No, that I am sure I shall not;
and I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very
hypocritical. 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, nearWesterham, Kent, 15thOctober. 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 ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished
by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir
Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable
rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself
with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those
rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a
clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of
peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I
flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly commendable,
and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate,
will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered
olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of
injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as
to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends, -- but of
this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house,
I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday,
November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality
till the Saturday se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience,
as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday,
provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I
remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your
well-wisher and friend, WILLIAM COLLINS." "At four o'clock,
therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as
he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite
young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially
if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again."
"There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he is
disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage
him." "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in
what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is
certainly to his credit." Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his
extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of
christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.
"He must be an oddity, I think," said she, "I cannot make him
out. -- There is something very pompous in his stile. -- And what can he mean
by apologizing 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 impatient 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 were in any degree interesting. It was
next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was
now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in
any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much
of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure,
which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his
time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet
indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins
seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He
was a tall, heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before
he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he
had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen
short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due
time 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 every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but for the
mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The
dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of
his fair cousins, the 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 apologise for about a
quarter of an hour.
During dinner, Mr.
Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought
it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a
subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very
fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes,
and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could
not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject
elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important
aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a
person of rank -- such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced
from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the
discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She
had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the
Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady
Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had never seen any
thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any
other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the
society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a
week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid
him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the
alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some
herself, -- some shelves in the closets up stairs." "That is all very
proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she
is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not
more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which
stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her
ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has
she any family?" "She has 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 constitution, 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
consequence, would be adorned by her. -- These are the kind of little things
which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive
myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said
Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of
flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed
from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"
"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes
amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as
may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied
an air as possible." Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His
cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest
enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of
countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no
partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr.
Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was
over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily
assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing 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, mama, 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 interested by books of
a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I
confess; -- for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as
instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning
to Mr. Bennet he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet
accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the
girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters
apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should
not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring
them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her
behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and
prepared for backgammon.
Mr. Collins was not a
sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by
education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the
guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of
the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it
any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up,
had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal
counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the
consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance
had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was
vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for
her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his
authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a
mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a
good house and 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
chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they
were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends -- of atonement
-- for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one,
full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and
disinterested on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them. -- Miss
Bennet's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest
notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening she was his
settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter
of an hour's te--te-a`-te--te with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation
beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his
hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her,
amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the
very Jane he had fixed on. -- "As to her younger daughters she could not take
upon her to say -- she could not positively answer -- but she did not know of
any prepossession; -- her eldest daughter, she must just mention -- she felt it
incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged." Mr. Collins
had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth -- and it was soon done -- done while
Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and
beauty, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted
that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not
bear to speak of the day before, was now high in her good graces. Lydia's
intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary
agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of
Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to
himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast, and there he
would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the
collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his
house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly.
In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though
prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other
room 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 in
the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet
indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recal them. But the
attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never
seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with 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 part of
beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The
introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation
-- a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole
party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound
of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the
street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came
directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the
principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he
said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy
corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger,
and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each
other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his
hat -- a salutation whichMr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the
meaning of it? -- It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long
to know. In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed
what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham
walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. 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' 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
welcome, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return
home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known
nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the
street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was
claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him
with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising
for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could
not help flattering himself however might be justified by his relationship to
the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed
by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was
soon put an end to by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already know, that Mr. Denny
had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's commission
in the @@@@ shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he
walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared Kitty and Lydia
would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed the
window 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 evening. 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 prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins
repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unwearying
civility that they were perfectly needless. As they walked home, Elizabeth
related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though
Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be 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 protested that except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a
more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility,
but 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.
As no objection was
made to the young people's engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins's
scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit
were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a
suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they
entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's
invitation, and was then in the house. When this information was given, and
they had all taken their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him
and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the
apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small
summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey
much gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings was,
and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the description of only
one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone
had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and
would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room. In
describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with
occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements
it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and
he found in Mrs. 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 indifferent imitations of china on the
mantlepiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last
however. The gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him
since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the
@@@@ shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best
of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all
in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced
stuffy uncle 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
agreeable 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 commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the
fair, as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into
insignificance; 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 delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed
danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined
talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too
much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after
prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common
demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth,
and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear
she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy.
She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was
unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how
far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an
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 information on that head than myself
-- for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my
infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be
surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably
might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. -- Are you much
acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be,"
cried Elizabeth 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. Every body 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 estimated
beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The
world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and
imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I
should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered
man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the
next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country
much longer." "I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going
away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the @@@@ shire
will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no --
it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing
me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to
meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim 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 believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, 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 farther 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 knew it to be a most
respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his
account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions 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 -- I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have
been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes -- the late Mr.
Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He
was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his
kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but
when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!"
cried Elizabeth; "but how could that be? -- How could his will be
disregarded? -- Why did 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 recommendation, and to
assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in
short any thing 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 any thing 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 recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different
sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking! -- He
deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he will be --
but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or
expose him." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after
a pause, "can have been his motive? -- what can have induced him to behave
so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me -- a dislike which
I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy
liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's
uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had
not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood -- the sort of
preference which was often given me." "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so
bad as this -- though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of
him -- I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but
did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice,
such inhumanity as this!" After a few minutes reflection, however, she
continued, "I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability
of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must
be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied
Wickham, "I can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in
thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the
godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!" -- She could have added,
"A young man too, like you, whose very countenance may vouch for your
being amiable? -- but she contented herself with "And one, too, who had probably
been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said,
in the closest manner!" "We were born in the same parish, within the
same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the
same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My
father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to
do so much credit to -- but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr.
Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was
most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr.
Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my
father's active superintendance, 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 should not have been too proud to be
dishonest, -- for dishonesty I must call it." "It is wonderful,"
-- replied Wickham, -- "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;
-- and pride 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 degenerate from the popular qualities,
or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also
brotherly pride, which with some brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the
most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of 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." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know
whatMr. Darcy is." "Probably not; -- but Mr. Darcy can please where
he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he
thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in
consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous.
His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable, -- allowing something for
fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the
players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station
between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. 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 regarding little
matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr.
Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her
relation 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." "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
misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied
Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember
that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She
has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather
believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses
that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first
class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it,
and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an
end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's
attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's
supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said,
was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with
her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of
what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to
mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once
silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost
and the fish she had won, 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 supper, and repeatedly fearing that he
crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the
carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
Elizabeth related to
Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane
listened with astonishment and concern; -- she knew not how to believe that Mr.
Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her
nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as
Wickham. -- The possibility of his having 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 dare
say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have
perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without
actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed; -- and now, my
dearJane, 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 chuse, but
you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in
what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's
favourite in such a manner, -- one, whom his father had promised to provide
for. -- It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value
for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe
Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a
history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing
mentioned without ceremony. -- If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it.
Besides, there was truth in his looks." "It is difficult indeed -- it
is distressing. -- One does not know what to think." "I beg your
pardon; -- one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with
certainty on only one point, -- that Mr. Bingley, if he hadbeen 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 agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to
consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly
flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of
her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought
with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a
confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness
anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any
particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half
the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could
satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure
her family that she had no disinclination for it. "While I can have my mornings
to myself," said she, "it is enough. -- I think it no sacrifice to
join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I
profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement
as desirable for every body." 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 soliciting yours, Miss
Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, -- a preference which I trust
my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for
her." Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed
being engaged by 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 per force 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 Hunsford Parsonage, and of
assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible
visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on
her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself, by
this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to
understand that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly agreeable to
her. Elizabeth however did not chuse to take the hint, being well aware that a
serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never
make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. If there
had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss
Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time, for from the day of
the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as
prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be
sought after; -- the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even
Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather, which totally
suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing
less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday
and Monday, endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
Till Elizabeth entered
the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the
cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never
occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of
those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had
dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the
conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not
more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in
the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the
case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny,
to whomLydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged
to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding,
with a significant smile, "I do not imagine his business would have called
him away just now, if he had not 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 disappointment, that she could
hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly
afterwards approached 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 provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her
own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and
having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a
week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her
cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The 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 exstacy. She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment
of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those
dances were over she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so
much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what
she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left
to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to console her.
"I dare say you will find him very agreeable." "Heaven forbid!
-- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! -- To find a man agreeable
whom one is determined to hate! -- Do not wish me such an evil." When the
dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte
could not help cautioning her in a whisper not to be a simpleton and allow her
fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man 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 imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,
and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some
slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a
pause of some minutes she addressed him a second time with "It is your
turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- I talked about the dance, and you
ought to make some 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 reply will do for the present. --
Perhaps by and bye I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than
public ones. -- But now we may be silent." "Do you talk by rule then,
while you are dancing?" "Sometimes. One must speak a little, you
know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and
yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that
they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible." "Are you
consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you
are gratifying mine?" "Both," replied Elizabeth archly;
"for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. -- We
are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we
expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the eclat of a proverb." "This is no very striking
resemblance of your own character, I am sure," said he. "How near it
may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. -- You think it a faithful portrait
undoubtedly." "I must not decide on my own performance." He made
no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when
he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She
answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added,
"When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new
acquaintance." The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread
his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for
her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained
manner said, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure
his making friends -- whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is
less certain." "He has been so unlucky as to lose your
friendship," replied Elizabeth with emphasis, "and in a manner which
he is likely to suffer from all his life." Darcy made no answer, and
seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment Sir William Lucas
appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of
the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy he stopt with a bow of superior courtesy
to compliment him on his dancing and his partner. "I have been most highly
gratified indeed, my dear Sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It
is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that
your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this
pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dearMiss
Eliza, (glancing at her sister and Bingley,) shall take place. what
congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy: -- but let me not
interrupt you, Sir. -- You will not thank me for detaining you from the
bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding
me." The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes
were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were
dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his
partner, and said, "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we
were talking of." "I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir
William could not have interrupted 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." "I am sorry
you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of
subject. -- We may compare our different opinions." "No -- I cannot
talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else."
"The present always occupies you in such scenes -- does it?" said he,
with a look of doubt. "Yes, always," she replied, without knowing
what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, "I remember hearing you
once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once
created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its
beingcreated." "I am," said he, with a firm voice. "And
never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?" "I hope not."
"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to
be secure of judging properly at first." "May I ask to what these
questions tend?" "Merely to the illustration of your character,"
said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. "I am trying to make it
out." "And what is your success?" She shook her head. "I do
not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me
exceedingly." "I can readily believe," answered he gravely,
"that report may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss
Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as
there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on
either." "But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have
another opportunity." "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of
yours," he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other
dance and parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal
degree, for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards
her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another. They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and
with an expression of civil disdain 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 communications, 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 ignorance 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 occurrences of the
evening. -- Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment
solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and every thing else
gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than
her sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you
have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
you may be sure of my pardon." "No," replied Jane, "I have
not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley
does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances
which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good
conduct, the probity and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say 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 Elizabeth 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 dare say, but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story,
and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to
think of both gentlemen as I did before." She then changed the discourse
to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of
sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes
whichJane 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 partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them
and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make
a most important discovery. "I have found out," said he, "by a
singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my
patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young
lady who does the honours of 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 intreat his
pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine's
nephew. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well
yesterday se'nnight." Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a
scheme; assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without
introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt;
that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. -- Mr. Collins listened to her with the
determined air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased speaking,
replied thus, "My dearMiss 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 behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must
therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion,
which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for
neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my
constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like
yourself." And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose
reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being
so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn
bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all,
and saw in the motion of his lips the words "apology",
"Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh." -- It vexed her
to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with
unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak,
replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged
from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with
the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight
bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth. "I
have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied with my
reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me
with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying, that he
was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain she
could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought.
Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him." As Elizabeth had no longer
any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on
her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the train of agreeable reflections which her
observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw
her in idea settled in that very house in all the felicity which a marriage of
true affection could bestow; and she felt capable under such circumstances, of
endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts she
plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her,
lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she
considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each
other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one
person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but 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-gratulation; and then it was
such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be
certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was,
moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marrying
so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so
pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the
care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more
than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of
pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less
likely than Mrs. Bennet to find comfort in staying 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 recommend yourself to his friend by so doing." Nothing that
she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views
in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame
and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy,
though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not
always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was
invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from
indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity. At length however Mrs.
Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the
repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the
comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long
was the interval of tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked
of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, -- but
in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was
delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her
with most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through the several
stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for
Mary, on receiving amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she
might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute
began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her
voice was weak, and her manner affected. -- Elizabeth was in agonies. She
looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision
at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however 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 disconcerted; and Elizabeth sorry for her,
and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good. --
Others of the party were now applied to. "If I," said Mr. Collins,
"were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I
am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very
innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
clergyman. -- I do not mean however to assert that we can be justified in
devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to
be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. -- In the first place,
he must make such an agreement for tythes as may be beneficial to himself and
not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that
remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and
improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as
comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he
should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every body, especially
towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;
nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his
respect towards any body connected with the family." And with a bow to Mr.
Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by
half the room. -- Many stared. -- Many smiled; but no one looked more amused
than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for
having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that
he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man. To Elizabeth it appeared,
that had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could
during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts
with more spirit, or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and
her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must
have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such
an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and she could not
determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles
of the ladies, were more intolerable. The rest of the evening brought her
little amusement. She was teazed 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 others. In vain did she
entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any
young lady in the room. He assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly
indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to
recommend himself to her, and that he should therefore make a point of
remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a
project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often
joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther 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 mano euvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait
for their carriages a quarter of an hour after every body else was gone, which
gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of
fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They
repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing, threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long
speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the
elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had
marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,
in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing
together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other.
Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley;
and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional
exclamation of "Lord, how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil
in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and addressed herself
particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them, by eating
a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal
invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for
taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from
London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time. Mrs. Bennet
was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion
that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages and
wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at
Netherfield, in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter
married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with
considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her
of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough
for her, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
The next day opened a
new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Having
resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only
to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it
distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly
manner, with all the observances which he supposed a regular part of the
business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls
together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,
"May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of
this morning?" Before Elizabeth had time for any thing 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 up stairs." 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 any body 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 employment the feelings which were divided between distress and
diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone Mr.
Collins began. "Believe me, my dearMiss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far
from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would
have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness;
but allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for
this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your
natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked
to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the
companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on
this subject, perhaps it 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
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on
this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford -- between
our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's
foot-stool, that she said, ""Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman
like you must marry. -- Chuse properly, chuse 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
any thing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be acceptable
to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank
will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of
matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed to Longbourn
instead of my own neighbourhood, 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, however, may live many years longer,)
I could not satisfy myself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his
daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the
melancholy event takes place -- which, however, as I have already said, may not
be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter
myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but
to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To
fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on
your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that
one thousand pounds in the 4 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 youself 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
farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I
am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me
to do otherwise than 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 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
this subject I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now
given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first
application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as
would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character."
"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you
puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the
form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
may convince you of its being one." "You must give me leave to
flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely
words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: -- It does not
appear to me that my hand is unworthy 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 farther 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 chuse 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 pretension whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in
tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being
believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me
in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in
every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an
elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the
truth from her heart." "You are uniformly charming!" cried he,
with an air of awkward gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned
by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not
fail of being acceptable." To such perseverance in wilful self-deception
Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;
determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such
a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be
mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
Mr. Collins was not
left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet,
having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference,
no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the
staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and
herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr.
Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of
which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which
his cousin had stedfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful
modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. This information, however,
startled Mrs. Bennet; -- she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that
her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals,
but she dared not 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 myself directly. She is a very headstrong
foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will make her know
it." "Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins;
"but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally
looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists
in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting
me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much
to my felicity." "Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs.
Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In
every thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go
directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am
sure." She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are
wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry
Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste
he will change his mind and not have her." Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from
his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which
was not in the least altered by her communication. "I have not the
pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech.
"Of what are you talking?" "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy
declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he
will not have Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion? -- It
seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell
her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down.
She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth
was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as
she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I
understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it
true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well -- and this offer of
marriage you have refused?" "I have, Sir." "Very well. We
now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it
soMrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An
unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a
stranger to one of your parents. -- Your mother will never see you again if you
do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but
Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as
she wished, was excessively disappointed. "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet,
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 comprehend 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 dearMiss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone, "for
nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody
feels for my poor nerves." Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of
Jane and Elizabeth. "Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet,
"looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we
were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell you whatMiss
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 any body.
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 sooth 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 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 conversation together." Elizabeth
passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her
ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the
civility of Mr. Collins, whose 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 conversation. -- "Oh! Mr. Collins!" -- "My
dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me," he presently continued in a voice that marked his
displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to
inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who
has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am
resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness
had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that
resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose
somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as
shewing any disrespect to your family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my
pretensions to your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr.
Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my
behalf. My conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission
from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error.
I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to
secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the
advantage of all your family, and if my manner has been at all reprehensible, I
here beg leave to apologise."
The discussion of Mr.
Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from
the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some
peevish 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 every
body was well talked over. -- To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily
acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self imposed. "I
found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet
Mr. Darcy; -- that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many
hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise
unpleasant to more than myself." She highly approved his forbearance, and
they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation
which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer
walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly
attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of
introducing him to her father and mother. Soon after their return, a letter was
delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, 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 passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter
away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation;
but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even
from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance
from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own
room, Jane taking out the letter, said, "This is from Caroline Bingley;
what it contains, has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left
Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any
intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says." She then
read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having
just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to
dine 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 the delightful intercourse we have
known, and in the mean while may lessen the pain of separation 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. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of
their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it, in the
enjoyment of his. "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause,
"that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the
country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to whichMiss
Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the
delightful intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet
greater satisfaction as sisters? -- Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London
by them." "Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return
into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you -- "When my brother
left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London,
might be concluded in three or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be
so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be
in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither,
that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel.
Many of my 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 croud, 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 willread 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 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 dearLizzy?" -- said
Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough? -- Does it not expressly
declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she
is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects
the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my
guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there
can; for mine is totally different. -- Will you hear it?" "Most
willingly." "You shall have it in 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 intermarriage, she may
have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some
ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the
way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss
Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of your merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday,
or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love
with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought
alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all
this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline
is incapable of wilfully deceiving 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 disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of
being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can
you talk so?" -- said Jane faintly smiling, -- "You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not
hesitate." "I did not think you would; -- and that being the case, I
cannot consider your situation with much compassion." "But if he
returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand
things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more
Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the
suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment
suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a
young man so totally independent of 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 affection sometimes overcame
the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her
heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even
this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed
it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as
they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some
length, she had the consolation 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.
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 appearances
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
encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him
from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to
meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so
much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins's
long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the
satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her
to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a
solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to
trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature,
must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and
disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment
were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their
consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they
could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly
fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more interest than the matter
had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live;
and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins
should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient
that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The
whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger
girls formed hopes of comingout 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 uncertain of giving
happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative
she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in
the business, was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose
friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken,
her feelings must be hurt by such disapprobation. She resolved to give her the
information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to
Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family.
A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be
kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst
forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity
to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was
longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too
early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was
performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great
politeness and cordiality said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn
again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. "My
dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying,
because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain
that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible." They were all
astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return,
immediately said, "But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's
disapprobation here, my good sir? -- You had better neglect your relations,
than run the risk of offending your patroness." "My dear sir,"
replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly
caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her
ladyship's concurrence." "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk
any thing 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 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 her's, 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
encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to
overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,
"Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dearCharlotte, -- impossible!" The steady
countenance whichMiss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a
momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was
no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied,
"Why should you be surprised, my dearEliza? -- 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
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 unsuitable a match. The
strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage within three days,
was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that
Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she 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.
Elizabeth was sitting
with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting
whether she were authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself
appeared, sent by his daughter to announce her engagement to the family. With
many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a
connection between the two houses, he unfolded the matter, -- to an audience
not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance
than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always
unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed, "Good Lord! Sir
William, how can you tell such a story? -- Do not you know that Mr. Collins
wants to marry Lizzy?" Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier
could have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding
carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most
forbearing courtesy. Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from
so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to
put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters, by the earnestness of
her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane,
and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from
the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance
of Hunsford from London. Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a
great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her
feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been
taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and
fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were
plainly deduced from the whole; one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of 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 discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used
to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than
his daughter! Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she
said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia
were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it
affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs.
Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at
Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs.
Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive
happiness away. Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which
kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no
real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in
Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude
and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose
happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week, and
nothing was heard of his return. Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her
letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.
The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his
conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous
expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable
neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of
enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of
seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday
fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage,
that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be
an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for
making him the happiest of men. Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no
longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary she was as much
disposed to complain of it as her husband. -- It was very strange that he
should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very
inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. -- She hated having visitors in the
house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave
way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence. Neither
Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away
without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly
prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a
report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to
contradict as a most scandalous falsehood. Even Elizabeth began to fear -- not
that Bingley was indifferent -- but that his sisters would be successful in
keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of
Jane's happiness, and so dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could
not prevent its frequently 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 suspence was,
of course, more painful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was
desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the
subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an
hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience
for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back,
she 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 fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not
quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy,
however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of
love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every
day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn
only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any thing
concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and wherever she
went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious
to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous
abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them she concluded her to be
anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to
Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and
resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr.
Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that
Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced
to make way for her, and live to see her take my place in it!" "My
dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things.
Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor." This was not very
consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of making any answer, she
went on as before, "I cannot bear to think that they should have all this
estate. If it was not for the entail I should not mind it." "What
should not you mind?" "I should not mind any thing at all."
"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility." "I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing
about the entail. How any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate
from one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr.
Collins too! -- Why should he have it more than anybody else?" "I
leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.
Miss Bingley's letter
arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the
assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded
with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his
friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Hope was over, entirely
over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little,
except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort.
Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again
dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and
ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in
her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures, some plans of the
latter with regard to new furniture. Elizabeth, to whomJane 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 the
others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy
she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than
she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of
temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave of his
designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of
their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he
might have been allowed to sport with it in what ever manner he thought best;
but her sister's was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible
himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long
indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else, and yet
whether Bingley's regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his
friends' interference; whether he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether
it had escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of
him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation
remained the same, her peace equally wounded. A day or two passed before Jane
had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's
leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield
and its master, she could not help saying, "Oh! that my dear mother had
more command over herself; she can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her
continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He
will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before." Elizabeth looked
at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing. "You doubt me,"
cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed you have no reason. He may live in
my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have
nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I
have not that pain. A little time therefore. -- I shall certainly try to get
the better." With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this
comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my
side, and that it has done no harm to any one but myself." "My
dearJane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness and
disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel
as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve." Miss
Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on
her sister's warm affection. "Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not
fair. You wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill
of any body. I only want to think you perfect, and you set yourself against it.
Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people whom I
really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world,
the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the
inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be
placed on the appearance of either merit or sense. I have met with two
instances lately; one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte's marriage. It
is unaccountable! in every view it is unaccountable!" "My dearLizzy,
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 every body's sake, that she may
feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin." "To oblige
you, I would try to believe almost any thing 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 dearJane, 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 yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger, security for happiness." "I must think your language too
strong in speaking of both," replied Jane, "and I hope you will be
convinced of it, by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded
to something else. You mentioned two instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but
I intreat you, dearLizzy, not to pain me by thinking thatperson 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. Woman fancy admiration means more than it does." "And
men take care that they should." "If it is designedly done, they
cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the
world as some persons imagine." "I am far from attributing any part
of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design," said Elizabeth; "but without
scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there
may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people's feelings,
and want of resolution, will do the business." "And do you impute it
to either of those?' "Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease
you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."
"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him."
"Yes, in conjunction with his friend." "I cannot believe it. Why
should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness, and if he
is attached to me, no other woman can secure it." "Your first
position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may
wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl
who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride."
"Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to chuse 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."
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's name
was scarcely ever mentioned between them. Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder
and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in
whichElizabeth 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
companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone
by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at Meryton to disappoint
all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant
fellow, and would jilt you creditably." "Thank you, Sir, but a less
agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane's good
fortune." "True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to
think that, whatever of that kind may befal you, you have an affectionate
mother who will always make the most of it." Mr. Wickham's society was of
material service in dispelling the gloom, which the late perverse occurrences
had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his
other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of
what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had
suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and
every body was pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy
before they had known any thing of the matter. Miss Bennet was the only
creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the
case, unknown to the 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.
After a week spent in
professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his
amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however,
might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his
bride, as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his next return into
Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men.
He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before;
wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father
another letter of thanks. On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure
of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior
to his sister as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have
had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of
his own warehouses, could have been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner,
who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an
amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her
Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there
subsisted a very particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her
in town. The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done,
she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet
had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very
ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been 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! 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 so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so
in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody
else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I
am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves." Mrs. Gardiner, to
whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and
Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and in
compassion to her nieces turned the conversation. When alone with Elizabeth
afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It seems likely to have been a
desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am sorry it went off. But
these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so
easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident
separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of 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 from an half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong
attachment. Pray, how violentwas Mr. Bingley's love?" "I never saw a
more promising inclination. He was growing quite inattentive to other people,
and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and
remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not
asking them to dance, and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an
answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very
essence of love?" "Oh, yes! -- of that kind of love which I suppose him
to have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she
may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzy; you
would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be
prevailed 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 regard to this young man will influence her. We live in
so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you
well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable 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 the sister? She
will not be able to help calling." "She will drop the acquaintance
entirely." But in spite of the certainty in whichElizabeth affected to
place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced
her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was
possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be re-animated,
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 time,
than as she hoped that, 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 staid 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, rendered 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 preference of each other was plain enough to make her
a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before
she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
an attachment. To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her
marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire, to
which he belonged. They had, therefore, many 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 whichWickham 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.
Mrs. Gardiner's caution
to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable
opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she
thought, she thus went on: "You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in
love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid
of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not
involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of
fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against him; he is
a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I
should think you could not do better. But as it is -- you must not let your
fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your
father would depend on your resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must
not disappoint your father." "My dear aunt, this is being serious
indeed." "Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."
"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself,
and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent
it." "Elizabeth, you are not serious now." "I beg your
pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I
certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I
ever saw -- and if he becomes really attached to me -- I believe it will be
better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. -- Oh! that abominable
Mr. Darcy! -- My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honor; and I
should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr.
Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of
making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is
affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from
entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than
so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that
it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to
be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object.
When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my
best." "Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here
so very often. At least, you should not remind your Mother of inviting
him." "As I did the other day," said Elizabeth, with a conscious
smile; "very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from that. But do not
imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity
of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try
to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied." Her
aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for the
kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given
on such a point, without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into
Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as
he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience
to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so
far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an
ill-natured tone that she "wished they might be happy." Thursday was
to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and
when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of
the room. As they went down stairs 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." "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 every body
had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard
from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had
ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could
never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake
of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received
with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she
would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy
she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read,
Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she
might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and
mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture,
neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour
was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her
own visit there, to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her
sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again,
Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. Her
impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally
is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from
Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to
her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been lost. "My aunt,"
she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall
take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street." She wrote again when
the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. "I did not think
Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very glad to see
me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was
right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their
brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they
scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I
could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going
out. I dare say I shall 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 inattention. After waiting at home
every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for
her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet
more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will prove
what she felt. "My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of
triumphing in her better 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 mean time. When she did come,
it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal,
apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again,
and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away, I was
perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I
cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I
can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity
her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am
very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need not explain
myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if
she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly
dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she 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 should 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. "Your's, &c." 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 sunk on every review of it; and as a
punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously
hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as, by Wickham's account,
she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardiner
about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman,
and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give
contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,
his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was
watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without
material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that she would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted
it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm
of the young lady, to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but
Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in his 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
interesting 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."
With no greater events
than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond
the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and
February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at
first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found,
was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself
with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her
desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins.
There was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not
unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane;
and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any
delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled
according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his
second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in
time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be. The only pain was in
leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the
point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost
promised to answer her letter. The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was
perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make
him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his
attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his
manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what
she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of
her -- their opinion of every body -- would always coincide, there was a
solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most
sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that whether married or
single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her
fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think him less
agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good humoured girl, but
as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and
were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise.
Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could
tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his
civilities were worn out like his information. It was a journey of only
twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch-street by
noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window
watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome
them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful
and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose
eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the
drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth,
prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most
pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of
the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject
was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits,
there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope, that they
would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss
Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and repeated conversations occurring at
different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had,
from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece
on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. "But,
my dearElizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary." "Pray, my dear aunt,
what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the
prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas
you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now,
because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to
find out that he is mercenary." "If you will only tell me what sort
of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think." "She is a very
good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her." "But he paid
her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's death made her mistress
of this fortune." "No -- why should he? If it was 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 which other people
may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we?" "Her not
objecting, does not justify him. It only shews her being deficient in something
herself -- sense or feeling." "Well," cried Elizabeth,
"have it as you choose. He shall be mercenary, and she shall be
foolish." "No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be
sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in
Derbyshire." "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young
men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in
Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am
going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who
has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all." "Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours
strongly of disappointment." Before they were separated by the conclusion
of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her
uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
"We have not 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 one accurate idea of any thing. 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."
Every object in the
next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were
in a state for enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to
banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a
constant source of delight. When they left the high road for the lane to
Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected
to bring it in view. The 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, every
thing declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the
door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a short gravel walk
to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they
were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins
welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and
more satisfied with coming, when she found herself so affectionately received.
She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes
at the gate to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were
then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance,
taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them
a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually
repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see
him in his glory; and she could not help fancying that in displaying the good
proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself
particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in
refusing him. But though every thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not
able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at
her friend that she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. When
Mr. Collins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which
certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once
or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did
not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the
room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey and
of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll
in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
which he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with
whichCharlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she
encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and
cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he
asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty
entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell
how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which
his garden, or which the country, or the kingdom could boast, none were to be
compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that
bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
modern building, well situated on rising ground. From his garden, Mr. Collins
would have led them round his two meadows, but the ladies not having shoes to
encounter the remains of the 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 shewing it without her
husband's help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and every
thing was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of
whichElizabeth 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
enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten. She had already
learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again
while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed, "Yes,
Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on
the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with
her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be
honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely
any hesitation in saying 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
dearCharlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never
allowed to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
should say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several." "Lady
Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added Charlotte,
"and a most attentive neighbour." "Very true, my dear, that is
exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too
much deference." The evening was spent chiefly in talking over
Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had 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 vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the
gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled
it all. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for the walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
confusion; and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up stairs
in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door, and met
Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out,
"Oh, my dearEliza! 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 Elizabeth's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in
earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing
whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that way. At length there was nothing more to be
said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins
no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good
fortune, whichCharlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was
asked to dine at Rosings the next day.
Mr. Collins's triumph
in consequence of this invitation was complete. The power of displaying the
grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see
her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;
and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was such an
instance of Lady Catherine's condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.
"I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all
surprised by her Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the
evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability,
that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this?
Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an
invitation moreover including the whole party) so immediately after your
arrival!" "I am the less surprised at what has happened,"
replied Sir William, "from the knowledge of what the manners of the great
really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the
Court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon." Scarcely any
thing was talked of the whole day or next morning, but their visit to Rosings.
Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that
the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner might not
wholly overpower them. When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he
said to Elizabeth. "Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about
your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in
us, which becomes herself and 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 you for being simply
dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved." While they
were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to
recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept
waiting for her dinner. -- Such formidable accounts of her Ladyship, and her
manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, who had been little used to
company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings, with as much
apprehension, as her father had done to his presentation at St. James's. As the
weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the
park. -- Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to
be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins
expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration
of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing
altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis De Bourgh. When they ascended the
steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William
did not look perfectly calm. -- Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had
heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary
talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank, she
thought she could witness without trepidation. From the entrance hall, of
whichMr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and
finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an anti-chamber, to the
room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. --
Her Ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs.
Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
be her's, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies
and thanks which he would have thought necessary. In spite of having been at
St. James's, Sir William was so completely awed, by the grandeur surrounding
him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his
seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her
senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth
found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies
before her composedly. -- Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with
strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them, such as to make her
visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence;
but whatever she said, was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her
self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind; and
from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be
exactly what he 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 almost have joined in Maria's
astonishment, at her being so thin, and so small. There was neither in figure
nor face, any likeness between the ladies. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly;
her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little,
except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing
remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and
placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes. After sitting a few
minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows, to admire the view, Mr.
Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly
informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer. The
dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, and all the
articles of plate whichMr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise
foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship's
desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. -- He
carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was
commended, first by him, and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered
to echo whatever his son in law said, in a manner whichElizabeth wondered Lady
Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive
admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the
table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation.
Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
between Charlotte and Miss De Bourgh -- the former of whom was engaged in
listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner
time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss De Bourgh
ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she were indisposed.
Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but
eat and admire. When the ladies returned to the drawing room, there was little
to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so
decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have her judgment
controverted. She enquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly and
minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice, as to the management of them
all; told her how every thing ought to be regulated in so small a family as
her's, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth
found that nothing was beneath this great Lady's attention, which could furnish
her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth,
but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who
she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She
asked her at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older
or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether
they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father
kept, and what had been her mother's maiden name? -- Elizabeth felt all the
impertinence of her questions, but answered them very composedly. -- Lady
Catherine then observed, "Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins,
I think. For your sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but
otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. -- It
was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. -- Do you play and
sing, Miss Bennet?" "A little." "Oh! then -- some time or
other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably
superior to -- You shall try it some day. -- Do your sisters play and
sing?" "One of them does." "Why did not you all learn? --
You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has
not so good an income as your's. -- Do you draw?" "No, not at
all." "What, none of you?" "Not one." "That is
very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have
taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters." "My
mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London." "Has
your governess left you?" "We never had any governess." "No
governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a
governess! -- I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a
slave to your education." Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she
assured her that had not been the case. "Then, who taught you? who
attended to you? Without a governess you must have been neglected."
"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished
to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had
all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly
might." "Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent,
and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to
engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It was
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I
am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs.
Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the
other day, that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally
mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did
I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss
Pope a treasure. ""Lady Catherine,"" said she,
""you have given me a treasure."" Are any of your younger
sisters out, Miss Bennet?" "Yes, Ma'am, all." "All! --
What, all five out at once? Very odd! -- And you only the second. -- The
younger ones out before the elder are married! -- Your younger sisters must be
very young?" "Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full
young to be much in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard
upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry
early. -- The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth, as the
first. And to be kept back on such a motive! -- I think it would not be very likely
to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind." "Upon my
word," said her Ladyship, "you give your opinion very decidedly for
so young a person. -- Pray, what is your age?" "With three younger
sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth smiling, "your Ladyship can
hardly expect me to own it." Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not
receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first
creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, -- therefore you need not
conceal your age." "I am not one and twenty." When the gentlemen
had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables were placed. Lady Catherine,
Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss De
Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs.
Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely
a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs.
Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other
table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking -- stating the mistakes of the
three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in
agreeing to every thing her Ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won,
and apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much. He
was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names. When Lady Catherine and
her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broke up, the
carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately
ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine
what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were
summoned by the arrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on
Mr. Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir William's, they departed. As soon
as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin, to
give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte's
sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though
costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was
very soon obliged to take her Ladyship's praise into his own hands.
Sir William staid only
a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough to convince him of his
daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband
and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William was with
them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings to driving him out in his gig, and
shewing 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 window 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.
Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment, had they
sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the drawing room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were
indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how
often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming
to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently
stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte,
but was scarcely ever prevailed on to get out. Very few days passed in whichMr.
Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think
it necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be
other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice
of so many hours. Now and then, they were honoured with a call from her
Ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room
during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the
furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any
refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs.
Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family. Elizabeth soon
perceived that though this great lady was not in the commission of the peace
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 quarrelsome, discontented or too poor, she
sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their
complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty. The entertainment of dining
at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir
William, and there being only one card table in the evening, every such
entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were
few; as the style of living of the neighbourhood 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 enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where
she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along
the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice
sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond
the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity. In this quiet way, the first fortnight
of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding
it, was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a
circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival, that Mr.
Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were
not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish
one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be
amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were, by his
behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine;
who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms
of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already
been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at
the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the
lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of
it; and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home
with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to
pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his
uncle, Lord @@@@ and to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins
returned the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her
husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told
the girls what an honour they might expect, adding, "I may thank you,
Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to
wait upon me." Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led
the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly
the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in
Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins;
and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met her with every
appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him, without saying a
word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness
and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after
having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins,
sat for some time without speaking to any body. At length, however, his
civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the health of her
family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause, added,
"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?" She was perfectly sensible that he never had;
but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had
passed between the Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little
confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss
Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards
went away.
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 engagements at Rosings. It
was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither, for while
there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not
till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were
honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving
church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very
little of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel 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 agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at
home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well
entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and
flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr.
Darcy. His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of
curiosity; and that her ladyship after a while shared the feeling, was more
openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out, "What is that
you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you
telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is." "We are speaking of
music, Madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. "Of
music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my
share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people
in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a
better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great
proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am
confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get
on, Darcy?" Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's
proficiency. "I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,"
said Lady Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to
excel, if she does not 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 practices 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 piano forte 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 piano forte, stationed himself so as to
command a full view of the fair performer's countenance. Elizabeth saw what he
was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile,
and said, "You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state
to hear me? 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 acquaintance long enough to
know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which
in fact are not your own." Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of
herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a
very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am
particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so 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 yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him
in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball -- and at this ball, what do you
think he did? He danced only four dances! 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."
"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."
"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I
sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to
strangers." "Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said
Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a
man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to
recommend himself to strangers?" "I can answer your question,"
said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to him. It is because he will not give
himself the trouble." "I certainly have not the talent which some
people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have
never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested
in their concerns, as I often see done." "My fingers," said
Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which
I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not
produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own
fault -- because I 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
execution." Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have
employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing
you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they
were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine
approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy, "Miss
Bennet would not play at all amiss, if she practised more, and could have the
advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though
her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a delightful performer,
had her health allowed her to learn." Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how
cordially he assented to his cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at
any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his
behaviour to Miss De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he
might have been just as likely to marry her, had she been his relation. Lady
Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing with them
many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the
forbearance of civility; and at the request of the gentlemen remained at the
instrument till her Ladyship's carriage was ready to take them all home.
Elizabeth was sitting
by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane, while Mrs. Collins and Maria
were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the
door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she
thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was
putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent
questions, when the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
Mr. Darcy only, entered the room. He seemed astonished too on finding her
alone, and apologised for his intrusion, by letting her know that he had
understood all the ladies to be within. They then sat down, and when her
enquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total
silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in
this emergence recollecting when she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed, "How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield
last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr.
Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went
but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left
London." "Perfectly so -- I thank you." She found that she was
to receive no other answer -- and, after a short pause, added, "I think I
have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to
Netherfield again?" "I have never heard him say so; but it is
probable that he may spend very little of his time there in 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 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.
Any thing beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear
far." As he spoke there was a sort of smile, whichElizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield,
and she blushed as she answered, "I do not mean to say that a woman may
not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and
depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the
expence of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not
the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a
one as will allow of frequent journeys -- and I am persuaded my friend would
not call herself near her family under less than half the present
distance." Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said,
"You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You cannot
have been always at Longbourn." Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman
experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper
from the table, and, glancing over it, said, in a colder voice, "Are you
pleased with Kent?" A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued,
on either side calm and concise -- and soon put an end to by the entrance of
Charlotte and her sister, just returned from their walk. The te--te a te--te
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 any body, went away. "What can be the meaning of this!" said
Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. "My dearEliza 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 any thing 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 pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every
day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately,
sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to
them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their
society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth
was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his
evident admiration for her, of her former favourite George Wickham; and though,
in comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel
Fitzwilliam's manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind. But
why Mr. Darcy came so often to the parsonage, it was more difficult to
understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes
together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect
of necessity rather than of choice -- a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure
to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to
make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity,
proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could
not have told her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the
effect of love, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself
seriously to work to find it out. -- She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look
was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted
whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but
absence of mind. She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility
of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising
expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it
admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would vanish, if she
could suppose him to be in her power. In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she
sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison
the 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.
More than once did
Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. -- She
felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one
else was brought; and to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform
him at first, that it was a favourite haunt of hers. -- How it could occur a
second time therefore was very odd! -- Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed
like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
not merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he
actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a
great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening
much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was
asking some odd unconnected questions -- about her pleasure in being at
Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's
happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly understanding
the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would
be staying there too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant any thing, 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 re-perusing Jane's last
letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on
looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter
immediately and forcing a smile, she said, "I did not know before that you
ever walked this way." "I have been making the tour of the
Park," he replied, "as I generally do every year, and intend to close
it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?" "No, I
should have turned in a moment." And accordingly she did turn, and they
walked towards the Parsonage together. "Do you certainly leave Kent on
Saturday?" said she. "Yes -- if Darcy does not put it off again. But
I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases."
"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems more to
enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy." "He likes to
have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. "But so we
all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others,
because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son,
you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence." "In my
opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of either. Now,
seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have
you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring
any thing 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 expence
make us too dependant, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford
to marry without some attention to money." "Is this," thought
Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the idea; but,
recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is the usual
price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I
suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds." He answered her in
the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might
make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards said,
"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well for the
present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with
her." "No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage
which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss
Darcy." "Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you
make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are
sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit,
she may like to have her own way." As she spoke, she observed him looking
at her earnestly, and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she
supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she
had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied, "You
need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is
one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite
with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I
have heard you say that you know them." "I know them a little. Their
brother is a pleasant gentleman-like man -- he is a great friend of
Darcy's." "Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily -- "Mr. Darcy is
uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of
him." "Care of him! -- Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of
him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him.
But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was
the person meant. It was all conjecture." "What is it you mean?"
"It is a circumstance whichDarcy of course would not wish to be generally
known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
unpleasant thing." "You may depend upon my not mentioning it."
"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley.
What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself on having lately
saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but
without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to
be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of
that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last
summer." "Did Mr. Darcy give you 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 swelling with indignation. After watching
her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. "I am
thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your cousin's
conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?" "You
are rather disposed to call his interference officious?" "I do not
see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend's
inclination, or why, upon his own 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 conversation, talked on indifferent matters
till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as
their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she
had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than
those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men,
over whomMr. 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 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 thatJane 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 possibility of objection.
All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding excellent, her mind
improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could any thing be urged against
my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities whichMr. 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 convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the
want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly governed by this
worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his
sister. The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headach; 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.
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
whichJane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual
complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication
of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a
want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize 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 uneasiness, with an attention which it had
hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery
he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister's
sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to
end on the day after the next, and a still greater, that in less than a
fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to
the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do. She could not
think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that his cousin was to go
with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions
at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door
bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel
Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might
now come to enquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished,
and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement,
she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began
an enquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she
were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few
moments, and then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised,
but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in
an agitated manner, and thus began, "In vain have I struggled. It will not
do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how
ardently I admire and love you." Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond
expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered
sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt
for her, immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject
of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority -- of its being a
degradation -- of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to
inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he
was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her
deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a
man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was
at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by
his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however,
to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He
concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in
spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his
hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a
favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance
expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and
when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said, "In such
cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of
obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned.
It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I
would now thank you. But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion,
and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have
occasioned pain to 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 mantle-piece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with
no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and
the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for
the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At
length, 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 enquire," 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
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the
man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a
most beloved sister?" As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed
colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to
interrupt her while she continued. "I have every reason in the world to
think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted
there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not
the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure
of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind." She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was
listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of
remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. "Can
you deny that you have done it?" she repeated. With assumed tranquillity
he then replied, "I have no wish of denying that I did every thing in my
power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success.
Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself." Elizabeth disdained
the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not
escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. "But it is not merely this
affair," she continued, "on which my dislike is founded. Long before
it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded
in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this
subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you
here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon
others?" "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's
concerns," said Darcy in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened
colour. "Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling
an interest in him?" "His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy
contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."
"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have
reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for him. You
have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no
less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the
mention of his 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 estimation in which you hold me! I
thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation,
are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his walk, and
turning towards her, "these offences might have been overlooked, had not
your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long
prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have
been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and
flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed
inclination; by reason, by reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every
sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were
natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition
in life is so decidedly beneath my own?" Elizabeth felt herself growing
more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure
when she said, "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode
of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the
concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like
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
impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your
selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that
ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so
immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you
were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to
marry." "You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend
your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes
for your health and happiness." And with these words he hastily left the
room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the
house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an hour.
Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every
review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! that
he should have been in love with her for so many months! so much in love as to
wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his
friend's marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force
in his own case, was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable
assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling
manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had
not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his
attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very 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.
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 any thing 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 difference in the country, and every day was
adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing
her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove
which edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced, was now near
enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name.
She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which
proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that
time reached it also, and holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,
said with a look of haughty composure, "I have been walking in the grove
some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that
letter?" -- And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation,
and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the
strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing
wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand. -- The envelope itself was likewise full.
-- Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from
Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows: -- "Be not
alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing
any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last
night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or
humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both,
cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation, and the
perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my
character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the
freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow
it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. "Two 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 your's, I can only say that I am
sorry. -- The necessity must be obeyed -- and farther apology would be absurd.
-- I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others,
that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other young woman in the
country. -- But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I
had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. -- I had often seen
him in love before. -- At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with
you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental
information, that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a
general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of
which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my
friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality
for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
watched. -- Her look and manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but
without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the
evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she
did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. -- If you have not been
mistaken here, I must have been in 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 endeavoured to forget, because they were
not immediately before me. -- These causes must be stated, though briefly. --
The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in
comparison 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 eldest sister, than it is honourable to
the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only say farther, that from what
passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every
inducement heightened, which could have led me before, to preserve my friend
from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. -- He left Netherfield for
London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design
of soon returning. -- The part which I acted, is now to be explained. -- His
sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of
feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London.
-- We accordingly went -- and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing
out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice. -- I described, and
enforced them earnestly. -- But, however this remonstrance might have staggered
or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have
prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance 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
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
satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as
to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was
known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. -- That they
might have met without ill consequence, is perhaps probable; -- but his regard
did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some
danger. -- Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. -- It is
done, however, and it was done for the best. -- On this subject I have nothing
more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's
feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may
to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
them. -- With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am
ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one
witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable
man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates; and
whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust, naturally inclined my father
to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his
kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
afterwards at Cambridge; -- most important assistance, as his own father,
always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give
him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's
society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of
him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him
in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of
him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities -- the want of
principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend,
could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with
himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, whichMr.
Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain -- to what degree you
only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments whichMr. Wickham has created,
a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real
character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five
years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in
his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in
the best manner that his profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired
that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive
mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me
that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not
think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He
had some intention, he added, of studying 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 connection
between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him, to invite him to
Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived,
but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three
years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living
which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the
presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in
believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable
study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present
him to the living in question -- of which he trusted there could be little
doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I
could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition
of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances --
and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his
reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was
dropt. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully
obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to
forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me
to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the
guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a
year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in
London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to
Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose
character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so
far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a
strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to
believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy
to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly
a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to
support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up
to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public
exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs.
Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was
unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I
cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a strong
inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a
faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and
if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth
of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing concerning either, detection
could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not
then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For
the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more particularly to the
testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant
intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father's will, has been
unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your
abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the
possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of
putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only
add, God bless you. "FITZWILLIAM DARCY."
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 excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined.
With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in
his power; and stedfastly 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 every thing he might say, she began his account of what had happened at
Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which hardly left her power of
comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might
bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His
belief of her sister's insensibility, she instantly resolved to be false, and
his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry
to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had
done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all
pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.
Wickham, when she read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events,
which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings were
yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment,
apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it
entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This
must be the grossest falsehood!" -- and when she had gone through the
whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the last page or two, put it
hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never
look in it again. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could
rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the
letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The
account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly what he had
related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not
before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital
confirmed the other: but when she came to the will, the difference was great.
WhatWickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled
his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on
one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her
wishes did not err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention,
the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to
the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three thousand
pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed
every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality -- deliberated on the
probability of each statement -- but with little success. On both sides it was
only assertion. Again she read on. But every line proved more clearly that the
affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so
represent, as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable
of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. The
extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay 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
information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of enquiring. His
countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the possession
of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some
distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the
attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for
those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, whatMr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no such
recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every
charm of air and address; but she could remember no more substantial good than
the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social
powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable
while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed of
his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed
between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last
she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself -- from whom she had previously received the information of his near
concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to
question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea
was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly
banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a
proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration. She
perfectly remembered every thing 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
impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped
her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done,
and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that
he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy -- that Mr. Darcy might
leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the
Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also, that till the
Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that
he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though
he had assured her that respect for the father, would always prevent his
exposing the son. How differently did every thing now appear in which he was
concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely
and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the
moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing. His
behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been
deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by
encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shewn.
Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther
justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when
questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that
proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of
their acquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen 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 whatWickham
represented them, so gross a violation of every thing 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 myself on my abilities! who have often disdained
the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or
blameable 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 were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."
From herself to Jane -- from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which
soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation there, had
appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely different was the
effect of a second perusal. -- How could she deny that credit to his
assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other?
-- He declared himself to 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-attached 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
any thing she had ever known before. After wandering along the lane for two
hours, giving way to every variety of thought; re-considering events,
determining probabilities, and reconciling herself as well as she could, to a
change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long
absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the
wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told,
that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr.
Darcy, only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had
been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost
resolving to walk after her till she could be found. -- Elizabeth could but
just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam
was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter.
The two gentlemen left
Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the
lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing
intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable
spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through
at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine, and her
daughter; and on his return, brought back, with great satisfaction, a message
from her Ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very
desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady
Catherine without recollecting, that had she chosen it, she might by this time
have been presented to her, as her future niece; nor could she think, without a
smile, of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she
have said? -- how would she have behaved?" were questions with which she
amused herself. Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. --
"I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I
believe 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 dearcolonel
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 beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad
of your company, I am sure." "I am much obliged to your ladyship for
your kind invitation," replied Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power
to accept it. -- I must be in town next Saturday." "Why, at that
rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two
months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for
your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another
fortnight." "But my father cannot. -- He wrote last week to hurry my
return." "Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother
can. -- Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will
stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far
as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does
not object to the Barouche box, there will be very good room for one of you --
and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to
taking you both, as you are neither of you large." "You are all
kindness, Madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan." Lady
Catherine seemed resigned. "Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with
them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young
women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive
to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of
thing. -- Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according
to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last
summer, I made a point of her having two men servants go with her. -- Miss
Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have
appeared with propriety in a different manner. -- I am excessively attentive to
all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am
glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to
you to let them go alone." "My uncle is to send a servant for
us." "Oh! -- Your uncle! -- He keeps a man-servant, does he? -- I am
very glad you have somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change
horses? -- Oh! Bromley, of course. -- If you mention my name at the Bell, you
will be attended to." Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask
respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention
was necessary, whichElizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved
for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest
relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might
indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections. Mr. Darcy's letter, she
was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence: and her
feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered
the style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when she
considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was
turned against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of
compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect;
but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the
unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were
hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never
exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her
mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the
evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the
imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they were supported by their
mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine,
weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been
always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there
was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was
within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there 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
whatJane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his
conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of
his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a
situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so
promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of
her own family! When to these recollections was added the developement of
Wickham's character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost
impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Their engagements at Rosings
were as frequent during the last week of her stay, as they had been at first.
The very last evening was spent there; and her Ladyship again enquired minutely
into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best
method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the
only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all
the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady
Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited
them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss De Bourgh exerted herself so
far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to both.
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
unpleasantly." Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of
happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of
being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make her
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling solemnity
replied, "It gives me 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
connections with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene,
I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been
entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's family is
indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast.
You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there.
In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble
parsonage, I should not think 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 dearMiss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most
cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dearCharlotte and I have but
one mind and one way of thinking. There is in every thing 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
sprung. Poor Charlotte! -- it was melancholy to leave her to such society! --
But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and
her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns,
had not yet lost their charms. At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were
fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready.
After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to
the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was
commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his
thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in,
Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly
reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to
leave any message for the ladies at Rosings. "But," he added,
"you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them,
with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here."
Elizabeth made no objection; -- the door was then allowed to be shut, and the
carriage drove off. "Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes
silence, "it seems but a day or two since we first came! -- and yet how
many things have happened!" "A great many indeed," said her
companion with a sigh. "We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides
drinking tea there twice! -- How much I shall have to tell!" Elizabeth
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 Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner's house, where they
were to remain a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little
opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the
kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her,
and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. It was not
without an effort meanwhile that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she
told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know that she had the power of
revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time,
so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to
reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered,
but the state of indecision in which she remained, as to the extent of what she
should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being
hurried into repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister
farther.
It was the second week
in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from
Gracechurch-street, for the town of @@@@ in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew
near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them, they
quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia
looking out of a dining room up stairs. These two girls had been above an hour
in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the
sentinel on guard, and dressing a sallad 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 shewing her purchases: "Look here, I have
bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as
well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if
I can make it up any better." And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she
added, with perfect unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much
uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim
it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much
signify what one wears this summer, after the @@@@ shire have left Meryton, and
they are going in a fortnight." "Are they indeed?" cried
Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. "They are going to be encamped
near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It
would be such a delicious scheme, and I dare say would hardly cost any thing at
all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable
summer else we shall have!" "Yes," thought Elizabeth, "that
would be a delightful scheme, indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good
Heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset
already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of
Meryton." "Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as
they sat down 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, "Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion.
You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears
worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news:
it is about dearWickham; 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 unwelcome
addition of Kitty's and Lydia's purchases, were seated in it. "How nicely
we are crammed in!" cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it
is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite
comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first
place, let us hear what has happened to you all, since you went away. Have you
seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one
of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old
maid soon, I declare. She is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I
should be of not being married before three and twenty! My aunt 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 Col. 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 Longbourn. Elizabeth listened
as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of
Wickham's name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to
see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr.
Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth, "I am glad you are come back,
Lizzy." Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the
Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects
which occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table, after
the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged,
on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger 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 any body 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 any body 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 every body went on;
but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss
Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the
officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to
her, of the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In a
fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more
to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home, before she
found that the Brighton scheme, of whichLydia 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.
Elizabeth's impatience
to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at
length resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was
concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next
morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself. Miss Bennet's
astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any
admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly
lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his
sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was
she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
"His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong," said she; "and
certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase
his disappointment." "Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am
heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings which will probably soon
drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing
him?" "Blame you! Oh, no." "But you blame me for having
spoken so warmly of Wickham." "No -- I do not know that you were
wrong in saying what you did." "But you will know it, when I 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 discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and 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 any
thing. 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 chuse." 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! dearLizzy, only consider
what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of
your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is
really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so." "Oh! no, my
regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know
you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned
and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him
much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather." "Poor Wickham;
there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness
and gentleness in his manner." "There certainly was some great
mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the
goodness, and the other all the appearance of it." "I never thought
Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do."
"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to
him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for
wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without
saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now
and then stumbling on something witty." "Lizzy, when you first read
that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now."
"Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I 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. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their
stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about
it." "You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin
him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate." The tumult of
Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of
the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a
willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again on either. But
there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbad 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 sensible that nothing less
than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing
off this last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if
that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
tell whatBingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty
of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!" She was
now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her
sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender
affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her
regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and
disposition, greater steadiness than 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
any thing 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 enquired of every body 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." But as Elizabeth could not
receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer. "Well,
Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the Collinses
live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what
sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If
she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing
extravagant in their housekeeping, I dare say." "No, nothing at
all." "A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.
They will take care not to outrun their income. They will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk
of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their
own, I dare say, whenever that happens. "It was a subject which they could
not mention before me." "No. It would have been strange if they had.
But I make no doubt, they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they
can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better.
I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."
The first week of their
return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment's stay
in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace.
The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still
able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their
employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by
Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend
such hard-heartedness in any of the family. "Good Heaven! What is to
become of us! What are we to do!" would they often exclaim in the
bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling soLizzy?" 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 interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia's
prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs.
Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton.
This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A
resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to
each other, and out of their three months' acquaintance they had been intimate
two. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the
delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be
described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the
house in restless ecstacy, 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 disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice
of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from
it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair." "Already
arisen!" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away some of
your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths
as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity, are not worth a regret.
Come, let me see the list of 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 beyond youth and a tolerable person; and
from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any
portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite.
In this danger Kitty is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia
leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! 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 any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women
better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may
teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees
worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her
nature, however, to increase her vexations, by dwelling on them. She was
confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or
augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition. Had Lydia and her
mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation
would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia's imagination,
a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw
with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered
with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores
of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and
the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she saw herself
seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.
Had she known 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 melancholy conviction of
her husband's never intending to go there himself. But they were entirely
ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued with little
intermission to the very day of Lydia's leaving home. Elizabeth was now to see
Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since
her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality
entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had
first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his
present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those 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 gallantry; and while she
steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his
believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been
withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified and her preference secured at any time
by their renewal. On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton,
he dined with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some enquiry as to
the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel
Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and
asked him if he 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 ought of
civility to his ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower
and more serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials." "Oh,
no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much what
he ever was." While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing
whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and
anxious attention, while she added, "When I said that he improved on
acquaintance, I did not mean that either his mind or manners were in a state of
improvement, but that from knowing him better, his disposition was better
understood." Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and
agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents,
"You, who so well know my 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 answered only by a slight inclination of the
head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his
grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening
passed with the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no
farther attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual
civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again. When the party
broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to
set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was
rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did
weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the
felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she 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
happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her
sisters were uttered without being heard.
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 vanished for ever; and all his views
of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition
to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on,
in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their
folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these
tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little
otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his
amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish
to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the
true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. Elizabeth,
however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father's behaviour as a
husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and
grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget
what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual
breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the
contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never
felt so strongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from
so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly used, might at
least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of
enlarging the mind of his wife. When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's
departure, she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the
regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before; and at home she
had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing
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 realized. A scheme of which every part promises
delight, can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off
by the defence of some little peculiar vexation." When Lydia went away,
she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but
her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her
mother, contained little else, than that they were just returned from the
library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen
such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a
new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to
leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going
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
re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had
been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer
engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity,
and by the middle of June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter
Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth
hope, that by the following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as
not to mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast
approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from
Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent.
Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight
later in July, and must be in London again within a month; and as that left too
short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or
at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were
obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and,
according to the present plan, were to go no farther 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 Park.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the
Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her
business to be satisfied -- and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was
soon right again. With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas
connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of
Pemberley and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter
his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his
perceiving me." The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were
to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger
boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was
the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly
adapted her for attending to them in every way -- teaching them, playing with
them, and loving them. The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set
off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One
enjoyment was certain -- that of suitableness 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 disappointments abroad. It is not the object of
this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable
places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick,
Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. 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
acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth
found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct
road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the
evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again.
Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so
much?" said her aunt. "A place too, with which so many of your
acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and
was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was
tired of great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in
fine carpets or satin curtains. Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it
were merely a fine house richly furnished," said she, "I should not
care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the
finest woods in the country." Elizabeth said no more -- but her mind could
not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,
instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run such a
risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally resolved that it
could be the last resource, if her private enquiries 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.
Elizabeth, as they
drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some
perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were
in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of
ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time
through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth's mind was
too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point
of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at
the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was
instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley,
into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody
hills; -- and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into
greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal,
nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for
which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little
counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their
admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might
be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her
apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid
had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder
at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking,
elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of
finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,
well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly
surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with
wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the
distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and
the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they
passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but
from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and
handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but
Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor
uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the
furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might
have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly
acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in
them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. -- But
no," -- recollecting herself, -- "that could never be: my uncle and
aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite
them." This was a lucky recollection -- it saved her from something like
regret. She longed to enquire 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 approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended,
amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. 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 expence. -- "He is now gone into the
army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return
it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures, "is my master -- and very like him. It was drawn at the same
time as the other -- about eight years ago." "I have heard much of
your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture;
"it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or
not." Mrs. Reynolds'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 up
stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my
late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be
then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr.
Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one
of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy
as handsome as her brother?" said 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, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; 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?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend
half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."
"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes,
Sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for
him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
"It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth, and what every body 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 was 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 subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price
of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon
led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they
proceeded together up the great staircase. "He is the best landlord, and
the best master," said she, "that ever lived. Not like the wild young
men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his
tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him
proud; but I am sure I never saw any thing 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 shewn 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 shewn. 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 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 life time. 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 were 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 favourable to his character, and as she stood before the
canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she
thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever
raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of
expression. When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been
seen, they returned down stairs, 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 immoveable
from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and
spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect
civility. She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had
his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been
examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr.
Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must
immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to
their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his
face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil enquiries after her
family. Amazed at the alteration in his manner since they last parted, every
sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of
the impropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued 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 enquiries as to the time of
her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so
hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts. At length,
every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying
a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave. The others then joined
her, and expressed 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 disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might
seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she
come? or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only
ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that moment
alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the
perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered, -- what
could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing! -- but to speak
with such civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen
his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on
this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in
Rosing's Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to
think, nor how to account for it. They had now entered a beautiful walk by the
side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground,
or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some
time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to
direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part
of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at
that moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought of her, and
whether, in defiance of every thing, 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 grounds; whence, in spots where the opening of the trees
gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the
opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and
occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round
the whole Park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile,
they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they
pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a
descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest
parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of
the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a
narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed
to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived
their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could
go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as
possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way
towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction;
but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge
the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about
them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner,
they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what
it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no
great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side,
allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at
least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to
speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments,
indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning
past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost
none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they
met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words
"delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky
recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her,
might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her,
if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a
stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly
suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those
very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself.
"What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who
they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however,
was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole
a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation
of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he
was surprised by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with
fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not
but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for
whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that
passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her
uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The
conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with
the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued
in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing
tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most
sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a
look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her
exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however,
was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered?
From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me, it cannot be for my sake that
his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After
walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen
behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river
for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a
little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the
exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and
consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece,
and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She
wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to
the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very
unexpected -- "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us
that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left
Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the
country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with
his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of
the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early
to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an
acquaintance with you, -- Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered
only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when
Mr. Bingley's name had been 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 impossible; but she was flattered and pleased.
His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest
kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage,
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her
to walk into the house -- but she declared herself not tired, and they stood
together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence
was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject.
At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of
Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved
slowly -- and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the
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 utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and
each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to 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
unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may
call him proud, I have seen nothing of it." "I was never more surprised
than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive;
and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth
was very trifling." "To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he
is not so handsome as Wickham; or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for
his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell 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 character, but said nothing.
"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I
really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On
the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And
there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would not give one an
unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure, the good lady who shewed 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 Wickham's
so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of
this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they
had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be
such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as
they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave
way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of any thing
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.
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 recognising 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 compose herself, saw such looks of enquiring surprise in her
uncle and aunt, as made every thing worse. Miss Darcy and her brother appeared,
and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth
see, that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.
Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly
proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her, that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her
beyond a monosyllable. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than
Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her
appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but
there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and
unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by
discerning such different feelings. They had not 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 unaffected
cordiality with which he expressed himself, on seeing her again. He enquired in
a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the
same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was
scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself. They had long wished to
see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The
suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their
observation towards each with an earnest, though guarded, enquiry; and they
soon drew from those enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least
knew what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in
doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of
each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to make herself
agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she
was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure
were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and
Darcy determined, to be pleased. In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew
to her sister; and oh! how ardently did she long to know, whether any of his
were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy, that he talked less
than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
that as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though
this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss
Darcy, who had been set up as a rival of Jane. No look appeared on either side
that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify
the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three
little circumstances occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious
interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane, not untinctured by tenderness,
and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared.
He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a
tone which had something of real regret, that it "was a very long time
since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply,
he added, "It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield." Elizabeth was
pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask
her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether all her sisters were at
Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark, but
there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning. It was not often that
she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she did catch a
glimpse, she saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he
said, she heard an accent so far removed from hauteur or disdain of his
companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday
witnessed, however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived
one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good
opinion of people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very
relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene
in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change was so great, and struck so
forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from
being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield,
or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please,
so free from self-consequence, or unbending reserve as now, when no importance
could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance
of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw down the ridicule
and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings. Their visitors staid
with them above half an hour, and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called
on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the
country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the
habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece,
desirous of knowing how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed
as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming,
however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment,
than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance,
and the day after the next was fixed on. Bingley expressed great pleasure in
the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to
her, and many enquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.
Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister,
was pleased; and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when
their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little.
Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt,
she staid with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of
Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. But she had no reason to fear Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was not their wish to force her communication. It
was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had
before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They
saw much to interest, but nothing to justify enquiry. Of Mr. Darcy it was now a
matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached,
there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness, and
had they drawn his character from their own feelings, and his servant's report,
without any reference to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to
which he was known, would not have 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 rejected. Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of their
Lambton friends, that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to
accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly
be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town, where the family did not
visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much
good among the poor. With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he
was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns,
with the son of his patron, were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well
known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him,
whichMr. Darcy afterwards discharged. As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at
Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed
it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards one in
that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out.
She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had
almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could
be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities,
though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant
to her 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 regard, or
any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was
soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his
sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride, excited not only astonishment
but gratitude -- for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such
its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means
unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she
esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and
she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,
and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the
power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on 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 politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be
highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,
therefore, to go. -- Elizabeth was pleased, though, when she asked herself the
reason, she had very little to say in reply. Mr. Gardiner left them soon after
breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive
engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.
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 shewn
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
chesnuts 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 inferior, the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs.
Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. By Mrs. Hurst
and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey; and on their being
seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few
moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking
woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse, proved her to be
more truly well bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs.
Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on.
Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and
sometimes did venture a short sentence, when there was least danger of its
being heard. Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss
Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her from
trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient
distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her
own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the
gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the master of the
house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared it most, she
could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour,
without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from
her a cold enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more. The next variation which
their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat,
cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take
place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss
Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for
the whole party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and
the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected them
round the table. While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of
deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by
the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a
moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret
that he came. He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three
other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only
on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that
morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be
perfectly easy and unembarrassed; -- a resolution the more necessary to be
made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions
of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an
eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no
countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in
spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr.
Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted
herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister
and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded, as much as possible, every
attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise;
and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with
sneering civility, "Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the @@@@ shire militia
removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family." In
Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth instantly
comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various
recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress; but, exerting
herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the
question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance
shewed her Darcy with an heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and
his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss
Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly
would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her
partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's
opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities,
by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable
had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it
been revealed, where secresy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all
Bingley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from
that very wish whichElizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning
that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is
probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of
his friend. Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion;
and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to
speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected
her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed
to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have fixed them on her more, and
more cheerfully. Their visit did not continue long after the question and
answer above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's
person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his 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 address, he contented himself with
coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather
tanned, -- no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer. "For my
own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any
beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her
features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character; there is nothing
marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way;
and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I never could
perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look,
which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable." Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that
Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself;
but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat
nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent
however; and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued, "I
remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to
find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying
one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ""She a beauty!
-- I should as soon call her mother a wit."" But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time."
"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but
that was only when I first 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 particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every
body 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 every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know whatMrs. Gardiner
thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her
niece's beginning the subject.
Elizabeth had been a
good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane, on their first
arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the
mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third, her repining was
over, and her sister justified by the receipt of two letters from her at once,
on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was
not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. They had
just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt,
leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must
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 was gone off to Scotland with one
of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! -- Imagine our surprise. To
Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry.
So imprudent a match on both sides! -- But I am willing to hope the best, and
that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can
easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing
bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father
can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it
better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said
against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight.
The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within
ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia
left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must
conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be
able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written." Without
allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt,
Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it
with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later
than the conclusion of the first. "By this time, my dearest sister, you
have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but
though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for
being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad
news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as 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 Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before,
not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave
them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped
by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry
Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm,
set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to
Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed into a
hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know
not what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side London,
Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the
turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no
such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on
to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to
his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F. but no one can throw any
blame on them. Our distress, my dearLizzy, 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 every
thing? -- Impossible. I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not
disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my
hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is
really ill and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but
this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so
affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it
was a matter of confidence one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy,
that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now as the
first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so
selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen
again to do, what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such,
that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here, as soon as possible.
I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it,
though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to
London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to
do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue
any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at
Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately comprehend
what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness." "Oh! where, where is
my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the
letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so
precious; but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr.
Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before
he could recover himself 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. Gardiner this moment, on business that
cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose." "Good God! what is
the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then
recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let
the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; -- you
cannot go yourself." Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under
her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so
breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home, instantly. On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to
support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy
to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and
commiseration, "Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to
give you present relief? -- A glass of wine; -- shall I get you one? -- You are
very ill." "No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to
recover herself. "There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I
am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from
Longbourn." She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few
minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only
say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane,
with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My youngest
sister has left all her friends -- has eloped; -- has thrown herself into the
power of -- of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know
him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that
can tempt him to -- she is lost for ever." Darcy was fixed in
astonishment. "When I consider," she added, in a yet more agitated
voice, "that I might have prevented it! -- I who knew what he was. Had I
but explained some part of it only -- some part of what I learnt, to my own
family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
all, all too late now." "I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy;
"grieved -- shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?" "Oh
yes! -- They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to
London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland."
"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"
"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing
can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be
worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It
is every way horrible!" Darcy shook his head in silent acquiesence.
"When my eyes were opened to his real character. -- Oh! had I known what I
ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not -- I was afraid of doing too much.
Wretched, wretched, mistake!" Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to
hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow
contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood
it. Her power was sinking; every thing must sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder
nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to
her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary,
exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so
honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be
vain. But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia -- the
humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up every
private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon
lost to every thing 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 any thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer
consolation to such distress. -- But I will not torment you with vain wishes,
which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will,
I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to
day." "Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say
that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible. -- I know it cannot be long." He readily assured
her of his secrecy -- again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a
happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his
compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting, look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should
ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their
several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the
whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at
the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its
continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination. If gratitude
and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's change of sentiment
will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise, if the regard
springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what
is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even
before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence,
except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her
partiality for Wickham, and that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to
seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw
him go with regret; and in this early example of whatLydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business.
Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained a hope of
Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter
herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on
this development. While the contents of the first letter remained 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 deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her
virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey. She
had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had
any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had wanted only
encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one officer, 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 attendance; and though almost persuaded that
nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience was
severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, by the
servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; -- but satisfying
them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the
last, with trembling energy. -- Though Lydia had never been a favourite with
them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply affected. 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 gratitude; and
all three being actuated by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey
was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what
is to be done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us
Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; -- was it so?" "Yes; and I
told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. That is all
settled." "That is all settled;" repeated the other, as she ran
into her room to prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to
disclose the real truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!" But wishes were
vain; or at 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 in Lambton, with false
excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed;
and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the
morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have
supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
"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 staying in
his colonel's family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he
expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed
again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation
is not adequate to the risk." "Do you really think so?" cried
Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. "Upon my word," said Mrs.
Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's opinion. It is really too great a
violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of 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 an 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." "But
why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be
private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by
Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will
never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims
has Lydia, what attractions has she beyond youth, health, and good humour, that
could make him for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by
marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps
might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for
I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to
step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's behaviour, from his
indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going
forward in his family, that he would do as little, and think as little about
it, as any father could do, in such a matter." "But can you think
that Lydia is so lost to every thing 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 nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose
of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions
that came in her way. Since the @@@@ shire were first quartered in Meryton,
nothing but love, flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been
doing every thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater -- what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person
and address that can captivate a woman." "But you see that
Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so 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
believe capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane
knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been
profligate in every sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor
honour. That he is as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. "I do,
indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day, of
his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at Longbourn,
heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved with such forbearance
and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at
liberty -- which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole
Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly
prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the
contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we
have found her." "But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be
ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?" "Oh, yes!
-- that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of
Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth
myself. And when I returned home, the @@@@ shire was to leave Meryton in a week
or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the
whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what
use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it was
settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her
eyes to his character never occurred to me. That she could be in any danger
from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as this
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 affection on either side; and had any thing of the
kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family, on which it
could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to
admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her
senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished her by
any particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the
regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
favourites." ------ It may be easily believed, that however little the
novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this
interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them
from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was
never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she
could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as
expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on the road, reached
Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to
consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little
Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the
house, as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door,
the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over
their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing
earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them
an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down
stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she
affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a
moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. "Not
yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every
thing 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 up stairs, and will have
great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room.
Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well." "But you -- How are
you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone
through!" Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well;
and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of the
whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them
both, with alternate smiles and tears. When they were all in the drawing room,
the questions whichElizabeth had already asked, were of course repeated by the
others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine
hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not
yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every
morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain
their proceedings, and perhaps announce 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
regret, invectives against the villanous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of
her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming every body but the person to whose
ill judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing.
"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to
Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but poor dearLydia
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 over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone
away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will
be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out,
before he is cold in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do
not know what we shall do." They all exclaimed against such terrific
ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and
all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and
would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. "Do not
give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is
not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we may gain some
news of them, and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of
marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town,
I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street,
and then we may consult together as to what is to be done." "Oh! my
dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I could
most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they
may be; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for
wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have
as much money as she chuses, 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, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my
dearLydia, not to give any directions about her clothes, till she has seen me,
for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you
are! I know you will contrive it all." But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured
her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending
moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fears; and, after talking with
her in this manner till dinner 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 beautiful, -- and that she cannot be too much guarded
in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex." Elizabeth
lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply.
Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions
from the evil before them. In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were
able to be for half an hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed
herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, whichJane was equally
eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful
sequel of this event, whichElizabeth 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 farther particulars. What did Colonel Forster
say? Had they no apprehension of any thing 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 any thing 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 match it
must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the
rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter, she had prepared her for such a step.
She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many
weeks." "But not before they went to Brighton?" "No, I
believe not." "And did Colonel Forster appear to think 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 unjustifiable. We
acted with the best intentions." "Could Colonel Forster repeat the
particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?" "He brought it with him for
us to see." Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to
Elizabeth. These were the contents: "MY DEARHARRIET, "You will laugh
when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your
surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green,
and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is
but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy
without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the
greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke
it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for
not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to night. Tell him I hope he
will excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the
next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get
to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked
muslin gown, before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel
Forster, I hope you will drink to our good journey. "Your affectionate
friend, "LYDIA BENNET." "Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless
Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. "What a letter is
this, to be written at such a moment. But at least it shews, 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 Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was
so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to
us all, and lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning
to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they
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 enquire into the measures which her father had intended
to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. "He meant, I
believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where they last
changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could be made out from
them. His principal object must be, to discover the number of the hackney coach
which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he
thought the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage
into another, might be remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he
could any how discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare,
he determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to
find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs
that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so
greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as
this."
The whole party were in
hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post came in
without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be on all
common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory correspondent, but at such a
time, they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude, that he had no
pleasing intelligence to send, but even of that they would have been glad to be
certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off. When
he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant information of
what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr.
Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of
his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's not being
killed in a duel. Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in
Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be
serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and
was a great comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering
and heartening them up, though as she never came without reporting some fresh
instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away
without leaving them more dispirited than she found them. All Meryton seemed
striving to blacken the man, who, but three months before, had been almost an
angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place,
and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended
into every tradesman's family. Every body declared that he was the wickedest
young man in the world; and every body began to find out, that they had always
distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit
above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin 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
persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street. That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom
and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information;
and that he was now determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town,
as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their
first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did
not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it,
he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly
disinclined at present, to leave London, and promised to write again very soon.
There was also a postscript to this effect. "I have written to Colonel
Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man's
intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections,
who would be likely to know in what part of 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 dare say, do every thing 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
companions in the @@@@ shire, might be able to give more information; and,
though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a
something to look forward to. Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety;
but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival
of letters was the 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 circumstance that must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's
mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of
this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose, as
my dearCharlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter,
has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence, though, at the same time, for
the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her
own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an
enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be
pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by
lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree
with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be injurious
to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady Catherine herself
condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family. And this
consideration leads me moreover to reflect with augmented satisfaction on a
certain event of last November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been
involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,
to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from
your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous
offence. "I am, dear Sir, &c. &c." 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
believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his
expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the town, but his debts of honour
were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these
particulars from the Longbourn family; Jane heard them with horror. "A
gamester!" she cried. "This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea
of it." Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see
their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his
brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to
him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their
pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much
satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life
had been before. "What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!"
she cried. "Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is
to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?" As Mrs.
Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and her children
should go to London, at the same time thatMr. Bennet came from it. The coach,
therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master
back to Longbourn. Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about
Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of
the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before then by her
niece; and the kind of half-expectation whichMrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return, that could come from Pemberley. The present
unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her
spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from that,
though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own
feelings, was perfectly aware, that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could
have borne the dread of Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared
her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two. When Mr. Bennet arrived, he
had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as
he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had
taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak
of it. It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I
ought to feel it." "You must not be too severe upon yourself,"
replied Elizabeth. "You may well warn me against such an evil. Human
nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how
much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the
impression. It will pass away soon enough." "Do you suppose them to
be in London?" "Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?'
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty. "She is
happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence there will
probably be of some duration." Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy,
I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May,
which, considering the event, shews 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; "if I should ever go to
Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia." "You go to Brighton! --
I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne, for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I
have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer
is ever to enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls
will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
And you are never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent
ten minutes of every day in a rational manner." Kitty, who took all these
threats in a serious light, began to cry. "Well, well," said he,
"do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten
years, I will take you to a review at the end of them."
Two days after Mr.
Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery
behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding
that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but,
instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss
Bennet, "I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in
hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of
coming to ask." "What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from
town." "Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment,
"dont you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He
has been here this half hour, and master has had a letter." Away ran the
girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the
vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to the library; -- their father
was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him up stairs with their
mother, when they were met by the butler, who said, "If you are looking
for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little copse." Upon this
information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across
the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a
small wood on one side of the paddock. Jane, who was not so light, nor so much
in the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister,
panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out, "Oh, Papa,
what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?" "Yes, I have had
a letter from him by express." "Well, and what news does it bring?
good or bad?" "What is there of good to be expected?" said he,
taking the letter from his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it."
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. "Read it
aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is
about." "Gracechurch-street, Monday, August 2. "MY DEAR BROTHER,
"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon
the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on
Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were.
The particulars, I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know they are discovered,
I have seen them both ----" "Then it is, as I always hoped,"
cried Jane; "they are married!" Elizabeth read on; "I have seen
them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of
being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have
ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All
that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her
equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your children after the
decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement
of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are
conditions, which, considering 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 circumstances are not so
hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in
that respect; and I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even when
all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own
fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in
your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give
directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be
the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore, stay quietly at
Longbourn, and depend on my diligence 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 any thing more is determined
on. Your's, &c. "EDW. GARDINER." "Is it possible!"
cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will
marry her?" "Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we 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 intreat him to lose no
more time before he wrote. "Oh! my dear father," she cried,
"come back, and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is,
in such a case." "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you
dislike the trouble yourself." "I dislike it very much," he
replied; "but it must be done." And so saying, he turned back with
them, and walked towards the house. "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth,
"but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with." "Complied
with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little." "And they must
marry! Yet he is such a man!" "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is
nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to
know: -- one is, how much money your uncle has laid down, to bring it about;
and the other, how 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 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 any thing 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 whatWickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth,
"and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know
whatMr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his
own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her
home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a
sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By
this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her
miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when
she first sees my aunt!" "We must endeavour to forget all that has
passed on either side," said Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be
happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come
to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I
flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner,
as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten." "Their conduct
has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor any
body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it." It now occurred to
the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what
had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father,
whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing, and,
without raising his head, coolly replied, "Just as you please."
"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?" "Take whatever
you like, and get away." Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table,
and they went up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:
one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for
good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself.
As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her
joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was
now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgetty
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, dearLydia!" she cried: "This is
delightful indeed! -- She will be married! -- I shall see her again! -- She
will be married at sixteen! -- My good, kind brother! -- I knew how it would be
-- I knew he would manage every thing. How I long to see her! and to see
dearWickham 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, dearLydia!
-- 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 whichMr. 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 any thing from him, except
a few presents. Well! I am so happy. In a short time, I shall have a daughter
married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June.
My dearJane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will
dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately." She was then
proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would
shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with
some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her father was at leisure to be
consulted. One day's delay she observed, would be of small importance; and her
mother was too happy, to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came
into her head. "I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I
am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Phillips. 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 any thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dearHill, 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.
Mr. Bennet had very
often wished, before this period of his life, that, instead of spending his
whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for the better provision of his
children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than
ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted
to her uncle, for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her.
The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great
Britain to be her husband, might then have rested in its proper place. He was
seriously concerned, that a cause of so little advantage to any one, should be
forwarded at the sole expence 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
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet,
for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This event
had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs.
Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband's love of independence had
alone prevented their exceeding their income. Five thousand pounds was settled
by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it
should be divided amongst the latter, depended on the will of the parents. This
was one point, with regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and
Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of
all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been
made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on
to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to
himself, as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a-year
the loser, by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board
and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money, which passed to her,
through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences 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 dispatched; for though
dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to
know farther particulars 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 happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some
distant farm house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and
the good-natured wishes of 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 an 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 sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph.
The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes,
since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her
thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine
muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the
neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or
considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance. "Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings
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
withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs. Bennet, before you take any, or all of
these houses, for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding.
Into one house in this neighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will
not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn." A
long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it soon led to
another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband
would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that
she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever, on the occasion.
Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such
a point of inconceivable resentment, as to refuse his daughter a privilege,
without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she
could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which the want of
new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of shame
at her eloping and living with Wickham, a fortnight before they took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the
moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her sister;
for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the
elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning, from all
those who were not immediately on the spot. She had no fear of its spreading
farther, through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would
have more confidently depended; but at the same time, there was no one, whose
knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however,
from any fear of disadvantage from it, individually to herself; for at any
rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr.
Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other objection would
now be added, an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with 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 knowledge of the world, she
must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage
could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An
union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was
soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported
in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent
happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their
passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. ------
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's acknowledgments
he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to promote the welfare of
any of his family; and concluded with intreaties 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 quartered in the
North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He
promises fairly, and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character
to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster,
to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy
the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of
speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the
trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I
shall subjoin a list, according to his information. He has given in all his
debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,
and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless
they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that
my niece is very desirous of seeing you all, before she leaves the South. She
is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother. -- Your's,
&c. "E. GARDINER." Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the
advantages of Wickham's removal from the @@@@ shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner
could do. But Mrs. Bennet, was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being
settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her
company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a pity
that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with every
body, 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 shew her married daughter
in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet
wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come;
and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed
to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to
such a scheme, and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting
with him would have been the last object of her wishes.
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, was wretched in the thought of what
her sister must endure. They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast
room, to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage
drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters,
alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door
was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,
embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate
smile to Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an
alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr.
Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance
rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance
of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was
disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed,
unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister,
demanding their congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked
eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were
always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what
they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship,
would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite
equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself, to draw no
limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane
blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion, suffered no
variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother
could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a
good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in replies. They seemed
each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past
was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects, which her
sisters would not have alluded to for the world. "Only think of its being
three months," she cried, "since I went away; it seems but a
fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the
time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being
married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I
was." Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she
chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the people here
abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook
William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so
I let down the side glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand
just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I
bowed and smiled like any thing." Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She
got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them
passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon
enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand,
and hear her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now,
and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." It was not to be
supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment, from which she had been
so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see
Mrs. Phillips, the Lucasses, and all their other neighbours, and to hear
herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by each of them; and in the mean time,
she went after dinner to shew her ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill
and the two housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all
returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is
not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they
may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to
get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very
true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dearLydia, I don't at all like
your going such a way off. Must it be so?" "Oh, lord! yes; -- there
is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my
sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter,
and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good
partners for them all." "I should like it beyond any thing!"
said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of
my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said
Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting
husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.
Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that
their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting
about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These
parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more
desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for
Lydia, was just whatElizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for
him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the
reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of
her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without
violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt
certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances;
and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of
having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham
on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did
everything best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the
first of September, than any body else in the country. One morning, soon after
their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to
Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe.
You were not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?" "No really," replied
Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject."
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that
parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My
uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the
church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid
you know that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone
quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching
and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear
above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dearWickham.
I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat. "Well, and
so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by
the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant
all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot
out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any
thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was
open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called
away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once
they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not
know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the
hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten
minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that
if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy
might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in
utter amazement. "Oh, yes! -- he was to come there with Wickham, you know.
But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I
promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a
secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not
another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
"we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia,
"for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would
be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it
out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was
impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy
had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among
people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain;
but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his
conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such
suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her
aunt, to request an explanation of whatLydia had dropt, if it were compatible
with the secrecy which had been intended. "You may readily
comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a
person so unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger
to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly,
and let me understand it -- unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in
the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to
be satisfied with ignorance." "Not that I shall though," she
added to herself, as she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do
not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and
stratagems to find it out." Jane's delicate sense of honour would not
allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of whatLydia had let fall; Elizabeth
was glad of it; -- till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
Elizabeth had the
satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as soon as she possibly
could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than hurrying into the little
copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the
benches, and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her
that it did not contain a denial. "Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6. "MY
DEAR NIECE, "I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise
what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I
did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to
let you know, that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on your
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your
uncle is as much surprised as I am -- and nothing but the belief of your being
a party concerned, would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are
really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my
coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy
called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I
arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as your's 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 hadanother motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been
some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to
direct his search, which was more than we had; and the consciousness of this,
was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a
Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed
from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what.
She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself
by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town.
But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She
would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she
really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone to
her, on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them
into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length,
however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in @@@@
street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first
object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present
disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be
prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go.
But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
for none of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of
leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it
did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought,
to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with
Wickham, he easily learnt, had never been his design. He confessed himself
obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were
very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's
flight, on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately;
and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He
must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at
once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been
able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by
marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished
the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other
country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there
was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but
at length was reduced to be reasonable. Every thing being settled between them,
Mr. Darcy's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first
called in Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner
could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that your father
was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your
father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and
therefore readily postponed seeing him, till after the departure of the former.
He did not leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a
gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was
gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk
together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all
settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy
is the real defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many
faults at different times; but this is the true one. Nothing was to be done
that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be
thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your uncle would most readily have
settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which was more
than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your
uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his
niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which
went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning
gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him
of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy,
this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I
suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,
amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another
thousand in addition to her own settled upon her, and his commission purchased.
The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given
above. It was owing to him, to his reserve, and want of proper consideration,
that Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he
had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in this;
though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody's reserve, can be answerable for
the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dearLizzy, you may rest
perfectly assured, that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not
given him credit for anotherinterest in the affair. When all this was resolved
on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but
it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place,
and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have
now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you
great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia
came to us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. He was exactly
what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you
how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had
not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home
was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you
no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness
she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am
sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected
my dearElizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy
was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He
dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or
Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dearLizzy, 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. Your's, 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 whatMr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's match,
which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too great to be
probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation,
were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely
to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on
such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he
must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet,
reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done
all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did
whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by
other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient,
when required to depend on his affection for her, for a woman who had already
refused him, as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must
revolt from the connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to
think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no
extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had
been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could,
perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might assist his
endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It
was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a
person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,
her character, every thing to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every
ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever
directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.
Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the
better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and
again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some
pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her
uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr.
Darcy and herself. She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some
one's approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham. "I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my
dear sister?" said he, as he joined her. "You certainly do," she
replied with a smile; "but it does not follow that the interruption must
be unwelcome." "I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always
good friends; and now we are better." "True. Are the others coming
out?" "I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage
to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that you have
actually seen Pemberley." She replied in the affirmative. "I almost
envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I
could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I
suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did
not mention my name to you." "Yes, she did." "And what did
she say?" "That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had
---- not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things are
strangely misrepresented." "Certainly," he replied, biting his
lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there." "Perhaps
preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said Elizabeth. "It
must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year."
"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had." "Yes; he introduced us
to his sister." "And do you like her?" "Very much."
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or
two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you like
her. I hope she will turn out well." "I dare say she will; she has
got over the most trying age." "Did you go by the village of
Kympton?" "I do not recollect that we did." "I mention it,
because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place! --
Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect."
"How should you have liked making sermons?" "Exceedingly well. I
should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have
been nothing. One ought not to repine; -- but, to be sure, it would have been
such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have
answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear
Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?" "I have heard
from authority, which I thought asgood, 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.
Mr. Wickham was so
perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he never again distressed
himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of
it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet. The
day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to
submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her
scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
"Oh! my dearLydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years perhaps."
"Write to me very often, my dear." "As often as I can. But you
know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to
me. They will have nothing else to do." Mr. Wickham's adieus were much
more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many
pretty things. "He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as
they were out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and
makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William
Lucas himself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law." The loss of her
daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. "I often
think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's
friends. One seems so forlorn without them." "This is the consequence
you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said Elizabeth. "It must
make you better satisfied that your other four are single." "It is no
such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married; but only because
her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she
would not have gone so soon." But the spiritless condition which this
event threw her into, was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the
agitation of hope, by an article of news, which then began to be in
circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for
the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there
for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane,
and smiled, and shook her head by turns. "Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley
is coming down, sister," (for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news.)
"Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing
to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he
is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what may
happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never
to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"
"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls
was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes
down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the
butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has
got three couple of ducks, just fit to be killed." Miss Bennet had not
been able to hear of his coming, without changing colour. It was many months
since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were
alone together, she said, "I saw you look at me to day, Lizzy, when my
aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't
imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment,
because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you, that the news does
not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he
comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
myself, but I dread other people's remarks." Elizabeth did not know what
to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him
capable of coming there, with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she
still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater
probability of his coming there with his friend's permission, or being bold
enough to come without it. "Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought,
"that this poor man cannot come to a house, which he has legally hired,
without raising all this speculation! I will leave him to himself." In
spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings, in
the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her
spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she
had often seen them. The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between
their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again. "As
soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you will
wait on him of course." "No, no. You forced me into visiting him last
year, and promised if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters.
But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be
from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.
"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our
society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in
running after my neighbours every time they go away, and come back again."
"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I am
determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make
thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at the table for him."
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's
incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all
see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before they did. As the day of his
arrival drew near, "I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said
Jane to her sister. "It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My
mother means well; but she does not know, no one can know how much I suffer
from what she says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is
over!" "I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied
Elizabeth; "but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the
usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because
you have always so much." Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the
assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the
period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side, might be as long as it could.
She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in
Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock,
and ride towards the house. Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her
joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her
mother, went to the window -- she looked, -- she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and
sat down again by her sister. "There is a gentleman with him, mamma,"
said Kitty; "who can it be?" "Some acquaintance or other, my
dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know." "La!" replied Kitty,
"it looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. what's
his name. That tall, proud man." "Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! -- and so
it does I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to
be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him." Jane looked
at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in
Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her
sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory
letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of
course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy,
and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without
being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which
could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew
Mrs. Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit
she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the
person, to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and
whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as
reasonable and just, as whatJane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his
coming -- at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking
her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his
altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her
face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of
delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time, that
his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be
early enough for expectation." She sat intently at work, striving to be
composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity
carried them to the face of her sister, as the servant was approaching the
door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had
expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received
them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from
any symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance. Elizabeth said as
little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with
an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance
at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and she thought, more as he had been used
to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps
he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt.
It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley, she had likewise
seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and
embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility, which
made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and
ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend. Elizabeth
particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of
her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most
painful degree by a distinction so ill applied. Darcy, after enquiring of her
how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question which she could not answer without
confusion, said scarcely any thing. 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 enquired after his
sister, but could do no more. "It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you
went away," said Mrs. Bennet. He readily agreed to it. "I began to be
afraid you would never come back again. People did say, you meant to quit the
place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many
changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is
married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of
it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier,
I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said,
""Lately, George Wickham Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,""
without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she
lived, or any thing. It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder
how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not
lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. "It
is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,"
continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard
to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place
quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not know how long.
His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the @@@@
shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has some
friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves." Elizabeth, who knew
this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could
hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking,
which nothing else had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley,
whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he
believed. "When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,"
said her mother, "I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you
please, on Mr. Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you,
and will save all the best of the covies for you." Elizabeth's misery
increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the same fair
prospect to arise at present, as had flattered them a year ago, every thing,
she was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that
instant she felt, that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself
amends, for moments of such painful confusion. "The first wish of my
heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be in company with
either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure, that will atone for such
wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!" Yet
the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation,
received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of
her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came
in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving
her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year;
as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was
anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really
persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go
away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited
and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. "You are quite a
visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town
last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you
returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much
disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement." Bingley
looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern, at
having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been
strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she
always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing 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.
As soon as they were
gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell
without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's
behaviour astonished and vexed her. "Why, if he came only to be silent,
grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?" She
could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still
amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not
to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why
silent? Teazing, teazing, 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 shewed 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 dearLizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now."
"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
you as ever." ------ They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday;
and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes,
which the good humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's
visit, had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn;
and the two, who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their
punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the
place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister.
Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by
herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look
round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it
with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received
his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr.
Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister
was such, during dinner time, as shewed 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 any thing to be privileged to tell him, that his kindness was
neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family. She was in hopes that
the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the
whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into
something more of conversation, than the mere ceremonious salutation attending
his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room,
before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made
her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all
her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. "If he does not come
to me, then," said she, "I shall give him up for ever." The
gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her
hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was
making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy, that
there was not a single vacancy near her, which would admit of a chair. And on
the gentlemen's approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever,
and said, in a whisper, "The men shan't come and part us, I am determined.
We want none of them; do we?" Darcy had walked away to another part of the
room. She followed him with her eyes, envied 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 saying. "Is your
sister at Pemberley still" "Yes, she will remain there till
Christmas." "And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"
"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
these three weeks." She could think of nothing more to say; but if he
wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her,
however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's
whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away. When the tea-things were
removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was
then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all her views were overthrown, by seeing
him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few
moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation
of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she
had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of
the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had
designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage
was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of
detaining them. "Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to
themselves, "What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off
uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw.
The venison was roasted to a turn -- and everybody said, they never saw so fat
a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucas's 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
dearJane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I
asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides?
""Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at
last."" She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as
ever lived -- and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all
handsome: I like them prodigiously." Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very
great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be
convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to
her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was
quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his
proposals. "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to
Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the
other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you
must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I
have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young
man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his
manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is
only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger
desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very
cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are
provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be
believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should
you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That
is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct,
though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you
persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante."
A few days after this
visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that
morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them
above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to
dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself
engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we
shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c.
&c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of
waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement
at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came,
and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran
Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair
half finished, crying out, "My dearJane, make haste and hurry down. He is
come -- Mr. Bingley is come. -- He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here,
Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never
mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can,"
said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she
went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do
with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when
her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of
her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in
the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom,
and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus
removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a
considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not
observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What
is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"
"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still
five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly
got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,"
took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke
her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that she would not give
into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,
"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to
go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her
mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going up stairs to
sit in my dressing room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her
mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight,
then returned into the drawing room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were
ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed
lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable
addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness
of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an
invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed,
chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to
shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference.
Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to
bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded
that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley
was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning
together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his
companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that
could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more
communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of
course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention
was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth,
who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon
after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not
be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing
room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there
was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening
the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the
hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no
suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from
each other, would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but
her's she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as
the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her
sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where
confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with
the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve
it. Oh! why is not every body 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 my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will
give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much
happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken
up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was
left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was
finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and
vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's
anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by
Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose.
"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.
"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say."
He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and
affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in
the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and
then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his
own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover,
Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally
founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and
super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and
taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them
all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation
to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled,
and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or
speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she
talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined
them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was.
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took
his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter
and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness.
"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in
thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very
well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so
complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant
will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income."
"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be
unpardonable in me." "Exceed their income! My dearMr. 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, dearJane, I am so happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of
sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last.
I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as
ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how
likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man
that ever was seen!" Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond
competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of
the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there
every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested,
had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought himself obliged to
accept. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on 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 sister's doing. They were
certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,
since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But
when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they
will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can
never be what we once were to each other." "That is the most
unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter.
Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's
pretended regard." "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to
town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my
being indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!" "He
made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty."
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the
little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find,
that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend, for, though Jane had
the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a
circumstance which must prejudice her against him. "I am certainly the
most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy,
why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could
but see you as happy! If there were but such another man for you!"
"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you.
Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness.
No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may
meet with another Mr. Collins in time." The situation of affairs in the
Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to
whisper it to Mrs. 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.
One morning, about a
week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the
females of the family were sitting together in the dining room, their attention
was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they
perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the
morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of any
of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the
livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was
certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss
Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him
into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining
three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
open, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh. They were of
course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their
expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly
unknown to them, even inferior to whatElizabeth felt. She entered the room with
an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's
salutation, than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying
a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother, on her ladyship's
entrance, though no request of introduction had been made. Mrs. Bennet all
amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received
her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said
very stiffly to Elizabeth, "I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I
suppose is your mother." Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
"And that I suppose is one of your sisters." "Yes, madam,"
said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine. "She is my
youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married, and my eldest is
some-where about the grounds, walking with a young man, who I believe will soon
become a part of the family." "You have a very small park here,"
returned lady Catherine after a short silence. "It is nothing in
comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I assure you it is much larger
than Sir William Lucas's." "This must be a most inconvenient sitting
room for the evening, in summer; the windows are full west." Mrs. Bennet
assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then added, "May I
take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins
well." "Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from Charlotte,
as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared,
and she was completely puzzled. Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her
ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not
very politely, declined eating any thing; and then rising up, said to
Elizabeth, "Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if
you will favour me with your company." "Go, my dear," cried her
mother, "and shew 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 down stairs. As they passed
through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking
rooms, walked on. Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that
led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation
with a woman, who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.
"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked
in her face. As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
following manner: -- "You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand
the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell
you why I come." Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
for the honour of seeing you here." "Miss Bennet," replied her
ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to know, that I am not to be
trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me
so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and
in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A
report of a most alarming nature, reached me two days ago. I was told, that not
only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but
that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must
be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place,
that I might make my sentiments known to you." "If you believed it
impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and
disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your
ladyship propose by it?" "At once to insist upon having such a report
universally contradicted." "Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and
my family," said Elizabeth, coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of
it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence." "If! do you then
pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by
yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?" "I
never heard that it was." "And can you likewise declare, that there
is no foundation for it?" "I do not pretend to possess equal
frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions, which I shall not choose
to answer." "This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"
"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible." "It ought to
be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and
allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes
to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in." "If I
have, I shall be the last person to confess it." "Miss Bennet, do you
know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost
the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his
dearest concerns." "But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will
such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit." "Let me be
rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire,
can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to mydaughter. Now what
have you to say?" "Only this; that if he is so, you can have no
reason to suppose he will make an offer to me." Lady Catherine hesitated
for a moment, and then replied, "The engagement between them is of a
peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It
was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of her's. While in their
cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both
sisters would be accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young
woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and
delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his earliest hours he was
destined for his cousin?" "Yes, and I had heard it before. But what
is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I
shall certainly not be kept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished
him to marry Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the
marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour
nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice?
And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?" "Because honour,
decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do
not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against
the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by 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 daughter and my nephew are formed for each
other. They are descended on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and,
on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled
families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each
other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to
divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family,
connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be.
If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere,
in which you have been brought up." "In marrying your nephew, I
should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a
gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal." "True. You are a
gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts?
Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition." "Whatever my
connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object
to them, they can be nothing to you." "Tell me once for all, are you
engaged to him?" Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of
obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say,
after a moment's deliberation, "I am not." Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"
"I will make no promise of the kind." "Miss Bennet I am shocked
and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not
deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away,
till you have given me the assurance I require." "And I certainly
never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly
unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would
my giving you the wished-for promise, make their marriage at all more probable?
Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand, make
him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the
arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application, have
been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken
my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How
far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot
tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject." "Not so
hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have
already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars
of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young
man's marrying her, was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father
and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, 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 farther 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 farther to say. You know
my sentiments." "You are then resolved to have him?" "I
have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will,
in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any
person so wholly unconnected with me." "It is well. You refuse, then,
to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You
are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the
contempt of the world." "Neither duty, nor honour, nor
gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any possible claim on me, in the
present instance. No principle of either, would be violated by my marriage with
Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation
of the world, if the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give
me one moment's concern -- and the world in general would have too much sense
to join in the scorn." "And this is your real opinion! This is your
final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss
Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped
to find you reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point." In this
manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of the carriage,
when turning hastily round, she added, "I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet.
I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most
seriously displeased." Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to
persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself.
She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine
would not come in again and rest herself. "She did not choose it,"
said her daughter, "she would go." "She is a very fine-looking woman!
and her calling here was prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to
tell us the Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and
so passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose
she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?" Elizabeth was forced to
give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the substance of their
conversation was impossible.
The discomposure of
spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into, could not be
easily overcome; nor could she for many hours, learn to think of it less than
incessantly. Lady Catherine it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this
journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement
with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report
of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till
she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being
the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding,
made every body eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself
forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more
frequently together. And her neighbours at Lucas lodge, therefore, (for through
their communication with the Collinses, the report she concluded had reached
lady Catherine) had only set that down, as almost certain and immediate, which
she had looked forward to as possible, at some future time. In revolving lady
Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as
to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what
she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to
Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew; and how he might
take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her,
she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he
thought much higher of her ladyship than she could do; and it was certain, that
in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with one, whose immediate connections
were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side.
With his notions of dignity, he would probable feel that the arguments, which
to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and
solid reasoning. If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which
had often seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might
settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to Bingley
of coming again to Netherfield must give way. "If, therefore, an excuse
for not keeping his promise, should come to his friend within a few days,"
she added, "I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over
every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only
regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon
cease to regret him at all." ------ The surprise of the rest of the
family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they
obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition, which had appeased
Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the
subject. The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her
father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my
room." She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to
tell her, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from
lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent
explanations. She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
down. He then said, "I have received a letter this morning that has
astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to
know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink
of matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest." The
colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of
its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and she was
undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or
offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father
continued, "You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in
such matters as these; but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to discover
the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins." "From Mr.
Collins! and what can he have to say?" "Something very much to the
purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials
of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told, by some of the
good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by
reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows.
"Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and
myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of
another; of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her
elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate, may be
reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious personages in this
land." "Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?"
"This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the
heart of mortal can most desire, -- splendid property, noble kindred, and
extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my
cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate
closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined
to take immediate advantage of." "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this
gentleman is? But now it comes out." "My motive for cautioning you,
is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, lady Catherine de
Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye." "Mr. Darcy,
you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I have surprised you. Could he, or the
Lucases, have pitched on any man, within the circle of our acquaintance, whose
name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy,
who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never
looked at you in his life! It is admirable!" Elizabeth tried to join in
her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never
had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. "Are you
not diverted?" "Oh! yes. Pray read on." "After mentioning
the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately,
with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it
became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my
cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a
match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my
cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and
not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned."
"Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin
Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that
their living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from
declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young couple into your
house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I
been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You
ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never to admit them in your
sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing." "That
is his notion of christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about
his dearCharlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But,
Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be Missish, I
hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but
to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"
"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so
strange!" "Yes -- that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on
any other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and
your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the
preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my
son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did
she call to refuse her consent?" To this question his daughter replied
only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she
was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss
to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when
she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what
he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at
such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too
little, she might have fancied too much.
Instead of receiving
any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr.
Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many
days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and,
before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which
her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane,
proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off
together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them.
They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy, were to entertain each
other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to
talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he
might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished
to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general
concern, when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she
immediately said, "Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the
sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding
your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my
poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my
family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express." "I am
sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and
emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light,
have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be
trusted." "You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first
betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I
could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to
take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of
discovering them." "If you will thank me," he replied, "let
it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add
force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny.
But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought
only of you." Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a
short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me.
If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on
this subject for ever." Elizabeth feeling all the more than common
awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and
immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand, that her
sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he
alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present
assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had
probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly
and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of
heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could
not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of
what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be
thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon
learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the
efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and
there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her
conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the
latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her
perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her
endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which she had refused to
give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly
contrariwise. "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had
scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition
to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me,
you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my
frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to
your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations."
"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you
at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot
think of it without abhorrence." "We will not quarrel for the greater
share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct
of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
have both, I hope, improved in civility." "I cannot be so easily
reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my
manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many
months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall
never forget: ""had you behaved in a more gentleman-like
manner."" Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely
conceive, how they have tortured me; -- though it was some time, I confess,
before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice." "I was
certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had
not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way." "I can
easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am
sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said
that I could not have addressed you in any possible way, that would induce you
to accept me." "Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These
recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most
heartily ashamed of it." Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it,"
said he, "did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it,
give any credit to its contents?" She explained what its effect on her had
been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "I
knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially,
the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again.
I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me."
"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions
not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that
implies." "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I
believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit." "The letter, perhaps,
began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But
think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the
person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then,
that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You
must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance
gives you pleasure." "I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of
the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the
contentment arising from then, 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 I was taught what was
right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles,
but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for
many years an only child) I was spoilt by my parents, who though good
themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,)
allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care
for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the
world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with
my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have
been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was
properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed 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 shew you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as
to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill
opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon
any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in
about half an hour after I had seen you." He then told her of Georgiana's
delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden
interruption; which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she
soon learnt that his resolution, of following her from Derbyshire in quest of
her sister, had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and
thoughtfulness there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a
purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too
painful a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther. After walking several miles
in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know any thing about it, they found at
last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home. "What
could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which introduced the
discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his
friend had given him the earliest information of it. "I must ask whether
you were surprised?" said Elizabeth. "Not at all. When I went away, I
felt that it would soon happen." "That is to say, you had given your
permission. I guessed as much." And though he exclaimed at the term, she
found that it had been pretty much the case. "On the evening before my
going to London," said he "I made a confession to him, which I
believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to
make my former interference in his affairs, absurd and impertinent. His
surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him,
moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that
your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his
attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness
together." Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of
directing his friend. "Did you speak from your own observation," said
she, "when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my
information last spring?" "From the former. I had narrowly observed
her during the two visits which I had lately made 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 diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so
anxious a case, but his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged
to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could
not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last
winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his
anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your
sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now." Elizabeth longed to
observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided
that his worth was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he
had yet to learn to be laught at, and it was rather too early to begin. In
anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only
to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the
hall they parted.
"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 any thing else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy
was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth,
agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy, than felt herself to be
so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before
her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became
known; she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with
the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do
away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from
Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. "You
are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! -- engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall
not deceive me. I know it to be impossible." "This is a wretched
beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will
believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but
the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her
doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike
him." "You know nothing of the matter. That is all to be forgot.
Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth
again, and more seriously assured her of its truth. "Good Heaven! can it
be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried Jane. "My dear,
dearLizzy, I would -- I do congratulate you -- but are you certain? forgive the
question -- are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?"
"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we
are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall
you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could
give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of
it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do
any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel
what you ought to do?" "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel more than
I ought to do, when I tell you all." "What do you mean?"
"Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry." "My dearest sister, now be serious. I want
to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without
delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?" "It has been
coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must
date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley." Another
intreaty 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 farther to wish. "Now I am quite
happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a
value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have
esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only
Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very
reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and
Lambton! I owe all that I know of it, to another, not to you." Elizabeth
told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley;
and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name
of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her, his share in
Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in
conversation. ------ "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood
at a window the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not
coming here again with our dearBingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome
as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or
something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with
him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way." Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;
yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet. As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he
soon afterwards said aloud, "Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts
in whichLizzy 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. Wont it,
Kitty?" Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a
great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,
saying, "I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all
for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except
just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience." During their
walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course
of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's.
She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether
all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the
man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently
delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted
to do credit to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should
hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation. ------ In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the
library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on
seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was
going to be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means, that she,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling
him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched reflection, and
she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at him, she was
a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where
she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending to admire her work, said in a
whisper, "Go to your father, he wants you in the library." She was
gone directly. Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and
anxious. "Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of
your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?" How
earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more reasonable,
her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from explanations and
professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now
necessary, and she assured him with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr.
Darcy. "Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to
be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. But
will they make you happy?" "Have you any other objections," said
Elizabeth, "than your belief of my indifference?" "None at all.
We all know him to be proud, unpleasant sort of a man; but this would be
nothing if you really liked him." "I do, I do like him," she
replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him. Indeed he has no improper
pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do
not pain me by speaking of him in such terms." "Lizzy," said her
father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to
whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he condescended to ask. I now
give it to you, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to
think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be
neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless
you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and
misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect
your partner in life. You know not what you are about." Elizabeth, still
more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and at length, by repeated
assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining
the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her
absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood
the test of many months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good
qualities, she did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the
match. "Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I
have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have
parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy." To complete the
favourable impression, she then told him whatMr. Darcy had voluntarily done for
Lydia. He heard her with astonishment. "This is an evening of wonders,
indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid
the fellow's debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will
save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must
and would have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their
own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his
love for you, and there will be an end of the matter." He then recollected
her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading Mr. Collins's letter; and
after laughing at her some time, allowed her at last to go -- saying, as she
quitted the room, "If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in,
for I am quite at leisure." Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very
heavy weight; and, after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she
was able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too
recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
any thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would
come in time. When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she
followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most
extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable
to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could
comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was
for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of
them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit
down again, wonder, and bless herself. "Good gracious! Lord bless me! only
think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it! And is it really true?
Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what
jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane's is nothing to it -- nothing at
all. I am so pleased -- so happy. Such a charming man! -- so handsome! so tall!
-- Oh, my dearLizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before.
I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dearLizzy. A house in town! Every thing that
is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What will
become of me. I shall go distracted." This was enough to prove that her
approbation need not be doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion
was heard only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three
minutes in her own room, her mother followed her. "My dearest child,"
she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very
likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall
be married by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr.
Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow." This was a
sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman himself might be; and
Elizabeth found, that though in the certain possession of his warmest
affection, and secure of her relations' consent, there was still something to
be wished for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for
Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she
ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any
attention, or mark her deference for his opinion. Elizabeth had the
satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get acquainted with him; and
Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.
"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham,
perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like your husband quite as well
as Jane's."
Elizabeth's spirits
soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his
having ever fallen in love with her. "How could you begin?" said she.
"I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a
beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?" "I cannot
fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the
foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had
begun." "My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners --
my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never
spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
did you admire me for my impertinence?" "For the liveliness of your
mind, I did." "You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was
very little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of
officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking
and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused, and interested
you, because I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable you would
have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself,
your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly
despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There -- I have saved you
the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to
think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me -- but
nobody thinks of that when they fall in love." "Was there no good in
your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was ill at Netherfield?"
"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to
exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find
occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall
begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at
last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called, and afterwards dined
here? Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care
about me?" "Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no
encouragement." "But I was embarrassed." "And so was
I." "You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."
"A man who had felt less, might." "How unlucky that you should
have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to
admit it! But I wonder how long you would have gone on, if you had been left to
yourself. I wonder when you would have spoken, if I had not asked you! My
resolution of thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great
effect. Toomuch, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject? This will never do." "You need not distress yourself. The
moral will be perfectly fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to
separate us, were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my
present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not
in a humour to wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given
me hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing." "Lady
Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she
loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was
it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? or had you intended any more
serious consequence?" "My real purpose was to see you, and to judge,
if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or
what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to
Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since
made." "Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine,
what is to befall her?" "I am more likely to want time than courage,
Elizabeth. But it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper,
it shall be done directly." "And if I had not a letter to write
myself, I might sit by you, and admire the evenness of your writing, as another
young lady once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer
neglected." From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with
Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter, but now, having that to communicate which she knew would be most
welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt had already
lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows: "I would
have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long,
kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too
cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as much
as you chuse; 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
not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I
laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can spare from
me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Your's, &c." Mr.
Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and still different
from either, was whatMr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply to his last.
"DEAR SIR, "I must trouble you once more for congratulations.
Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
"Your's sincerely, &c." Miss Bingley's congratulations to her
brother, on his approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and
insincere. She wrote even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and
repeat all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a
much kinder answer than she knew was deserved. The joy whichMiss Darcy
expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as her brother's in
sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight,
and all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister. Before any answer
could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations to Elizabeth, from his
wife, the Longbourn family heard that the Collinses were come themselves to
Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine
had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter,
that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the
storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere
pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes
think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the
parading and obsequious civility of her husband. He bore it however with
admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he
complimented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and
expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very
decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William
was out of sight. Mrs. 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 whichBingley's good humour
encouraged, yet, whenever she did speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect
for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more elegant.
Elizabeth did all she could, to shield him from the frequent notice of either,
and was ever anxious to keep him to herself, and to those of her family with
whom he might converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable
feelings arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its
pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with
delight to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
Happy for all her
maternal feelings was the day on whichMrs. Bennet got rid of her two most
deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs.
Bingley and talked of Mrs. Darcy may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the
sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in the
establishment of so many of her children, produced so happy an effect as to
make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life;
though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished
domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous
and invariably silly. Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his
affection for her drew him oftener from home than 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 farther disadvantage of Lydia's society she was of
course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come
and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would
never consent to her going. Mary was the only daughter who remained at home;
and she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs.
Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the
world, but she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own, it was
suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much
reluctance. As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution
from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and
falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every thing, was not
wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune.
The congratulatory letter whichElizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage,
explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was
cherished. The letter was to this effect: "MY DEARLIZZY, "I wish you
joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dearWickham, 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. "Your's, &c." As it happened that Elizabeth had much
rather not, she endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every intreaty and
expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to
afford, by the practice of what might be called economy in her own private
expences, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such
an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their
wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support;
and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or herself were sure of
being applied to, for some little assistance towards discharging their bills.
Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a
home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to place
in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His
affection for her soon sunk into indifference; her's 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 farther in his
profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone
to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingley's they both of them
frequently staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was
very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to
retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was
fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and
paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's
home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly whatDarcy had hoped to see.
They were able to love each other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had
the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often
listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive,
manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a
respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her
way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a woman may take
liberties with her husband, which a brother will not always allow in a sister
more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely
indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine
frankness of her character, in her reply to the letter which announced its
arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth,
that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's
persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a
reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt,
her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to
see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at
Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely
from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from
the city. With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into
Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.