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Chapter 2

      Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.
      Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last
      always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the
      evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It
      was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second
      daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her
      with:

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

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

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

      “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two
      nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I
      have no opinion of her.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “To-morrow fortnight.”

      “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come
      back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to
      introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”

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

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

      “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is
      certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by
      the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else
      will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their
      chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,
      if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”

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

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

      Mary wished to say something 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 that
      before? If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not
      have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually
      paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”

      The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of
      Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first
      tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she
      had expected all the while.

      “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
      persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
      neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is
      such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and
      never said a word about it till now.”

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

      “What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the
      door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends
      for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At our time of
      life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new
      acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do
      anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare
      say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”

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

      The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he
      would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should
      ask him to dinner.

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Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

      “Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference
      between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_
      never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He
      could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as
      every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for
      that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave
      to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”

      “Dear Lizzy!”

      “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in
      general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good
      and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a
      human being in your life.”

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

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

      “Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing women when
      you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
      and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a
      very charming neighbour in her.”

      Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their
      behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
      general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy
      of temper than her sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by
      any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve
      them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good
      humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making
      themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited.
      They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
      private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
      pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and
      of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every
      respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of
      others. They were of a respectable family in the north of
      England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories
      than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired
      by trade.

      Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
      thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
      estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it
      likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was
      now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was
      doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his
      temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at
      Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.

      His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own;
      but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley
      was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—nor was Mrs.
      Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less
      disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.
      Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by
      an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did
      look at it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the
      situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
      said in its praise, and took it immediately.

      Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in
      spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to
      Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,
      though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,
      and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the
      strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and
      of his judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
      the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was
      clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
      fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.
      In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
      sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
      giving offense.

      The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
      sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more
      pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been
      most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no
      stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as
      to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.
      Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom
      there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
      felt the smallest interest, and from none received either
      attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
      but she smiled too much.

      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 would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
      was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
      authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.

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Chapter 6

      The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The
      visit was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing
      manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and
      though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger
      sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted
      with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane, this
      attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth
      still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,
      hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though
      their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
      all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration.
      It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire
      her and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to
      the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the
      first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she
      considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered
      by the world in general, since Jane united, with great strength
      of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of
      manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the
      impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.

      “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to
      impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a
      disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her
      affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose
      the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor
      consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so
      much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it
      is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a
      slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us
      who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.
      In nine cases out of ten a woman had better show _more_ affection
      than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may
      never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”

      “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If
      _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton,
      indeed, not to discover it too.”

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

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

      “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley
      and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours
      together; and, as they always see each other in large mixed
      parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in
      conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every
      half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is
      secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as
      much as she chooses.”

      “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is
      in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were
      determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I
      should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not
      acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the
      degree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known
      him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;
      she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined
      with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make
      her understand his character.”

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

      “Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that
      they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to
      any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has
      been unfolded.”

      “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart;
      and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had
      as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his
      character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a
      matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so
      well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does
      not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to
      grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
      vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the
      defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”

      “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it
      is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”

      Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister,
      Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming
      an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy
      had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at
      her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
      looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it
      clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good
      feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
      uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark
      eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.
      Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure
      of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her
      figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting
      that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was
      caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly
      unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable
      nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance
      with.

      He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards
      conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with
      others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William
      Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.

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

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

      “But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I
      see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do
      not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid
      of him.”

      On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming
      to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend
      to mention such a subject to him; which immediately provoking
      Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said:

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

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

      “You are severe on us.”

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

      “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always
      wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my
      vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable;
      but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who
      must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On
      Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well, if it
      must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There
      is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar
      with: ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep
      mine to swell my song.”

      Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a
      song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of
      several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at
      the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of
      being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge
      and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.

      Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given
      her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and
      conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of
      excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected,
      had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing
      half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad
      to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the
      request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases,
      and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end
      of the room.

      Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
      passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and
      was too much engrossed by his 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 society.”

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

      He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not
      disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving
      towards them, he was struck with the action of doing a very
      gallant thing, and called out to her:

      “My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must
      allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable
      partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much
      beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given
      it to Mr. Darcy who, though extremely surprised, was not
      unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said
      with some discomposure to Sir William:

      “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I
      entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg
      for a partner.”

      Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the
      honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor
      did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at
      persuasion.

      “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to
      deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman
      dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am
      sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”

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

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

      Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
      injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with
      some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:

      “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

      “I should imagine not.”

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

      “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
      agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great
      pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman
      can bestow.”

      Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and 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 serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
      absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law,
      indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with
      you.”

      He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
      entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced
      her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.

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Chapter 8

      At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past
      six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries
      which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of
      distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she
      could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means
      better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four
      times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a
      bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves;
      and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference
      towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth
      to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.

      Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she
      could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was
      evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they
      prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed
      she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from
      any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister
      scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he
      was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
      cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
      had nothing to say to her.

      When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss
      Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her
      manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride
      and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty.
      Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added:

      “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an
      excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this
      morning. She really looked almost wild.”

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

      “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches
      deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been
      let down to hide it not doing its office.”

      “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this
      was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked
      remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her
      dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”

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

      “Certainly not.”

      “To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever
      it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What
      could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort
      of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to
      decorum.”

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

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

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

      “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a
      very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well
      settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low
      connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

      To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it
      their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at
      the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.

      With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room
      on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to
      coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit
      her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of
      seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than
      pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the
      drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was
      immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be
      playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse,
      said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
      below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

      “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
      credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I
      have more than I ever looked into.”

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

      “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have
      left so small a collection of books. What a delightful 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 with what passed, as to leave her
      very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
      aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself
      between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.

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

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

      “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who
      delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so
      extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the
      pianoforte is exquisite.”

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

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

      “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,
      and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this,
      and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first
      time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

      “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,
      “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who
      deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a
      screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your
      estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more
      than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that
      are really accomplished.”

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

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

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

      “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be
      really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is
      usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of
      music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to
      deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a
      certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of
      her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but
      half-deserved.”

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

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

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

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

      Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice
      of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew
      many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called
      them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to
      what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an
      end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.

      “Elizabeth 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 a 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
      being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no
      country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to
      town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not
      hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their
      brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be
      sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly
      better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared
      that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
      however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better
      relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions
      that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her
      sister.

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Chapter 10

      The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and
      Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the
      invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the
      evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The
      loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and
      Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his
      letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to
      his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.
      Hurst was observing their game.

      Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
      attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The
      perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting,
      or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter,
      with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received,
      formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her
      opinion of each.

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

      He made no answer.

      “You write uncommonly fast.”

      “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

      “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course
      of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think
      them!”

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

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

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

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

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

      “How can you contrive to write so even?”

      He was silent.

      “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on
      the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with
      her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it
      infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”

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

      “Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do
      you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
      writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity
      of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not
      estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of
      doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the
      possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of
      the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if
      you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in
      five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of
      compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in
      a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,
      and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

      “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all
      the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon
      my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I
      believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume
      the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before
      the ladies.”

      “I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
      you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite
      as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you
      were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had
      better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would
      probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month.”

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

      “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting
      what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my
      temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that
      gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think
      better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat
      denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

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

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

      “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call
      mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,
      however, to stand according to your representation, you must
      remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire
      his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely
      desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of
      its propriety.”

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

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

      “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence
      of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would
      often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for
      arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking
      of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as
      well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we
      discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general
      and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them
      is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great
      moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with
      the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

      “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
      arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which
      is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of
      intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

      “By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars,
      not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will
      have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be
      aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall
      fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so
      much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than
      Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his
      own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has
      nothing to do.”

      Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that
      he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss
      Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an
      expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.

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

      “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and
      Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall
      be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”

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

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

      When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and
      Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
      with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request
      that Elizabeth would lead the way which the other as politely and
      more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.

      Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus
      employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over
      some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.
      Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose
      that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and
      yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still
      more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she
      drew his notice because there was something more wrong and
      reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other
      person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him
      too little to care for his approbation.

      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 officers. And, if I may mention so
      delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something,
      bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady
      possesses.”

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

      “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be
      placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your
      great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,
      only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you
      must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to
      those beautiful eyes?”

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

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

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

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

      Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth
      to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt
      their rudeness, and immediately said:

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

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

      “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and
      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.

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Chapter 12

      In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth
      wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage
      might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet,
      who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till
      the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week,
      could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her
      answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to
      Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
      Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the
      carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that
      if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she
      could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however,
      Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it
      would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered
      as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow
      Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled
      that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning
      should be mentioned, and the request made.

      The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough
      was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day
      to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred.
      Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for
      her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her
      affection for the other.

      The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to
      go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it
      would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but
      Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.

      To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at
      Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and
      Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to
      himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
      sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could
      elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible
      that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the
      last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.
      Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through
      the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by
      themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to
      his book, and would not even look at her.

      On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to
      almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth
      increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for
      Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the
      pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn
      or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook
      hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in
      the liveliest of spirits.

      They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs.
      Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to
      give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold
      again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions
      of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their
      importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when
      they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and
      almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.

      They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and
      human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new
      observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and
      Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been
      done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding
      Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their
      uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been
      hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.

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Chapter 14

      During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the
      servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some
      conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in
      which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very
      fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention
      to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very
      remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins
      was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than
      usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he
      protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour
      in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had
      himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously
      pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already
      had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him
      twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday
      before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady
      Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had
      never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken
      to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the
      smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
      neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a
      week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to
      advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with
      discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble
      parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations
      he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some
      herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”

      “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,
      “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that
      great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near
      you, sir?”

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

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

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

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

      “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself
      says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far
      superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in
      her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth.
      She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has
      prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments
      which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by
      the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides
      with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to
      drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”

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

      “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in
      town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has
      deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her
      ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I
      am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate
      compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more
      than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter
      seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank,
      instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These
      are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it
      is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
      to pay.”

      “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for
      you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May
      I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse
      of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

      “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though
      I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such
      little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary
      occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as
      possible.”

      Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as
      absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest
      enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute
      composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at
      Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.

      By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet
      was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when
      tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr.
      Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on
      beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a
      circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,
      protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and
      Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
      deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened
      the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity,
      read three pages, she interrupted him with:

      “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
      Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt
      told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow
      to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from
      town.”

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

      “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by
      books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their
      benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be
      nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no
      longer importune my young cousin.”

      Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist
      at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that
      he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling
      amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly
      for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur
      again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after
      assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and
      should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself
      at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.

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Chapter 16

      As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with
      their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and
      Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most
      steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at
      a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of
      hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had
      accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house.

      When this information was given, and they had all taken their
      seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire,
      and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the
      apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself
      in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison
      that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs.
      Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its
      proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one
      of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the
      chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
      the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a
      comparison with the housekeeper’s room.

      In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her
      mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble
      abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily
      employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs.
      Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his
      consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving
      to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To
      the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had
      nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their
      own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
      interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last,
      however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked
      into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing
      him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree
      of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in
      general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of
      them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond
      them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were
      superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing
      port wine, who followed them into the room.

      Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female
      eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he
      finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he
      immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its
      being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest,
      most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill
      of the speaker.

      With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and
      the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to
      the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at
      intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her
      watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
      When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of
      obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.

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

      Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
      received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first
      there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she
      was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond
      of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the
      game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to
      have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common
      demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk
      to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what
      she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the
      history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even
      mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
      relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how
      far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her
      answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been
      staying there.

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

      “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A
      clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a
      person more capable of giving you certain information on that
      head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a
      particular manner from my infancy.”

      Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

      “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,
      after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our
      meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

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

      “I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his
      being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I
      have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is
      impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion
      of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not
      express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your
      own family.”

      “Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house
      in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked
      in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will
      not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”

      “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
      interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated
      beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often
      happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or
      frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as
      he chooses to be seen.”

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

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

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

      “Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
      _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on
      friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I
      have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim
      before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most
      painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,
      the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,
      and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company
      with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
      thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
      scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
      everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and
      disgracing the memory of his father.”

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

      Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
      neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all
      that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but
      very intelligible gallantry.

      “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he
      added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I
      knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend
      Denny tempted me further by his account of their present
      quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent
      acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is
      necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits
      will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A
      military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances
      have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my
      profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this
      time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it
      pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”

      “Indeed!”

      “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of
      the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively
      attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to
      provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the
      living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

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

      “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest
      as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have
      doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to
      treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert
      that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
      imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the
      living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to
      hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less
      certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
      anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,
      and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
      freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are
      very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”

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

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

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

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

      “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot
      but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy
      liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his
      father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very
      early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of
      competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was
      often given me.”

      “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never
      liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed
      him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not
      suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such
      injustice, such inhumanity as this.”

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

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

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

      “We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the
      greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the
      same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same
      parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which
      your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he
      gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted
      all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most
      highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential
      friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the
      greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and
      when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
      voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he
      felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his
      affection to myself.”

      “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that
      the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If
      from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to
      be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”

      “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions
      may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.
      It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other
      feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour
      to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

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

      “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give
      his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,
      and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride—for he is
      very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear
      to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities,
      or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful
      motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_
      brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian
      of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the
      most attentive and best of brothers.”

      “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”

      He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me
      pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her
      brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and
      pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and
      hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a
      handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand,
      highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been
      London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
      education.”

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

      “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr.
      Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe,
      truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they
      suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”

      “Not at all.”

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

      “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does
      not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he
      thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals
      in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the
      less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich
      he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and
      perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”

      The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered
      round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between
      his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to
      his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great;
      he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express
      her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity
      that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the
      money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make
      herself uneasy.

      “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down
      to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things,
      and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five
      shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not
      say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am
      removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”

      Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr.
      Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice
      whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the
      family of de Bourgh.

      “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given
      him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced
      to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”

      “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne
      Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present
      Mr. Darcy.”

      “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s
      connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
      yesterday.”

      “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,
      and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two
      estates.”

      This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor
      Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and
      useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,
      if he were already self-destined for another.

      “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine
      and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related
      of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that
      in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
      conceited woman.”

      “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I
      have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I
      never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and
      insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and
      clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities
      from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner,
      and the rest from the pride for her nephew, who chooses that
      everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the
      first class.”

      Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of
      it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction
      till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies
      their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no
      conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but
      his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was
      said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went
      away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of
      Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but
      there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went,
      for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
      incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
      fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of
      Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least
      regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper,
      and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to
      say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at
      Longbourn House.

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Chapter 18

      Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and
      looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats
      there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred
      to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any
      of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed
      her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in
      the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained
      unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might
      be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
      dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s
      pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though
      this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence
      was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly
      applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to
      town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;
      adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business
      would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to
      avoid a certain gentleman here.”

      This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was
      caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not
      less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise
      had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former
      was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could
      hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries
      which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance,
      forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was
      resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned
      away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly
      surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality
      provoked her.

      But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every
      prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not
      dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to
      Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon
      able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her
      cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first
      two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
      dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
      apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without
      being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a
      disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment
      of her release from him was ecstasy.

      She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of
      talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked.
      When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and
      was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly
      addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his
      application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she
      accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left
      to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to
      console her:

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

      “Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!
      To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not
      wish me such an evil.”

      When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to
      claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a
      whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham
      to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his
      consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the
      set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being
      allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her
      neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They
      stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
      imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,
      and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying
      that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige
      him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He
      replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she
      addressed him a second time with:—“It is _your_ turn to say
      something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_
      ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the
      number of couples.”

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

      “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by
      I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public
      ones. But _now_ we may be silent.”

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

      “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd
      to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the
      advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as
      that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

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

      “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
      similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
      taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
      something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
      posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.”

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

      “I must not decide on my own performance.”

      He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone
      down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not
      very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and,
      unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there
      the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

      The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread
      his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though
      blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length
      Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is
      blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_
      friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is
      less certain.”

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

      Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the
      subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to
      them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the
      room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of
      superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his
      partner.

      “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
      superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong
      to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair
      partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this
      pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable
      event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall
      take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to
      Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank
      me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young
      lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

      The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but
      Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him
      forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious
      expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.
      Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,
      and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we
      were talking of.”

      “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not
      have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for
      themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without
      success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

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

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

      “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at
      least be no want of subject. We may compare our different
      opinions.”

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

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

      “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for
      her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
      afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember
      hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave,
      that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very
      cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created?_”

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

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

      “I hope not.”

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

      “May I ask to what these questions tend?”

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

      “And what is your success?”

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

      “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may
      vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,
      that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment,
      as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no
      credit on either.”

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

      “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly
      replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and
      parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to
      an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably
      powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and
      directed all his anger against another.

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

      “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
      Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking
      me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite
      forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was
      the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me
      recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit
      confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him
      ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always
      been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
      Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the
      particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the
      least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham
      mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not
      well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he
      was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the
      way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing,
      indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
      Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but
      really, considering his descent, one could not expect much
      better.”

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

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

      “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much
      mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as
      this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the
      malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had
      undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane
      met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such
      happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was
      satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth
      instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
      Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else,
      gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for
      happiness.

      “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling
      than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But
      perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any
      third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”

      “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
      satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
      his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which
      have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the
      good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is
      perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less
      attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to
      say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no
      means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very
      imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”

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

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

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

      “He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has
      heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it
      was left to him _conditionally_ only.”

      “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth
      warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances
      only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I
      dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the
      story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall
      venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”

      She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each,
      and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth
      listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which
      Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her
      power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by
      Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose
      inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had
      scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told
      her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
      to make a most important discovery.

      “I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there
      is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to
      overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who
      does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de
      Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these
      sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with,
      perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I
      am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay
      my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will
      excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the
      connection must plead my apology.”

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

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

      Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring
      him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without
      introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment
      to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should
      be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong
      to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the
      acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air
      of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,
      replied thus:

      “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world
      in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of
      your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a
      wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst
      the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me
      leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in
      point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided
      that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time
      maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of
      my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I
      look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by
      your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
      guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted
      by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a
      young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to
      attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly
      watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very
      evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and
      though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it
      all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,”
      “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see
      him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with
      unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him
      time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.
      Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and
      Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length
      of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a
      slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to
      Elizabeth.

      “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied
      with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the
      attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid
      me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady
      Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a
      favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon
      the whole, I am much pleased with him.”

      As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she
      turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr.
      Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her
      observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as
      Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the
      felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she
      felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to
      like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw
      were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near
      her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper,
      therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
      placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to
      find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas)
      freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane
      would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating
      subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while
      enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a
      charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from
      them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was
      such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane,
      and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
      she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her
      younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them
      in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at
      her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to
      the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go
      into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this
      circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it
      is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to
      find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
      concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be
      equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing
      there was no chance of it.

      In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her
      mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a
      less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she
      could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy,
      who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being
      nonsensical.

      “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I
      am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged
      to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”

      “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be
      for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to
      his friend by so doing!”

      Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her
      mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.
      Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She
      could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though
      every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was
      not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his
      attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face
      changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
      steady gravity.

      At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady
      Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights
      which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts
      of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not
      long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over,
      singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing
      Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the
      company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she
      endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain;
      Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting
      was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes
      were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched
      her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which
      was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,
      amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she
      might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of
      half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means
      fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner
      affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see
      how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley.
      She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of
      derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
      imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
      interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the
      hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,
      “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long
      enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”

      Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;
      and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech,
      was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were
      now applied to.

      “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to
      sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the
      company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
      diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
      clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be
      justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there
      are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a
      parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an
      agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
      offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the
      time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and
      the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be
      excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not
      think it of light importance that he should have attentive and
      conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those
      to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;
      nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of
      testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
      family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,
      which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.
      Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.
      Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins
      for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to
      Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young
      man.

      To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement
      to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it
      would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more
      spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley
      and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his
      notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much
      distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his
      two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an
      opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she
      could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman,
      or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

      The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was
      teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her
      side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him
      again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did
      she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to
      introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that
      as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief
      object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and
      that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
      the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She
      owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often
      joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s
      conversation to herself.

      She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further
      notice; though often standing within a very short distance of
      her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She
      felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.
      Wickham, and rejoiced in it.

      The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart,
      and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their
      carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone,
      which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by
      some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened
      their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently
      impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every
      attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
      languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by
      the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr.
      Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,
      and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their
      behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,
      in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane
      were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and
      talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
      silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was
      too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation
      of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.

      When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most
      pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at
      Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to
      assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner
      with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal
      invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily
      engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,
      after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the
      next day for a short time.

      Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under
      the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary
      preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes,
      she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in
      the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter
      married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and
      with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the
      least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the
      match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was
      eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.

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Chapter 20

      Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
      successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the
      vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw
      Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the
      staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated
      both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their
      nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these
      felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate
      the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he
      trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal
      which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
      from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her
      character.

      This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have
      been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to
      encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared
      not believe it, and could not help saying so.

      “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall
      be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She
      is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own
      interest but I will _make_ her know it.”

      “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but
      if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she
      would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my
      situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage
      state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,
      perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me,
      because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not
      contribute much to my felicity.”

      “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.
      “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything
      else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go
      directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with
      her, I am sure.”

      She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to
      her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr.
      Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You
      must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
      not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his
      mind and not have _her_.”

      Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and
      fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the
      least altered by her communication.

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

      “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr.
      Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have
      Lizzy.”

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

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

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

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

      “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have
      sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr.
      Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth
      replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you
      have refused?”

      “I have, sir.”

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

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

      “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day
      you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will
      never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will
      never see you again if you _do_.”

      Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a
      beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her
      husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively
      disappointed.

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

      “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to
      request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my
      understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room.
      I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”

      Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband,
      did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again
      and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to
      secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible
      mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with
      real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to
      her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination
      never did.

      Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had
      passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what
      motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was
      hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite
      imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s
      reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

      While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to
      spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,
      who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are
      come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened
      this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she
      will not have him.”

      Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by
      Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they
      entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she
      likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her
      compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to
      comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss
      Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my
      side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels
      for my poor nerves.”

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

      “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as
      unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were
      at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss
      Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer
      of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and
      I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father
      is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I
      have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,
      you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will
      find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to
      undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in
      talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous
      complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can
      tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not
      complain are never pitied.”

      Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
      any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase
      the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption
      from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who
      entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on
      perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon
      it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr.
      Collins have a little conversation together.”

      Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
      followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she
      could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
      Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were
      very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself
      with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a
      doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh!
      Mr. Collins!”

      “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this
      point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice
      that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your
      daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all;
      the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I
      have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps
      not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had
      my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often
      observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
      blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
      estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any
      disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my
      pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid
      yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to
      interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be
      objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your
      daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
      error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My
      object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with
      due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my
      _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to
      apologise.”

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Chapter 22

      The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again
      during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen
      to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.
      “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged
      to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her
      satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for
      the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but
      Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any
      conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
      from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them
      towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances
      were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would
      have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave
      Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the
      fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape
      out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness,
      and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was
      anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction
      that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture
      his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till
      its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
      secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably
      encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure
      of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering
      kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked
      towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally
      in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love
      and eloquence awaited her there.

      In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,
      everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both;
      and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name
      the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such
      a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no
      inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with
      which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any
      charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss
      Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested
      desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment
      were gained.

      Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their
      consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.
      Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for
      their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his
      prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas
      began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter
      had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was
      likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion,
      that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
      Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and
      his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole
      family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The
      younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner
      than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved
      from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.
      Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her
      point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in
      general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither
      sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his
      attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her
      husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,
      marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision
      for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however
      uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
      preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained;
      and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
      handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
      circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to
      Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any
      other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame
      her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings
      must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her
      the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when
      he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
      passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of
      course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without
      difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst
      forth in such very direct questions on his return as required
      some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising
      great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous
      love.

      As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any
      of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when
      the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great
      politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see
      him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him
      to visit them.

      “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
      gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
      you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon
      as possible.”

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

      “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,
      my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the
      risk of offending your patroness.”

      “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to
      you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not
      taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”

      “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather
      than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by
      your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly
      probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall
      take no offence.”

      “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
      affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily
      receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other
      mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my
      fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render
      it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health
      and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”

      With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them
      equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet
      wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his
      addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been
      prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher
      than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections
      which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as
      herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve
      himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
      agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of
      this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,
      and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of
      the day before.

      The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with
      her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or
      two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far
      from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her
      astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first
      the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:

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

      The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling
      her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so
      direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected,
      she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:

      “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it
      incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s
      good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with
      you?”

      But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong
      effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that
      the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her,
      and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.

      “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be
      surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was
      wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it
      over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am
      not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable
      home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and
      situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness
      with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the
      marriage state.”

      Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward
      pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not
      stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what
      she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all
      reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness
      of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days
      was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had
      always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly
      like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that,
      when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
      feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins
      was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend
      disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the
      distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to
      be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.

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Chapter 24

      Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very
      first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled
      in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret
      at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in
      Hertfordshire before he left the country.

      Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the
      rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed
      affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss
      Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions
      were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their
      increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment
      of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She
      wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate
      of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
      the latter with regard to new furniture.

      Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all
      this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided
      between concern for her sister, and resentment against all
      others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to
      Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,
      she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had
      always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
      anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that
      want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his
      designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
      to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,
      however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to
      sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her
      sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible
      himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be
      long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing
      else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or
      were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been
      aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his
      observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him
      must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s
      situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.

      A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her
      feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them
      together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield
      and its master, she could not help saying:

      “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can
      have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual
      reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long.
      He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”

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

      “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
      no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
      acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or
      fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not
      _that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to
      get the better.”

      With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort
      immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on
      my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”

      “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your
      sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know
      what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or
      loved you as you deserve.”

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

      “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all
      the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.
      _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself
      against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my
      encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need
      not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of
      whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I
      dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the
      inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little
      dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
      sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not
      mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!
      In every view it is unaccountable!”

      “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They
      will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for
      difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s
      respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.
      Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune,
      it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for
      everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and
      esteem for our cousin.”

      “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no
      one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I
      persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only
      think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My
      dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded,
      silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as
      well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper
      way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte
      Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the
      meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
      yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility
      of danger security for happiness.”

      “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”
      replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing
      them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something
      else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you,
      but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that
      person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must
      not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must
      not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and
      circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that
      deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”

      “And men take care that they should.”

      “If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have
      no idea of there being so much design in the world as some
      persons imagine.”

      “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to
      design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to
      make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.
      Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings,
      and want of resolution, will do the business.”

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

      “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by
      saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you
      can.”

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

      “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

      “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They
      can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no
      other woman can secure it.”

      “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides
      his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and
      consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the
      importance of money, great connections, and pride.”

      “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied
      Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are
      supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known
      me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their
      own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their
      brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it,
      unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed
      him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so,
      they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make
      everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do
      not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
      mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison
      of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let
      me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be
      understood.”

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

      Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning
      no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did
      not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever
      considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to
      convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his
      attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and
      transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but
      though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time,
      she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best
      comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

      Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he
      one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate
      her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little
      in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives
      her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn
      to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is
      your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all
      the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a
      pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

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

      “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that
      whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate
      mother who will make the most of it.”

      Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the
      gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of
      the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other
      recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The
      whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr.
      Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly
      acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to
      know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had
      known anything of the matter.

      Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might
      be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the
      society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always
      pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but
      by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.

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Chapter 26

      Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly
      given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her
      alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went
      on:

      “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely
      because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not
      afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your
      guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an
      affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.
      I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting
      young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should
      think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let
      your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect
      you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
      good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”

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

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

      “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
      myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,
      if I can prevent it.”

      “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”

      “I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love
      with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all
      comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes
      really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should
      not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!
      My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I
      should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial
      to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to
      be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every
      day that where there is affection, young people are seldom
      withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
      engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than
      so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even
      to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise
      you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry
      to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with
      him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”

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

      “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:
      “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do
      not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your
      account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You
      know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company
      for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do
      what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”

      Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked
      her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful
      instance of advice being given on such a point, without being
      resented.

      Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been
      quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode
      with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs.
      Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at
      length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even
      repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_
      they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on
      Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose
      to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and
      reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,
      accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs
      together, Charlotte said:

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

      “_That_ you certainly shall.”

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

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

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

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

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

      The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent
      from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to
      hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her
      friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as
      it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was
      impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling
      that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined
      not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what
      had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were
      received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
      curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she
      would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce
      herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt
      that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she
      might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with
      comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The
      house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her
      taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and
      obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings
      rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
      for her own visit there to know the rest.

      Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce
      their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth
      hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

      Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as
      impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without
      either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it,
      however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from
      Longbourn had by some accident been lost.

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

      She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss
      Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,
      “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving
      her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my
      last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their
      brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.
      Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy
      was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not
      long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I
      shall see them soon here.”

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

      Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She
      endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but
      she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After
      waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing
      every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last
      appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the
      alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
      longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister
      will prove what she felt.

      “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
      her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to
      have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But,
      my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not
      think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her
      behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I
      do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate
      with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am
      sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit
      till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the
      meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no
      pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
      calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and
      was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went
      away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no
      longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very
      wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every
      advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because
      she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am
      very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need
      not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know this anxiety to
      be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account
      for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his
      sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural
      and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such
      fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have
      met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from
      something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner
      of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is
      really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were
      not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say
      that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I
      will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of
      what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable
      kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
      soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to
      Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any
      certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that
      you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford.
      Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you
      will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.”

      This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as
      she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister
      at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely
      over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions.
      His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for
      him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped
      he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s
      account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown
      away.

      Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
      concerning that gentleman, and required information; and
      Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to
      her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,
      his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else.
      Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it
      and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but
      slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing
      that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted
      it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
      remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering
      himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in
      this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his
      wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more
      natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few
      struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and
      desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him
      happy.

      All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating
      the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear
      aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really
      experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present
      detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my
      feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are even
      impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at
      all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good
      sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness
      has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
      interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in
      love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative
      insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.
      Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.
      They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the
      mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something
      to live on as well as the plain.”

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Chapter 28

      Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to
      Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she
      had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her
      health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant
      source of delight.

      When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye
      was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to
      bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary
      on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she
      had heard of its inhabitants.

      At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to
      the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the
      laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins
      and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at
      the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house,
      amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they
      were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.
      Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and
      Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found
      herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her
      cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal
      civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
      minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all
      her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing
      out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as
      soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,
      with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually
      repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.

      Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not
      help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the
      room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself
      particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had
      lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and
      comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of
      repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she
      could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.
      Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
      ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily
      turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a
      faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After
      sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the
      room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of
      their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr.
      Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was
      large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he
      attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
      respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of
      countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of
      the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.
      Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and
      scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked
      for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left
      beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every
      direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most
      distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
      the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with
      the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that
      bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was
      a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.

      From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two
      meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the
      remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William
      accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the
      house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity
      of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small,
      but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and
      arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave
      Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten,
      there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
      Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must
      be often forgotten.

      She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the
      country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when
      Mr. Collins joining in, observed:

      “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady
      Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need
      not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and
      condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some
      portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any
      hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in
      every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.
      Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at
      Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her
      ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say,
      one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”

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

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

      The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
      and telling again what had already been written; and when it
      closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to
      meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand
      her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her
      husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She
      had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor
      of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr.
      Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A
      lively imagination soon settled it all.

      About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting
      ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole
      house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard
      somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly
      after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing
      place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—

      “Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the
      dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not
      tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”

      Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing
      more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the
      lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a
      low phaeton at the garden gate.

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

      “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is
      not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives
      with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is
      quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be
      so thin and small?”

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

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

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

      Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in
      conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s
      high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest
      contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing
      whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.

      At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on,
      and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw
      the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good
      fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the
      whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

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Chapter 30

      Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was
      long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most
      comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and
      such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William
      was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out
      in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away,
      the whole family returned to their usual employments, and
      Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
      cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between
      breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the
      garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window
      in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which
      the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather
      wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for
      common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant
      aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason
      for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
      much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally
      lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.

      From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane,
      and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what
      carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh
      drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform
      them of, though it happened almost every day. She not
      unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’
      conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon
      to get out.

      Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to
      Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it
      necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that
      there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could
      not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they
      were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped
      her observation that was passing in the room during these visits.
      She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and
      advised them to do it differently; found fault with the
      arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in
      negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it
      only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of
      meat were too large for her family.

      Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
      commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active
      magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were
      carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers
      were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she
      sallied forth into the village to settle their differences,
      silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.

      The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a
      week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being
      only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was
      the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few,
      as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond
      Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and
      upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were
      half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the
      weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great
      enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
      frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine,
      was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where
      there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but
      herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s
      curiosity.

      In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed
      away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to
      bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a
      circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her
      arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few
      weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom
      she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively
      new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused
      in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his
      behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by
      Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
      satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration,
      and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been
      frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.

      His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was
      walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into
      Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and
      after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park,
      hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following
      morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were
      two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had
      brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his
      uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
      Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte
      had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and
      immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour
      they might expect, adding:

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

      Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
      compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell,
      and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room.
      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not
      handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.
      Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in
      Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to
      Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
      friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth
      merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.

      Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
      readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very
      pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight
      observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some
      time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his
      civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the
      health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and
      after a moment’s pause, added:

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

      She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to
      see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed
      between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little
      confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to
      meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the
      gentlemen soon afterwards went away.

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