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Chapter 41

      The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.
      It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the
      young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The
      dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were
      still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course
      of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for
      this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was
      extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in
      any of the family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
      Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all
      sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of
      Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed
      to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.

      But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for
      she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the
      colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This
      invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately
      married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had
      recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_
      months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

      The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.
      Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of
      Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her
      sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless
      ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and
      talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty
      continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as
      unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

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

      In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to
      make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was
      so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother
      and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all
      possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as
      such a step must make her were it known, she could not help
      secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented
      to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the
      little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a
      woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
      imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the
      temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her
      attentively, and then said:

      “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some
      public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with
      so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the
      present circumstances.”

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

      “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened
      away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast
      down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a
      little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the
      list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s
      folly.”

      “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It
      is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now
      complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must
      be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of
      all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must
      speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble
      of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her
      present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will
      soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be
      fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
      that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in
      the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any
      attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the
      ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off
      any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for
      admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is
      comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
      ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,
      can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and
      despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not
      be often involved in the disgrace?”

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

      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are
      known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear
      to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very
      silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does
      not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a
      sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she
      is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At
      Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt
      than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth
      their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may
      teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
      many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the
      rest of her life.”

      With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own
      opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and
      sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her
      vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having
      performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or
      augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.

      Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference
      with her father, their indignation would hardly have found
      expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a
      visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly
      happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets
      of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself
      the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present
      unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched
      forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
      and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the
      view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting
      with at least six officers at once.

      Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects
      and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?
      They could have been understood only by her mother, who might
      have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that
      consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never
      intending to go there himself.

      But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their
      raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of
      Lydia’s leaving home.

      Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having
      been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation
      was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality
      entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very
      gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a
      sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to
      herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the
      inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
      had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,
      after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern
      for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such
      idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed
      it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing,
      that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had
      been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference
      secured at any time by their renewal.

      On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he
      dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
      was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
      his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had
      passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr.
      Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,
      if he was acquainted with the former.

      He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s
      recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly
      seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very
      gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer
      was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon
      afterwards added:

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

      “Nearly three weeks.”

      “And you saw him frequently?”

      “Yes, almost every day.”

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

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

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

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

      While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
      rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
      something in her countenance which made him listen with an
      apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:

      “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean
      that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but
      that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better
      understood.”

      Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and
      agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off
      his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the
      gentlest of accents:

      “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
      comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to
      assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that
      direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others,
      for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have
      suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which
      you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his
      visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands
      much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when
      they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish
      of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain
      he has very much at heart.”

      Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered
      only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted
      to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was
      in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with
      the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no
      further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last
      with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never
      meeting again.

      When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to
      Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning.
      The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than
      pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep
      from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good
      wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her
      injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying
      herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason
      to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous
      happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle
      adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

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Chapter 43

      Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance
      of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length
      they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

      The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.
      They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some
      time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

      Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and
      admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually
      ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of
      a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was
      instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite
      side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.
      It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising
      ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front,
      a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but
      without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal
      nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen
      a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty
      had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
      all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt
      that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

      They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
      door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all
      her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest
      the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place,
      they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited
      for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she
      was.

      The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much
      less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding
      her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,
      well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after
      slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.
      The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving
      increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.
      Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the
      whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the
      winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with
      delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were
      taking different positions; but from every window there were
      beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their
      furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but
      Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither
      gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real
      elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

      “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!
      With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!
      Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in
      them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and
      aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my
      uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been
      allowed to invite them.”

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

      She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was
      really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,
      the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with
      alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we
      expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How
      rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any
      circumstance been delayed a day!

      Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and
      saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other
      miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,
      how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it
      was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s
      steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He
      is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has
      turned out very wild.”

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

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

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

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

      “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

      Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”

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

      “Yes, very handsome.”

      “I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up
      stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
      This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these
      miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of
      them.”

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

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

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

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

      Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,
      encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;
      Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great
      pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.

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

      “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend
      half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer
      months.”

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

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

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

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

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

      This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite
      to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her
      firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed
      to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:

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

      “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I
      could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that
      they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when
      they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most
      generous-hearted boy in the world.”

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

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

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

      Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for
      more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She
      related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the
      rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner,
      highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he
      attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led
      again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many
      merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

      “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that
      ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of
      nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or
      servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him
      proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it
      is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”

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

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

      “Perhaps we might be deceived.”

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

      On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very
      pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
      lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it
      was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a
      liking to the room when last at Pemberley.

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

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

      The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,
      were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good
      paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such
      as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to
      look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects
      were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.

      In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could
      have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked
      in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.
      At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to
      Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to
      have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several
      minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and
      returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.
      Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s
      lifetime.

      There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more
      gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at
      the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on
      him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is
      more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a
      brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s
      happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain
      was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be
      done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the
      housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood
      before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
      upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment
      of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its
      warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

      When all of the house that was open to general inspection had
      been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the
      housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at
      the hall-door.

      As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth
      turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and
      while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,
      the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,
      which led behind it to the stables.

      They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was
      his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their
      eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with
      the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed
      immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced
      towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of
      perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

      She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
      received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
      overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the
      picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure
      the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s
      expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately
      have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to
      their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift
      her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to
      his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of
      his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered
      was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
      impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the
      few minutes in which they continued were some of the most
      uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;
      when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and
      he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left
      Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and
      in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his
      thoughts.

      At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a
      few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected
      himself, and took leave.

      The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his
      figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by
      her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered
      by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate,
      the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must
      appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so
      vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself
      in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come
      a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
      sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
      discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment
      arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She
      blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And
      his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he
      should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such
      civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she
      seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with
      such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast
      did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his
      letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to
      account for it.

      They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,
      and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a
      finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it
      was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and,
      though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her
      uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as
      they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her
      thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
      whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to
      know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he
      thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was
      still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt
      himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
      not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
      seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her
      with composure.

      At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence
      of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more
      like herself.

      They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a
      while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where
      the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many
      charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long
      range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the
      stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole
      park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant
      smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the
      matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought
      them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to
      the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They
      crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air
      of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet
      visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed
      room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough
      coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its
      windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived
      their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great
      walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the
      carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,
      obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on
      the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but
      their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to
      indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
      engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in
      the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced
      but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were
      again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to
      what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
      them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less
      sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
      they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more
      prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and
      to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a
      few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into
      some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk
      concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was
      immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost
      none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she
      began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she
      had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
      some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise
      of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her
      colour changed, and she said no more.

      Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,
      he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to
      her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was
      quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his
      being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people
      against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself.
      “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they
      are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”

      The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named
      their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to
      see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his
      decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.
      That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident; he
      sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going
      away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with
      Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but
      triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some
      relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
      attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
      expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his
      intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.

      The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.
      Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as
      often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood,
      offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and
      pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually
      most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with
      Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said
      nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be
      all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
      continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what
      can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ sake
      that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could
      not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should
      still love me.”

      After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the
      two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending
      to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some
      curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It
      originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the
      morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and
      consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by
      her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,
      the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been
      assured of his absence before she came to the place, and
      accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very
      unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
      you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed,
      before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not
      immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth
      of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned
      his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with
      whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,”
      he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an
      acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”

      Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were
      instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had
      been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by
      his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.

      “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after
      a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will
      you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to
      your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”

      The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too
      great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She
      immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of
      being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,
      without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying
      to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of
      her.

      They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.
      Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was
      flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her
      was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the
      others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.
      Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.

      He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself
      not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time
      much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She
      wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every
      subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling,
      and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance.
      Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas
      were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over.

      On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go
      into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined,
      and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy
      handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,
      Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.

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

      “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,”
      replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not
      unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some
      people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.”

      “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was
      more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no
      necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was
      very trifling.”

      “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as
      Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his
      features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he
      was so disagreeable?”

      Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had
      liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that
      she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.

      “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”
      replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I
      shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind
      another day, and warn me off his grounds.”

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

      “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I
      really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so
      cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not
      an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing
      about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity
      in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea
      of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his
      house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help
      laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,
      and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”

      Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
      vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them
      to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what
      she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were
      capable of a very different construction; and that his character
      was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had
      been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she
      related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in
      which they had been connected, without actually naming her
      authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

      Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
      approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave
      way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in
      pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its
      environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by
      the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off
      again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was
      spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many
      years’ discontinuance.

      The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave
      Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she
      could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s
      civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted
      with his sister.

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Chapter 45

      Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her
      had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how
      unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was
      curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the
      acquaintance would now be renewed.

      On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the
      saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer.
      Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing
      view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the
      beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over
      the intermediate lawn.

      In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting
      there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom
      she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very
      civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though
      proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily
      give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her
      being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,
      did her justice, and pitied her.

      By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a
      curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such
      pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first
      broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman,
      whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to
      be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between
      her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the
      conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished
      for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
      short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.

      Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss
      Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss
      Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not
      have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they
      not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not
      sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts
      were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the
      gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the
      master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished
      or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in
      this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s
      voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry
      after the health of her family. She answered with equal
      indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

      The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
      entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all
      the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till
      after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to
      Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was
      now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all
      talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,
      nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.

      While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding
      whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.
      Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;
      and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes
      to predominate, she began to regret that he came.

      He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three
      other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had
      left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended
      a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than
      Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;
      a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the
      more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the
      whole party were awakened against them, and that there was
      scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first
      came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so
      strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles
      which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
      objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her
      attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her
      brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and
      Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to
      get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt
      at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this
      likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first
      opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:

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

      In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but
      Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her
      thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave
      her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel
      the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a
      tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance
      showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking
      at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to
      lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then
      giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained
      from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
      Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she
      believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which
      might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the
      latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of
      her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had
      ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no
      creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except
      to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was
      particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which
      Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
      hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and
      without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate
      him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something
      to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.

      Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his
      emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not
      approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,
      though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,
      whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest
      in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed
      to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on
      her more and more cheerfully.

      Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
      above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
      carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
      Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not
      join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her
      favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such
      terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of
      finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy
      returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
      him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.

      “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”
      she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she
      is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and
      I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”

      However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he
      contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other
      alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous
      consequence of travelling in the summer.

      “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never
      could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion
      has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her
      nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her
      teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for
      her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never
      see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish
      look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there
      is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”

      Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this
      was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people
      are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat
      nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely
      silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak,
      she continued:

      “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed
      we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I
      particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been
      dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ a beauty!—I should as soon call her
      mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I
      believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”

      “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but
      _that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since
      I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my
      acquaintance.”

      He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
      satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any
      pain but herself.

      Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred
      during their visit, as they returned, except what had
      particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of
      everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who
      had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister,
      his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet
      Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him,
      and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s
      beginning the subject.

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Chapter 47

      “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,
      as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious
      consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as
      your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very
      unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a
      girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was
      actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly
      inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would
      not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
      regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His
      temptation is not adequate to the risk!”

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

      “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your
      uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,
      honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so
      very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him
      up, as to believe him capable of it?”

      “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
      neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!
      But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if
      that had been the case?”

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

      “Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is
      such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be
      found on the Barnet road.”

      “Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
      though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional
      purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on
      either side; and it might strike them that they could be more
      economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than
      in Scotland.”

      “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
      their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His
      most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded
      of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a
      woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims
      has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good
      humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of
      benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
      apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
      dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I
      know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But
      as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good.
      Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from
      my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little
      attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in
      his family, that _he_ would do as little, and think as little
      about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”

      “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love
      of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than
      marriage?”

      “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied
      Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of
      decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,
      really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her
      justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to
      think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a
      twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and
      vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most
      idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in
      her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton,
      nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head.
      She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and
      talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?
      susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively
      enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person
      and address that can captivate a woman.”

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

      “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever
      might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of
      such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane
      knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that
      he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has
      neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful
      as he is insinuating.”

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

      “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the
      other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you
      yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke
      of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality
      towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at
      liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about
      the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss
      Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved,
      disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must
      know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
      her.”

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

      “Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and
      saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel
      Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I
      returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or
      fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I
      related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our
      knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any
      one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him
      should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that
      Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her
      eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
      in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such
      a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was
      far enough from my thoughts.”

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

      “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on
      either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you
      must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be
      thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready
      enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near
      Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months;
      but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention;
      and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
      wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the
      regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
      favourites.”

      It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could
      be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this
      interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could
      detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From
      Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the
      keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval
      of ease or forgetfulness.

      They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one
      night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day.
      It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not
      have been wearied by long expectations.

      The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were
      standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;
      and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise
      that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their
      whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first
      pleasing earnest of their welcome.

      Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty
      kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running
      down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.

      Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears
      filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether
      anything had been heard of the fugitives.

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

      “Is my father in town?”

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

      “And have you heard from him often?”

      “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday
      to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his
      directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely
      added that he should not write again till he had something of
      importance to mention.”

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

      “My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are
      greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction
      in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary
      and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.”

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

      Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and
      their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.
      Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to
      by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and
      aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles
      and tears.

      When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which
      Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the
      others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to
      give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence
      of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still
      expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would
      bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain
      their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.

      Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few
      minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be
      expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives
      against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her
      own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to
      whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must
      principally be owing.

      “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to
      Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but
      poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the
      Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was
      some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the
      kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked
      after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge
      of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And
      now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
      Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and
      what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out
      before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,
      brother, I do not know what we shall do.”

      They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,
      after general assurances of his affection for her and all her
      family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,
      and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering
      Lydia.

      “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right
      to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it
      as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a
      few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know
      that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not
      let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I
      shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to
      Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what
      is to be done.”

      “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what
      I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find
      them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married
      already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not
      let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much
      money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And,
      above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a
      dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and
      have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms
      in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
      I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not
      to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,
      for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
      how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”

      But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest
      endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation
      to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with
      her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left
      her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in
      the absence of her daughters.

      Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no
      real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not
      attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence
      enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited
      at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household,
      and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her
      fears and solicitude on the subject.

      In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who
      had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make
      their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other
      from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably
      calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss
      of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself
      incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than
      usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress
      enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of
      grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:

      “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much
      talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the
      wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”

      Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
      added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from
      it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is
      irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;
      that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and
      that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the
      undeserving of the other sex.”

      Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much
      oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console
      herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before
      them.

      In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
      half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed
      herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane
      was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general
      lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which
      Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could
      not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
      subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it
      which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What
      did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything
      before the elopement took place? They must have seen them
      together for ever.”

      “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some
      partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him
      any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive
      and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure
      us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone
      to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened
      his journey.”

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

      “Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing
      anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion
      about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
      marrying—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have
      been misunderstood before.”

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

      “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I
      felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness
      with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not
      been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of
      that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then
      owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest
      of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such
      a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each
      other, many weeks.”

      “But not before they went to Brighton?”

      “No, I believe not.”

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

      “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he
      formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.
      And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he
      left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “My dear Harriet,
      “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
      laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I
      am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess
      with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man
      in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy
      without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send
      them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it
      will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign
      my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can
      hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not
      keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I
      hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
      dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I
      shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you
      would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown
      before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel
      Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.

      “Your affectionate friend,
      “LYDIA BENNET.”

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

      “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for
      full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the
      whole house in such confusion!”

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

      “I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a
      time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I
      endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid
      I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what
      might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”

      “Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not
      look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care
      and anxiety upon yourself alone.”

      “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in
      every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either
      of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,
      that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt
      Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away;
      and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of
      great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very
      kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us,
      and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they
      should be of use to us.”

      “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps
      she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one
      cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is
      impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at
      a distance, and be satisfied.”

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

      “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place
      where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if
      anything could be made out from them. His principal object must
      be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them
      from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he
      thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing
      from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make
      inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house
      the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make
      inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out
      the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other
      designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be
      gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had
      difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”

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Chapter 49

      Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were
      walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the
      housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to
      call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead
      of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to
      Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but
      I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I
      took the liberty of coming to ask.”

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

      “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you
      know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He
      has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”

      Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.
      They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from
      thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were
      on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when
      they were met by the butler, who said:

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

      Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall
      once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was
      deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of
      the paddock.

      Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
      Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for
      breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:

      “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”

      “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”

      “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”

      “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the
      letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”

      Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.

      “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself
      what it is about.”

      “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.

      “My dear Brother,
      “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
      as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon
      after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out
      in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till
      we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen
      them both—”
          “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are
          married!”

      Elizabeth read on:

      “I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
      there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to
      perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your
      side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
      required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,
      her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your
      children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
      moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during
      your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
      which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying
      with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall
      send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me
      your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,
      that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are
      generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that
      respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,
      even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in
      addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case,
      you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole
      of this business, I will immediately give directions to
      Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be
      the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore
      stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care.
      Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write
      explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be
      married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She
      comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more
      is determined on. Yours, etc.,

      “EDW. GARDINER.”

      “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it
      be possible that he will marry her?”

      “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said
      her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”

      “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.

      “No; but it must be done soon.”

      Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time
      before he wrote.

      “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write
      immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a
      case.”

      “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
      yourself.”

      “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”

      And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the
      house.

      “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must
      be complied with.”

      “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”

      “And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”

      “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But
      there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how
      much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the
      other, how am I ever to pay him.”

      “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”

      “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight
      a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty
      after I am gone.”

      “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred
      to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to
      remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I
      am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all
      this.”

      “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a
      farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to
      think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”

      “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
      repaid?”

      Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,
      continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then
      went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the
      breakfast-room.

      “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as
      they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we
      are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their
      chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are
      forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”

      “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he
      certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for
      her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing
      him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like
      it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have
      more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”

      “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”
      said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our
      sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for
      them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness
      of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her
      home, and affording her their personal protection and
      countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of
      gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually
      with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she
      will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
      first sees my aunt!”

      “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”
      said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His
      consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is
      come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will
      steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,
      and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past
      imprudence forgotten.”

      “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither
      you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of
      it.”

      It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
      likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to
      the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would
      not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and,
      without raising his head, coolly replied:

      “Just as you please.”

      “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”

      “Take whatever you like, and get away.”

      Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went
      up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:
      one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight
      preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet
      could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr.
      Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst
      forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She
      was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever
      been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
      would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
      felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.

      “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She
      will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at
      sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he
      would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear
      Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write
      to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run
      down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,
      stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will
      put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we
      shall be together when we meet!”

      Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the
      violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the
      obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under.

      “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a
      great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
      pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”

      “Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it
      but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and
      my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the
      first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few
      presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a
      daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was
      only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter,
      that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write
      for me. We will settle with your father about the money
      afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”

      She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,
      and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful
      orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her
      to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s
      delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother
      was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes,
      too, came into her head.

      “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and
      tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come
      back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and
      order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I
      am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here
      comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss
      Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of
      punch to make merry at her wedding.”

      Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received
      her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this
      folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with
      freedom.

      Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it
      was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and
      though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor
      worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in
      looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she
      felt all the advantages of what they had gained.

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Chapter 51

      Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt
      for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was
      sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by
      dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets,
      and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would
      have attended herself, had _she_ been the culprit, and was
      wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.

      They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to
      receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the
      carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably
      grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.

      Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown
      open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,
      embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with
      an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and
      wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of
      their happiness.

      Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was
      not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;
      and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young
      couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was
      disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia
      still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned
      from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when
      at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took
      notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a
      laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.

      Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his
      manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his
      marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy
      address, while he claimed their relationship, would have
      delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite
      equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within
      herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an
      impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
      the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of
      colour.

      There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could
      neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to
      sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in
      that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very
      unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have
      the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was
      recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects
      which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.

      “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went
      away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been
      things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went
      away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came
      back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”

      Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth
      looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
      anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,
      “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I
      was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in
      his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let
      down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let
      my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the
      ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”

      Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the
      room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through
      the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough
      to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right
      hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take
      your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married
      woman.”

      It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
      embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.
      Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.
      Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to
      hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the
      mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of
      being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

      “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the
      breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a
      charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope
      they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton.
      That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we
      did not all go.”

      “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I
      don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”

      “Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
      things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.
      We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there
      will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for
      them all.”

      “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

      “And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my
      sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them
      before the winter is over.”

      “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I
      do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”

      Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.
      Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he
      was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.

      No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so
      short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with
      her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These
      parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even
      more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.

      Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had
      expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had
      scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the
      reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the
      strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have
      wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope
      with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was
      rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were
      the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of
      having a companion.

      Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on
      every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He
      did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill
      more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the
      country.

      One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
      her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

      “Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe.
      You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.
      Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”

      “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too
      little said on the subject.”

      “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We
      were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s
      lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should
      all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to
      go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well,
      Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,
      you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I
      should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the
      time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she
      was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
      ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I
      longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”

      “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would
      never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my
      uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with
      them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of
      doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme,
      or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the
      Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came
      to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that
      horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
      together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did
      not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
      were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But,
      luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all
      set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he _had_ been
      prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy
      might have done as well.”

      “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.

      “Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But
      gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word
      about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say?
      It was to be such a secret!”

      “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
      subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”

      “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
      “we will ask you no questions.”

      “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell
      you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”

      On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out
      of her power, by running away.

      But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at
      least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had
      been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly
      among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least
      temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and
      wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none.
      Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the
      noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such
      suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short
      letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had
      dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
      intended.

      “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must
      be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and
      (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have
      been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me
      understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in
      the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must
      endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”

      “Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she
      finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in
      an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and
      stratagems to find it out.”

      Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
      Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was
      glad of it;—till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive
      any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.

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Chapter 53

      Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation
      that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear
      sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
      pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.

      The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
      was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no
      means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle,
      was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.

      “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”

      “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”

      “Write to me very often, my dear.”

      “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
      time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have
      nothing else to do.”

      Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.
      He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

      “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
      out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and
      makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even
      Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”

      The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several
      days.

      “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as
      parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

      “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a
      daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied
      that your other four are single.”

      “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is
      married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so
      far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so
      soon.”

      But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was
      shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of
      hope, by an article of news which then began to be in
      circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders
      to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in
      a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was
      quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook
      her head by turns.

      “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for
      Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the
      better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,
      you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But,
      however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes
      it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that is nothing to us.
      You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word
      about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”

      “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was
      in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself
      on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was
      certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very
      likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me,
      on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got
      three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”

      Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without
      changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his
      name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together,
      she said:

      “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the
      present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t
      imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the
      moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure
      you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or
      pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we
      shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of _myself_, but
      I dread other people’s remarks.”

      Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him
      in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming
      there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she
      still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the
      greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend’s
      permission, or being bold enough to come without it.

      “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man
      cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
      raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”

      In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
      her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could
      easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were
      more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.

      The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
      parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

      “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,
      “you will wait on him of course.”

      “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,
      if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it
      ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand
      again.”

      His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
      attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
      returning to Netherfield.

      “’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our
      society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not
      spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they
      go away and come back again.”

      “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do
      not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him
      to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the
      Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there
      will be just room at table for him.”

      Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
      husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that
      her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it,
      before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—

      “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her
      sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
      indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
      talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one
      can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be,
      when his stay at Netherfield is over!”

      “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;
      “but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the
      usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied
      me, because you have always so much.”

      Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of
      servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the
      period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as
      it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their
      invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on
      the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw
      him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride
      towards the house.

      Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane
      resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy
      her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with
      him, and sat down again by her sister.

      “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it
      be?”

      “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do
      not know.”

      “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be
      with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”

      “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any
      friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure;
      but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”

      Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but
      little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the
      awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost
      for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both
      sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and
      of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her
      dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only
      as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them.
      But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
      suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew
      Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment
      towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she
      had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own
      more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole
      family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she
      regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at
      least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her
      astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to
      Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to
      what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in
      Derbyshire.

      The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half
      a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added
      lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that
      his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would
      not be secure.

      “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be
      early enough for expectation.”

      She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without
      daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them
      to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the
      door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than
      Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour
      increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a
      propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of
      resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

      Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and
      sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not
      often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He
      looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been
      used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at
      Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be
      what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not
      an improbable, conjecture.

      Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short
      period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was
      received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her
      two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold
      and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his
      friend.

      Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the
      latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
      irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful
      degree by a distinction so ill applied.

      Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
      question which she could not answer without confusion, said
      scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the
      reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.
      There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.
      But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his
      voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of
      curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found
      him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object
      but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
      than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was
      disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.

      “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he
      come?”

      She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;
      and to him she had hardly courage to speak.

      She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.

      “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.
      Bennet.

      He readily agreed to it.

      “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
      _did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;
      but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have
      happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is
      married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you
      have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It
      was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put
      in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham,
      Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said
      of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was
      my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
      make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”

      Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.
      Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,
      therefore, she could not tell.

      “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
      married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr.
      Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me.
      They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it
      seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His
      regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving
      the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank
      Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he
      deserves.”

      Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
      misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew
      from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else
      had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he
      meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he
      believed.

      “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her
      mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you
      please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy
      to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”

      Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
      attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
      flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would
      be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,
      she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself
      amends for moments of such painful confusion.

      “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more
      to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no
      pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me
      never see either one or the other again!”

      Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
      compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from
      observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the
      admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had
      spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be
      giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she
      had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though
      not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should
      be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she
      talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that
      she did not always know when she was silent.

      When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of
      her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine
      at Longbourn in a few days time.

      “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for
      when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family
      dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you
      see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did
      not come back and keep your engagement.”

      Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
      something of his concern at having been prevented by business.
      They then went away.

      Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and
      dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good
      table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be
      good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or
      satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a
      year.

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Chapter 55

      A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone.
      His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to
      return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and
      was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine
      with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed
      himself engaged elsewhere.

      “Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”

      He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if
      she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of
      waiting on them.

      “Can you come to-morrow?”

      Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
      invitation was accepted with alacrity.

      He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of
      them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her
      dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:

      “My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley
      is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come
      to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never
      mind Miss Lizzy’s hair.”

      “We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say
      Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half
      an hour ago.”

      “Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be
      quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”

      But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
      go down without one of her sisters.

      The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in
      the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was
      his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two
      obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking
      and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time,
      without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not
      observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently
      said, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me
      for? What am I to do?”

      “Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat
      still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious
      occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here,
      my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane
      instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at
      such premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in
      to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and
      called out:

      “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”

      Elizabeth was forced to go.

      “We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her
      mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up
      stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”

      Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
      quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then
      returned into the drawing-room.

      Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was
      every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her
      daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable
      addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged
      officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with
      a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to
      the daughter.

      He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he
      went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and
      Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot with
      her husband.

      After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word
      passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went
      to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded,
      unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously,
      however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have
      taken place with that gentleman’s concurrence.

      Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet
      spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was
      much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was
      nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his
      ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more
      communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen
      him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the
      evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every
      body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
      to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon
      after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards,
      she could not be wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes.

      But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was
      finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to
      fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening
      the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together
      over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had
      this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily
      turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it
      all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she thought
      was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
      Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who
      as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering
      a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.

      Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence
      would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged,
      with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in
      the world.

      “’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve
      it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”

      Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a
      warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every
      sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But
      she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half
      that remained to be said for the present.

      “I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on
      any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her
      to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father
      already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give
      such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much
      happiness!”

      She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up
      the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

      Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity
      and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given
      them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.

      “And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious
      circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance!
      the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”

      In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with
      her father had been short and to the purpose.

      “Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.

      “With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare
      say.”

      He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good
      wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily
      expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They
      shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came
      down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own
      happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being a
      lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity
      to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the
      excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane,
      and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
      himself.

      It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the
      satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet
      animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever.
      Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon.
      Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation
      in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked
      to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet
      joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how
      really happy he was.

      Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till
      their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was
      gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:

      “Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”

      Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
      goodness.

      “You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
      thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of
      your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means
      unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever
      be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and
      so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”

      “I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
      would be unpardonable in _me_.”

      “Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what
      are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and
      very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear,
      dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep
      all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so,
      at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I
      remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into
      Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you
      should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
      ever was seen!”

      Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition
      her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
      younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects
      of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.

      Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
      Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

      Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
      Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always
      remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous
      neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an
      invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.

      Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her
      sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow
      on anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both
      of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur.
      In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth,
      for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone,
      Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.

      “He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me
      that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I
      had not believed it possible.”

      “I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account
      for it?”

      “It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no
      friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,
      since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many
      respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their
      brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we
      shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once
      were to each other.”

      “That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I
      ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see
      you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”

      “Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
      November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of
      _my_ being indifferent would have prevented his coming down
      again!”

      “He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of
      his modesty.”

      This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his
      diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good
      qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed
      the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most
      generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a
      circumstance which must prejudice her against him.

      “I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!”
      cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and
      blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there
      were but such another man for you!”

      “If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy
      as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can
      have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and,
      perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr.
      Collins in time.”

      The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be
      long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs.
      Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the
      same by all her neighbours in Meryton.

      The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in
      the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first
      run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for
      misfortune.

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Chapter 57

      The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
      Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for
      many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady
      Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this
      journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her
      supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to
      be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could
      originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she
      recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, and
      _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
      expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to
      supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the
      marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together.
      And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their
      communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had
      reached Lady Catherine), had only set _that_ down as almost
      certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked forward to as
      possible at some future time.

      In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not
      help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of
      her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of
      her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to
      Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew;
      and how he might take a similar representation of the evils
      attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She
      knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his
      dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he
      thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
      was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with
      _one_, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own,
      his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions
      of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to
      Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good
      sense and solid reasoning.

      If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had
      often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a
      relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to
      be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case
      he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way
      through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to
      Netherfield must give way.

      “If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come
      to his friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to
      understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every
      wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting
      me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall
      soon cease to regret him at all.”

      The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
      visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied
      it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs.
      Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on
      the subject.

      The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
      father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

      “Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my
      room.”

      She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had
      to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in
      some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck
      her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated
      with dismay all the consequent explanations.

      She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
      down. He then said,

      “I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
      exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to
      know its contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_
      daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a
      very important conquest.”

      The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the
      instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew,
      instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be
      pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his
      letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father
      continued:

      “You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such
      matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to
      discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr.
      Collins.”

      “From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”

      “Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
      congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest
      daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the
      good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your
      impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates
      to yourself, is as follows: ‘Having thus offered you the sincere
      congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event,
      let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which
      we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
      Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet,
      after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of
      her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most
      illustrious personages in this land.’

      “Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? ‘This young
      gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the
      heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble
      kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these
      temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of
      what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this
      gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to
      take immediate advantage of.’

      “Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
      comes out:

      “‘My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to
      imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on
      the match with a friendly eye.’

      “_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
      surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man
      within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have
      given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy,
      who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who
      probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!”

      Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could
      only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been
      directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.

      “Are you not diverted?”

      “Oh! yes. Pray read on.”

      “‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her
      ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual
      condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it
      became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on
      the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what
      she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give
      the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her
      noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
      hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’
      Mr. Collins moreover adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin
      Lydia’s sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only
      concerned that their living together before the marriage took
      place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect
      the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement
      at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as
      soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and
      had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously
      have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them, as a
      Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
      names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of
      Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his
      dear Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young
      olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it.
      You are not going to be _missish_, I hope, and pretend to be
      affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make
      sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

      “Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
      strange!”

      “Yes—_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other
      man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference,
      and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much
      as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s
      correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter
      of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over
      Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my
      son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this
      report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”

      To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as
      it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not
      distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at
      a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was
      necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father
      had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s
      indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want
      of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too
      _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.

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Chapter 59

      “My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a
      question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she
      entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to
      table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered
      about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she
      spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a suspicion
      of the truth.

      The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary.
      The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged
      were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness
      overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather
      _knew_ that she was happy than _felt_ herself to be so; for,
      besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils
      before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when
      her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him
      but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_
      which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

      At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very
      far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely
      incredulous here.

      “You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,
      no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”

      “This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on
      you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not.
      Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He
      still loves me, and we are engaged.”

      Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know
      how much you dislike him.”

      “You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot.
      Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in
      such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the
      last time I shall ever remember it myself.”

      Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
      seriously assured her of its truth.

      “Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,”
      cried Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate
      you—but are you certain? forgive the question—are you quite
      certain that you can be happy with him?”

      “There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already,
      that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you
      pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”

      “Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself
      more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as
      impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh,
      Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you
      quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?”

      “Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do,
      when I tell you all.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I
      am afraid you will be angry.”

      “My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very
      seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without
      delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?”

      “It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it
      began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his
      beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”

      Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
      desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn
      assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss
      Bennet had nothing further to wish.

      “Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as
      myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his
      love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as
      Bingley’s friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and
      yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very
      reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at
      Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another,
      not to you.”

      Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been
      unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own
      feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But
      now she would no longer conceal from her his share in Lydia’s
      marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in
      conversation.

      “Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the
      next morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here
      again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so
      tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he
      would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us
      with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk
      out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”

      Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;
      yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him
      such an epithet.

      As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,
      and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good
      information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet,
      have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way
      again to-day?”

      “I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to
      walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and
      Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”

      “It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I
      am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” Kitty
      owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
      curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
      consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet
      followed her, saying:

      “I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
      disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind
      it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion
      for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put
      yourself to inconvenience.”

      During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent
      should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved
      to herself the application for her mother’s. She could not
      determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting
      whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome
      her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set
      against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain
      that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her
      sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
      first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
      disapprobation.

      In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,
      she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on
      seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition,
      but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be
      through her means—that _she_, his favourite child, should be
      distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears
      and regrets in disposing of her—was a wretched reflection, and
      she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at
      him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he
      approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
      pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your
      father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.

      Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
      “Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your
      senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”

      How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been
      more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have
      spared her from explanations and professions which it was
      exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she
      assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

      “Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich,
      to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages
      than Jane. But will they make you happy?”

      “Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief
      of my indifference?”

      “None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of
      man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

      “I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I
      love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly
      amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain
      me by speaking of him in such terms.”

      “Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the
      kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything,
      which he condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are
      resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of
      it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be
      neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your
      husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively
      talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal
      marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My
      child, let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to
      respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”

      Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her
      reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was
      really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change
      which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute
      certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had
      stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with
      energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s
      incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

      “Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no
      more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not
      have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”

      To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr.
      Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
      astonishment.

      “This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every
      thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s
      debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will
      save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle’s
      doing, I must and _would_ have paid him; but these violent young
      lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him
      to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and
      there will be an end of the matter.”

      He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his
      reading Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some
      time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted the room,
      “If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am
      quite at leisure.”

      Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and,
      after half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was
      able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was
      too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away;
      there was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the
      comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.

      When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she
      followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect
      was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat
      quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under
      many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard;
      though not in general backward to credit what was for the
      advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to
      any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
      her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.

      “Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy!
      Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest
      Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what
      jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane’s is nothing to
      it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming
      man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for
      my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook
      it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is
      charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord!
      What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”

      This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be
      doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard
      only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three
      minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.

      “My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
      thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord!
      And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special
      licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is
      particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”

      This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the
      gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in
      the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of
      her relations’ consent, there was still something to be wished
      for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for
      Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law
      that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power
      to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his
      opinion.

      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains
      to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that
      he was rising every hour in his esteem.

      “I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham,
      perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband
      quite as well as Jane’s.”

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Chapter 61

      Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs.
      Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what
      delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked
      of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake
      of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in
      the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an
      effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman
      for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her
      husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so
      unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
      invariably silly.

      Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection
      for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do.
      He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least
      expected.

      Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.
      So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not
      desirable even to _his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart.
      The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an
      estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and
      Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were
      within thirty miles of each other.

      Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her
      time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what
      she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not
      of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the
      influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and
      management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From
      the further disadvantage of Lydia’s society she was of course
      carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to
      come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men,
      her father would never consent to her going.

      Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was
      necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs.
      Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix
      more with the world, but she could still moralize over every
      morning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons
      between her sisters’ beauty and her own, it was suspected by her
      father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.

      As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution
      from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the
      conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with
      whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown
      to her; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope
      that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The
      congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her
      marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by
      himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
      effect:

      “My dear Lizzy,
      “I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my
      dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to
      have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope
      you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at
      court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money
      enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of
      about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to
      Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.

      “Yours, etc.”

      As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
      endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and
      expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her
      power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy
      in her own private expences, she frequently sent them. It had
      always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under
      the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and
      heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their
      support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
      herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
      towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even
      when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was
      unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to
      place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more
      than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into
      indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and in spite of her
      youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation
      which her marriage had given her.

      Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
      Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his profession.
      Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone
      to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they
      both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley’s good
      humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of
      giving them a hint to be gone.

      Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but
      as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at
      Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of
      Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid
      off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.

      Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the
      sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able
      to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had
      the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first
      she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her
      lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had
      always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her
      affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind
      received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By
      Elizabeth’s instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman
      may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
      always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than
      himself.

      Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her
      nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her
      character in her reply to the letter which announced its
      arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of
      Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But
      at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to
      overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a
      little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment
      gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to
      see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
      on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods
      had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,
      but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

      With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
      Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were
      both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons
      who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of
      uniting them.

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