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As part of financial packages to help cushion the pandemic’s economic impact, Thai officials said Wednesday that 280,000 people who were not enrolled in the nation’s social security program had received their first monthly subsidy of 5,000 baht ($153).

The subsidies will be distributed for three months and are aimed at helping about three million self-employed Thais. In late March, the government asked Thai citizens to sign up online for the package, which would allow recipients to apply for an additional 10,000 baht ($305) in loans. But 24 million people signed up within the first few days, officials said.

Korn Chatikavanij, a former finance minister, told BenarNews that the economic benefit should be expanded to cover 24 million people.

“There are about five million people who are in the social security system and seven million people who are outside the social security system. There are also 12 million farmers, and how about those company employees whose salaries were either reduced or were stopped? They should have been compensated too,” he said.

Meanwhile in Bangladesh, where the government has faced criticism for its slow testing of suspected infections, authorities on Wednesday sealed off the industrial city of Narayanganj and more than 50 neighborhoods in nearby Dhaka, the capital, to contain the pandemic.

Bangladeshi health authorities reported 54 new cases on Wednesday, bringing the South Asian nation’s confirmed COVID-19 infections to 218, with 20 fatalities so far.

“After Dhaka, Narayanganj is the hotspot of coronavirus infections in Bangladesh,” Mohammad Salim Reza, the additional deputy commissioner of Narayanganj, told BenarNews, referring to the city about two million people.

“We have sealed off city corporation areas and adjacent sub-districts,” he said. “No people will be allowed to enter or leave. The army, police and other law enforcement agencies have been patrolling the areas under lockdown.”

He said health authorities had confirmed 37 COVID-19 infections, including six deaths, in Narayanganj.

Mariyam Ahmad in Pattani, Thailand, and Nontarat Phaicharoen in Bangkok contributed to this report.

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The country has only identified 2,956 coronavirus infections with 240 fatalities, despite recent comments from Jakarta Gov. Anies Baswedan that some of 283 dead people who were buried in the capital in March alone could have been victims of the virus.

Baswedan told reporters on Wednesday that tighter restrictions would be imposed in the Indonesian capital starting on Friday, including a ban on gatherings of more than five people and the closure of places of worships.

“If there are more than five people in a gathering, they will be prosecuted,” he said.

Almost 1.5 million people have been infected by the coronavirus across the world and more than 87,400 have died, according to the latest data compiled by disease experts at Johns Hopkins University.

Health authorities across Southeast Asia have linked hundreds of suspected infections to gatherings organized by the India-headquartered Tablighi Jamaat missionary movement at a mosque outside of Kuala Lumpur in late February and early March, and at a religious gathering in New Delhi last month.

Koreeyoh Samae (right) helps Rokeeyoh Abu check if money from government aid was transferred to her bank account, in Yala, Thailand, April 8, 2020. [BenarNews]
Koreeyoh Samae (right) helps Rokeeyoh Abu check if money from government aid was transferred to her bank account, in Yala, Thailand, April 8, 2020. [BenarNews]
In Bangkok, Thai health authorities reported 111 new infections on Wednesday, bringing the country’s total coronavirus cases to 2,369. Officials also reported three new deaths â€" a Russian, an Indian and an American â€" bringing the nation’s accumulated toll to 30.

Prime Minister Muhyiddin Yassin announced his government’s initiative to distribute face masks on March 23, after health officials warned of a “tsunami” of infections if people did not follow restrictions on movement.

“I want to say, we will distribute it freely to all Malaysians in need,” Muhyiddin told a news conference at the time. “It is a government contribution.”

Malaysia, the world’s largest maker of medical gloves, has no shortage of protective equipment for its health workers, Noor Hisham Abdullah, the director-general of health, said during a news briefing on Wednesday. The country has imposed a lockdown until April 14 to contain the pandemic.

Noor warned in a Facebook post last month that Malaysia was facing a slim chance of breaking the chain of infections.

“Failure is not an option here,” he said. “If not, we may face a third wave of this virus, which would be greater than a tsunami, if we maintain a ‘so what’ attitude.”

With 4,119 confirmed infections and 65 deaths as of Wednesday, Malaysia remained the country with the third-highest caseload in Asia, behind China and South Korea. The Philippines reported 106 new cases, taking its tally of cases to 3,870 with 182 deaths.

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From Facebook reposted: History is not boring: dare to read?

Did you know.....??

They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot & then once a day it was taken & sold to the tannery. If you had to do this to survive you were "piss poor."

But worse than that were the really poor folk who couldn't even afford to buy a pot; they "didn't have a pot to piss in" & were the lowest of the low.

The next time you are washing your hands & complain because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the 1500s.

Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May, and they still smelled pretty good by June. Since they were starting to smell, however, brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women, and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it . . . hence the saying, "Don't throw the baby out with the Bath water!"

Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof, resulting in the idiom, "It's raining cats and dogs."

There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed, therefore, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt, leading folks to coin the phrase "dirt poor."

The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on the floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way, subsequently creating a "thresh hold."

In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire.. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while, and thus the rhyme, "Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old."

Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, "bring home the bacon." They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and "chew the fat."

Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.

Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the "upper crust."

Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial.. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up, creating the custom of holding a wake.

England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive, so they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift.) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a dead ringer.

And that's the truth. Now, whoever said History was boring?

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Giant Tree at Eskaya Resort in Panglao

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Why Great Leaders Don't Reward Results

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
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Title: Pride and Prejudice
Author: Jane Austen
Release Date: August 26, 2008 [EBook #1342]
Last Updated: November 12, 2019

Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***
Produced by Anonymous Volunteers, and David Widger

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.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen

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Chapter 60

      Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted
      Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.
      “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on
      charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could
      set you off in the first place?”

      “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the
      words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in
      the middle before I knew that I _had_ begun.”

      “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my mannersâ€"my
      behaviour to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil,
      and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain
      than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”

      “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

      “You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little
      less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference,
      of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who
      were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for _your_
      approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so
      unlike _them_. Had you not been really amiable, you would have
      hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise
      yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your
      heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
      courted you. Thereâ€"I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
      it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it
      perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of
      meâ€"but nobody thinks of _that_ when they fall in love.”

      “Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
      she was ill at Netherfield?”

      “Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a
      virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your
      protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;
      and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing
      and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin
      directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the
      point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called,
      and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
      you look as if you did not care about me?”

      “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no
      encouragement.”

      “But I was embarrassed.”

      “And so was I.”

      “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”

      “A man who had felt less, might.”

      “How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,
      and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder
      how long you _would_ have gone on, if you had been left to
      yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have spoken, if I had not
      asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to
      Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too much_, I am afraid; for
      what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach
      of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This
      will never do.”

      “You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly
      fair. Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us
      were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for
      my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your
      gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of
      yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, and I was
      determined at once to know every thing.”

      “Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her
      happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come
      down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and
      be embarrassed? or had you intended any more serious
      consequence?”

      “My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could,
      whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or
      what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were
      still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession
      to him which I have since made.”

      “Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what
      is to befall her?”

      “I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But
      it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it
      shall be done directly.”

      “And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you
      and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady
      once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer
      neglected.”

      From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr.
      Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs.
      Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate
      which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to
      find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of
      happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:

      “I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to
      have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of
      particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You
      supposed more than really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as
      you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your
      imagination in every possible flight which the subject will
      afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot
      greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
      great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and
      again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to
      wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round
      the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world.
      Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such
      justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh.
      Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare
      from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours,
      etc.”

      Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;
      and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr.
      Collins, in reply to his last.

      “Dear Sir,
      “I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
      soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
      you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has
      more to give.

      “Yours sincerely, etc.”

      Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
      marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote
      even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat
      all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but
      she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could
      not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was
      deserved.

      The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar
      information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four
      sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and
      all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.

      Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
      congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family
      heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The
      reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine
      had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her
      nephew’s letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match,
      was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a
      moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to
      Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must
      sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr.
      Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
      husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could
      even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on
      carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed
      his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James’s, with
      very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not
      till Sir William was out of sight.

      Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax
      on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her
      sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the
      familiarity which Bingley’s good humour encouraged, yet, whenever
      she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him,
      though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more
      elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the
      frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to
      herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
      without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings
      arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of
      its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked
      forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from
      society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and
      elegance of their family party at Pemberley.

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!â€"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 wouldâ€"I do congratulate
      youâ€"but are you certain? forgive the questionâ€"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 meansâ€"that _she_, his favourite child, should be
      distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears
      and regrets in disposing of herâ€"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 goâ€"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
      itâ€"nothing at all. I am so pleasedâ€"so happy. Such a charming
      man!â€"so handsome! so tall!â€"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.”

Chapter 58

      Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend,
      as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to
      bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed
      after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and,
      before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his
      aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who
      wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It
      was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary
      could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together.
      Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip
      them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were
      to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
      was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly
      forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the
      same.

      They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call
      upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a
      general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him
      alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and,
      while her courage was high, she immediately said:

      “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of
      giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be
      wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your
      unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known
      it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully
      I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not
      have merely my own gratitude to express.”

      “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of
      surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what
      may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not
      think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”

      “You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first
      betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of
      course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me
      thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that
      generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble,
      and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering
      them.”

      “If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself
      alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force
      to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to
      deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I
      believe I thought only of _you_.”

      Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short
      pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with
      me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me
      so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one
      word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

      Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and
      anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and
      immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand
      that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the
      period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude
      and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this
      reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;
      and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
      warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had
      Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how
      well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face,
      became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and
      he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she
      was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.

      They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too
      much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any
      other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their
      present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_
      call on him in her return through London, and there relate her
      journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her
      conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every
      expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s apprehension,
      peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief
      that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that
      promise from her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But,
      unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly
      contrariwise.

      “It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed
      myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be
      certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided
      against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine,
      frankly and openly.”

      Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know
      enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After
      abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple
      in abusing you to all your relations.”

      “What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
      accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
      behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It
      was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

      “We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to
      that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if
      strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
      have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

      “I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of
      what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions
      during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,
      inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I
      shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike
      manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely
      conceive, how they have tortured me;â€"though it was some time, I
      confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

      “I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong
      an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever
      felt in such a way.”

      “I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every
      proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I
      shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed
      you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”

      “Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not
      do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily
      ashamed of it.”

      Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make
      you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit
      to its contents?”

      She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
      all her former prejudices had been removed.

      “I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it
      was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was
      one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your
      having the power of reading again. I can remember some
      expressions which might justly make you hate me.”

      “The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential
      to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason
      to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I
      hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”

      “When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself
      perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
      written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”

      “The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so.
      The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The
      feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it,
      are now so widely different from what they were then, that every
      unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You
      must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its
      remembrance gives you pleasure.”

      “I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
      retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the
      contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is
      much better, of innocence. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful
      recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be
      repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice,
      though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was
      _right_, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given
      good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
      Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_), I was
      spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father,
      particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed,
      encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to
      care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all
      the rest of the world; to _wish_ at least to think meanly of
      their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from
      eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but
      for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
      taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous.
      By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of
      my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my
      pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”

      “Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”

      “Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you
      to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”

      “My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I
      assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might
      often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_
      evening?”

      “Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began
      to take a proper direction.”

      “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met
      at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”

      “No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”

      “Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed
      by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary
      politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive _more_
      than my due.”

      “My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every
      civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the
      past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill
      opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended
      to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly
      tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”

      He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and
      of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally
      leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that
      his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her
      sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his
      gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other
      struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.

      She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a
      subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.

      After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy
      to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their
      watches, that it was time to be at home.

      “What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
      introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted
      with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest
      information of it.

      “I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.

      “Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”

      “That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
      much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had
      been pretty much the case.

      “On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
      confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago.
      I told him of all that had occurred to make my former
      interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise
      was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him,
      moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had
      done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could
      easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt
      no doubt of their happiness together.”

      Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing
      his friend.

      “Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you
      told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information
      last spring?”

      “From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two
      visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her
      affection.”

      “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
      conviction to him.”

      “It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
      prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case,
      but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to
      confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended
      him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had
      been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and
      purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am
      persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your
      sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”

      Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most
      delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
      invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had
      yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to
      begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course
      was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation
      till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.

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,â€"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!”

      “Yesâ€"_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_.

Chapter 56

      One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane
      had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting
      together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn
      to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a
      chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the
      morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to
      that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and
      neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded
      it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
      somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet
      to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with
      him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of
      the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction,
      till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was
      Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

      They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
      astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of
      Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them,
      even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.

      She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,
      made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight
      inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.
      Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s
      entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.

      Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of
      such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness.
      After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to
      Elizabeth,

      “I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
      mother.”

      Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

      “And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”

      “Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady
      Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all
      is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds,
      walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part
      of the family.”

      “You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after
      a short silence.

      “It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but
      I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.”

      “This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,
      in summer; the windows are full west.”

      Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,
      and then added:

      “May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left
      Mr. and Mrs. Collins well.”

      “Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”

      Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her
      from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her
      calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.

      Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take
      some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not
      very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up,
      said to Elizabeth,

      “Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
      wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a
      turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”

      “Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
      different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”

      Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
      attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
      hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
      drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be
      decent looking rooms, walked on.

      Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
      waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the
      gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to
      make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more
      than usually insolent and disagreeable.

      “How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she
      looked in her face.

      As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
      following manner:â€"

      “You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of
      my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell
      you why I come.”

      Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

      “Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to
      account for the honour of seeing you here.”

      “Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought
      to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere
      _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character
      has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in
      a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from
      it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I
      was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most
      advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
      would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew,
      my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scandalous
      falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
      the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for
      this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”

      “If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth,
      colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the
      trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by
      it?”

      “At once to insist upon having such a report universally
      contradicted.”

      “Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said
      Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if,
      indeed, such a report is in existence.”

      “If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
      industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such
      a report is spread abroad?”

      “I never heard that it was.”

      “And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for
      it?”

      “I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
      _You_ may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.”

      “This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
      satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”

      “Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”

      “It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of
      his reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of
      infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to
      all his family. You may have drawn him in.”

      “If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”

      “Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to
      such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in
      the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”

      “But you are not entitled to know _mine;_ nor will such behaviour
      as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”

      “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
      presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy
      is engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?”

      “Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
      he will make an offer to me.”

      Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

      “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
      infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the
      favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in
      their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when
      the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their
      marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of
      no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do
      you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
      engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
      propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his
      earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”

      “Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there
      is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall
      certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt
      wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you
      could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on
      others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination
      confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And
      if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”

      “Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it.
      Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by
      his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the
      inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and
      despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a
      disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”

      “These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife
      of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness
      necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the
      whole, have no cause to repine.”

      “Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your
      gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to
      me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss
      Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of
      carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not
      been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the
      habit of brooking disappointment.”

      “_That_ will make your ladyship’s situation at present more
      pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_.”

      “I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and
      my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the
      maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s,
      from respectable, honourable, and ancientâ€"though
      untitledâ€"families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They
      are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their
      respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart
      pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or
      fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If
      you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit
      the sphere in which you have been brought up.”

      “In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
      quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s
      daughter; so far we are equal.”

      “True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother?
      Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of
      their condition.”

      “Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew
      does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”

      “Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”

      Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
      Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say,
      after a moment’s deliberation:

      “I am not.”

      Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

      “And will you promise me, never to enter into such an
      engagement?”

      “I will make no promise of the kind.”

      “Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a
      more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a
      belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have
      given me the assurance I require.”

      “And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be
      intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship
      wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you
      the wished-for promise make _their_ marriage at all more
      probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing
      to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
      Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which
      you have supported this extraordinary application have been as
      frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely
      mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such
      persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your
      interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have
      certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
      therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”

      “Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
      objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I
      am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s
      infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying
      her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and
      uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is _her_
      husband, who is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his
      brother? Heaven and earth!â€"of what are you thinking? Are the
      shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

      “You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully
      answered. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must
      beg to return to the house.”

      And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
      turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

      “You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my
      nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a
      connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”

      “Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my
      sentiments.”

      “You are then resolved to have him?”

      “I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that
      manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
      without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly
      unconnected with me.”

      “It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey
      the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to
      ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the
      contempt of the world.”

      “Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,
      “have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No
      principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr.
      Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the
      indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his
      marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concernâ€"and the
      world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”

      “And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very
      well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet,
      that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I
      hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry
      my point.”

      In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
      door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I
      take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your
      mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously
      displeased.”

      Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
      ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it
      herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up
      stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the
      dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again
      and rest herself.

      “She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”

      “She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
      prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the
      Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say,
      and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call
      on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you,
      Lizzy?”

      Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
      acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.

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 comeâ€"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.

Chapter 54

      As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her
      spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on
      those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour
      astonished and vexed her.

      “Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said
      she, “did he come at all?”

      She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

      “He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt,
      when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come
      hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing,
      teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”

      Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the
      approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look,
      which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than
      Elizabeth.

      “Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel
      perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be
      embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on
      Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we
      meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”

      “Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh,
      Jane, take care.”

      “My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
      now?”

      “I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in
      love with you as ever.”

      They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs.
      Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy
      schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley,
      in half an hour’s visit, had revived.

      On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and
      the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their
      punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they
      repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see
      whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former
      parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother,
      occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by
      herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane
      happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He
      placed himself by her.

      Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his
      friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have
      imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had
      she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an
      expression of half-laughing alarm.

      His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as
      showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than
      formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself,
      Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though
      she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received
      pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the
      animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no
      cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the
      table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She
      knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either,
      or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to
      hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they
      spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner
      whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of
      what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she
      would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him
      that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of
      the family.

      She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity
      of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not
      pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of
      conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his
      entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the
      drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull
      to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to
      their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure
      for the evening must depend.

      “If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him
      up for ever.”

      The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
      answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the
      table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring
      out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a
      single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the
      gentlemen’s approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her
      than ever, and said, in a whisper:

      “The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none
      of them; do we?”

      Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed
      him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely
      patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged
      against herself for being so silly!

      “A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish
      enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the
      sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second
      proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to
      their feelings!”

      She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
      coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:

      “Is your sister at Pemberley still?”

      “Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”

      “And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”

      “Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
      Scarborough, these three weeks.”

      She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to
      converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her,
      however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young
      lady’s whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.

      When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the
      ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined
      by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a
      victim to her mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few
      moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost
      every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening
      at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his
      eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to
      make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.

      Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
      supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of
      the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

      “Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
      “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off
      uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as
      any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turnâ€"and everybody
      said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times
      better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr.
      Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well
      done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least.
      And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.
      Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what
      do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have
      her at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long
      is as good a creature as ever livedâ€"and her nieces are very
      pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them
      prodigiously.”

      Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen
      enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she
      would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her
      family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that
      she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next
      day, to make his proposals.

      “It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to
      Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one
      with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”

      Elizabeth smiled.

      “Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies
      me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation
      as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish
      beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now
      are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is
      only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a
      stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”

      “You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me
      smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”

      “How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”

      “And how impossible in others!”

      “But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
      acknowledge?”

      “That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all
      love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth
      knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not
      make _me_ your confidante.”

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,â€"

      “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 windowâ€"she looked,â€"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!â€"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 comingâ€"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 â€"â€"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.