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Chapter 52

      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her
      letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in
      possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she
      was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the
      benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter
      convinced her that it did not contain a denial.

      “Gracechurch Street, _Sept_. 6.

      “My dear Niece,

      “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
      morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing
      will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
      surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
      Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know
      that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on _your_
      side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
      impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I amâ€"and nothing
      but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed
      him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
      ignorant, I must be more explicit.

      “On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had
      a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with
      him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my
      curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have
      been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where
      your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked
      with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can
      collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and
      came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive
      professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that
      Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it
      impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in
      him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
      confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his
      private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for
      itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and
      endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.
      If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace
      him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
      discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which
      was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another
      reason for his resolving to follow us.

      “There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
      governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on
      some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She
      then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since
      maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he
      knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for
      intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or
      three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would
      not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,
      for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham
      indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
      she been able to receive them into her house, they would have
      taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind
      friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in â€"â€" street.
      He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His
      first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her
      to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
      friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
      offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found
      Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
      for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not
      hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some
      time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were
      her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and
      expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with
      Wickham, he easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He
      confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of
      some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not
      to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own
      folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and
      as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about
      it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew
      he should have nothing to live on.

      “Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once.
      Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have
      been able to do something for him, and his situation must have
      been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this
      question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
      effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country.
      Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
      against the temptation of immediate relief.

      “They met several times, for there was much to be discussed.
      Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length
      was reduced to be reasonable.

      “Everything being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step
      was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
      Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr.
      Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further
      inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town
      the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person
      whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore
      readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the
      former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was
      only known that a gentleman had called on business.

      “On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at
      home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk
      together.

      “They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not
      all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was
      sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I
      fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,
      after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times,
      but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did
      not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be
      thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most
      readily have settled the whole.

      “They battled it together for a long time, which was more than
      either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at
      last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed
      to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having
      the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain;
      and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great
      pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him
      of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due.
      But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at
      most.

      “You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the
      young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to
      considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in
      addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission
      purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone,
      was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
      reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s
      character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had
      been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
      in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_
      reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all
      this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured
      that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him
      credit for _another interest_ in the affair.

      “When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends,
      who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he
      should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and
      all money matters were then to receive the last finish.

      “I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation
      which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least
      it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and
      Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was exactly
      what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would
      not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
      while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter
      last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
      piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no
      fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious
      manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
      done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If
      she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not
      listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my
      dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with
      her.

      “Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
      attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to
      leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry
      with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying
      (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him.
      His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as
      when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all
      please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and
      _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach him. I
      thought him very sly;â€"he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
      slyness seems the fashion.

      “Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do
      not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be
      quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton,
      with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.

      “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this
      half hour.

      “Yours, very sincerely,
      “M. GARDINER.”

      The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of
      spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure
      or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled
      suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might
      have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had
      feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be
      probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain
      of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be
      true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on
      himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a
      research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman
      whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to
      meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe,
      the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name
      it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a
      girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did
      whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
      checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
      vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection
      for herâ€"for a woman who had already refused himâ€"as able to
      overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
      relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind
      of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure,
      done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a
      reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch
      of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
      wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;
      and though she would not place herself as his principal
      inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality
      for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of
      mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly
      painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who
      could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,
      her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she
      grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,
      every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself
      she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
      of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of
      himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and
      again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
      sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding
      how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that
      affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.

      She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s
      approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
      overtaken by Wickham.

      “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”
      said he, as he joined her.

      “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not
      follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

      “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good
      friends; and now we are better.”

      “True. Are the others coming out?”

      “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage
      to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and
      aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”

      She replied in the affirmative.

      “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be
      too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle.
      And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she
      was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my
      name to you.”

      “Yes, she did.”

      “And what did she say?”

      “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid hadâ€"not
      turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things
      are strangely misrepresented.”

      “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
      silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:

      “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each
      other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

      “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
      Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at
      this time of year.”

      “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I
      thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

      “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”

      “And do you like her?”

      “Very much.”

      “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within
      this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very
      promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out
      well.”

      “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”

      “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

      “I do not recollect that we did.”

      “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have
      had. A most delightful place!â€"Excellent Parsonage House! It would
      have suited me in every respect.”

      “How should you have liked making sermons?”

      “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my
      duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought
      not to repine;â€"but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing
      for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have
      answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you
      ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”

      “I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that
      it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the
      present patron.”

      “You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from
      the first, you may remember.”

      “I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was
      not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you
      actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and
      that the business had been compromised accordingly.”

      “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may
      remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of
      it.”

      They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked
      fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to
      provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:

      “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not
      let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be
      always of one mind.”

      She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,
      though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.

Chapter 51

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 50

      Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life
      that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an
      annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his
      wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had
      he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been
      indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now
      be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of
      the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband
      might then have rested in its proper place.

      He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to
      anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his
      brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out
      the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as
      soon as he could.

      When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be
      perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The
      son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should
      be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means
      be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world,
      but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years
      after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event
      had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be
      saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s
      love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
      income.

      Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.
      Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be
      divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents.
      This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now
      to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in
      acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful
      acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed
      most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
      approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil
      the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before
      supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his
      daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to
      himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten
      pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them;
      for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual
      presents in money which passed to her through her mother’s hands,
      Lydia’s expenses had been very little within that sum.

      That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,
      too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present
      was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When
      the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in
      seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former
      indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory
      in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged
      to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his
      brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.

      The good news spread quickly through the house, and with
      proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in
      the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been
      more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come
      upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded
      from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to
      be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her
      well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old
      ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this
      change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
      was considered certain.

      It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on
      this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table,
      and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a
      damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been
      the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on
      the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran
      wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new
      carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the
      neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,
      without knowing or considering what their income might be,
      rejected many as deficient in size and importance.

      “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit
      itâ€"or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger;
      but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten
      miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”

      Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
      servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:
      “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your
      son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into
      _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have
      admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by
      receiving them at Longbourn.”

      A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was
      firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with
      amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea
      to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should
      receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion.
      Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be
      carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse
      his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would
      scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She
      was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must
      reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at
      her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took
      place.

      Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the
      distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted
      with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so
      shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might
      hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who
      were not immediately on the spot.

      She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There
      were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently
      depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge
      of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so muchâ€"not,
      however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to
      herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between
      them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable
      terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect
      himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now
      be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a
      man whom he so justly scorned.

      From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink.
      The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself
      of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation
      survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved;
      she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous
      of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by
      it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance
      of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have
      been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should
      meet.

      What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that
      the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago,
      would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was
      as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex;
      but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.

      She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
      disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding
      and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her
      wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of
      both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been
      softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement,
      information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received
      benefit of greater importance.

      But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude
      what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different
      tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon
      to be formed in their family.

      How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable
      independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent
      happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together
      because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could
      easily conjecture.

      Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s
      acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his
      eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and
      concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be
      mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was
      to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the
      militia.

      “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon
      as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,
      in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable,
      both on his account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention
      to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are
      still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He
      has the promise of an ensigncy in General â€"â€"’s regiment, now
      quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from
      this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among
      different people, where they may each have a character to
      preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to
      Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and
      to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr.
      Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment,
      for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the
      trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in
      Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his
      information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he
      has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will
      be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless
      they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
      Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before
      she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully
      remembered to you and her mother.â€"Yours, etc.,

      “E. GARDINER.”

      Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s
      removal from the â€"â€"shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But
      Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being
      settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure
      and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her
      plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe
      disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia
      should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with
      everybody, and had so many favourites.

      “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite
      shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young
      men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so
      pleasant in General â€"â€"’s regiment.”

      His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being
      admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
      received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
      who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings
      and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by
      her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so
      mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as
      they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they
      thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the
      satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her
      married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to
      the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore,
      he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that
      as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to
      Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should
      consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own
      inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object
      of her wishes.

Chapter 49

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Oh, papa, what newsâ€"what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”

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

      “Well, and what news does it bringâ€"good or bad?”

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

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

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

      “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.

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

      Elizabeth read on:

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

      “EDW. GARDINER.”

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

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

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

      “No; but it must be done soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “And may I askâ€"” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must
      be complied with.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Just as you please.”

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

      “Take whatever you like, and get away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 48

      The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the
      next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line
      from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a
      most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time
      they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he
      had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of _that_ they
      would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only
      for the letters before he set off.

      When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving
      constant information of what was going on, and their uncle
      promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to
      Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his
      sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband’s
      not being killed in a duel.

      Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a
      few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be
      serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs.
      Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of
      freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and
      always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening
      them upâ€"though, as she never came without reporting some fresh
      instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom
      went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
      them.

      All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three
      months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared
      to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues,
      all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into
      every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the
      wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out
      that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness.
      Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said,
      believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin
      more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it,
      became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
      when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
      entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained
      some news of them.

      Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife
      received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he
      had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come
      to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and
      Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory
      information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the
      principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they
      might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,
      before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not
      expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
      eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that
      Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London
      and promised to write again very soon. There was also a
      postscript to this effect:

      “I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
      possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment,
      whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be
      likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself.
      If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability
      of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential
      consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel
      Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy
      us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could
      tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other
      person.”

      Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference
      to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give
      any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment
      deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations,
      except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many
      years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in
      the â€"â€"shire might be able to give more information; and though
      she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a
      something to look forward to.

      Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most
      anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival
      of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience.
      Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be
      communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some
      news of importance.

      But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived
      for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins;
      which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for
      him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew
      what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and
      read it likewise. It was as follows:

      “My dear Sir,
      “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
      in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are
      now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a
      letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.
      Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your
      respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of
      the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time
      can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can
      alleviate so severe a misfortuneâ€"or that may comfort you, under a
      circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a
      parent’s mind. The death of your daughter would have been a
      blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be
      lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
      informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your
      daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence;
      though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and
      Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must
      be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity,
      at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to
      be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins,
      but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have
      related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this
      false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
      all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself
      condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?
      And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with
      augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for
      had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your
      sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console
      yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
      from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of
      her own heinous offense.

      “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”

      Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer
      from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant
      nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single
      relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was
      certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances
      had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did
      not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any
      of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as
      likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his
      own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in
      addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it
      had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
      very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than
      a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at
      Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour
      were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to
      conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard
      them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly
      unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”

      Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see
      their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday.
      Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours,
      he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would
      return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion
      might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When
      Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much
      satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her
      anxiety for his life had been before.

      “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried.
      “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is
      to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”

      As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that
      she and the children should go to London, at the same time that
      Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the
      first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to
      Longbourn.

      Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and
      her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the
      world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them
      by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs.
      Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from
      him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her
      return that could come from Pemberley.

      The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse
      for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore,
      could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who
      was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings,
      was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she
      could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It
      would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of
      two.

      When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
      philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in
      the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had
      taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had
      courage to speak of it.

      It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea,
      that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on
      her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured,
      he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself?
      It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”

      “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.

      “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so
      prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how
      much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered
      by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”

      “Do you suppose them to be in London?”

      “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”

      “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.

      “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence
      there will probably be of some duration.”

      Then after a short silence he continued:

      “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice
      to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some
      greatness of mind.”

      They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her
      mother’s tea.

      “This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such
      an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will
      sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as
      much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty
      runs away.”

      “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If _I_
      should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”

      “_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as
      Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to
      be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is
      ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the
      village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up
      with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors
      till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day
      in a rational manner.”

      Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to
      cry.

      “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are
      a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review
      at the end of them.”

Chapter 47

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Is my father in town?”

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

      “And have you heard from him often?”

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

      “And my motherâ€"how is she? How are you all?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “But not before they went to Brighton?”

      “No, I believe not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Your affectionate friend,
      “LYDIA BENNET.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 46

      Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a
      letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this
      disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had
      now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and
      her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at
      once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent
      elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written
      the direction remarkably ill.

      They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
      her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off
      by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had
      been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of
      all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the
      country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day
      later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important
      intelligence. It was to this effect:

      “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
      of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of
      alarming youâ€"be assured that we are all well. What I have to say
      relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just
      as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us
      that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to
      own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,
      however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very
      sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to
      hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
      Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this
      step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His
      choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can
      give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father
      bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know
      what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They
      were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were
      not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent
      off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten
      miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here
      soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their
      intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
      mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I
      hardly know what I have written.”

      Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely
      knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter
      instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost
      impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than
      the conclusion of the first.

      “By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
      letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
      confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
      for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
      write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
      Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
      would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place,
      for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to
      Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton
      the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s
      short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were
      going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing
      his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia
      at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking
      the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did
      trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering
      that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the
      chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this
      is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not
      what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side
      London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
      them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and
      Hatfield, but without any successâ€"no such people had been seen to
      pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn,
      and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to
      his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one
      can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very
      great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think
      so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for
      them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first
      plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young
      woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
      her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however,
      that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he
      shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W.
      was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and
      keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but
      this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my
      life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having
      concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence,
      one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have
      been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as
      the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return?
      I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if
      inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have
      just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I
      cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as
      possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not
      afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to
      ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
      Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I
      am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him
      to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel
      Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In
      such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be
      everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I
      must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”

      “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her
      seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him,
      without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she
      reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy
      appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and
      before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind
      every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily
      exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
      Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I
      have not an instant to lose.”

      “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
      politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a
      minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.
      Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”

      Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she
      felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
      Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though
      in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to
      fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

      On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself,
      and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to
      leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and
      commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could
      take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you
      one? You are very ill.”

      “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.
      “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only
      distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from
      Longbourn.”

      She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes
      could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could
      only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her
      in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just
      had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be
      concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her
      friendsâ€"has eloped; has thrown herself into the power ofâ€"of Mr.
      Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him
      too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
      nothing that can tempt him toâ€"she is lost for ever.”

      Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in
      a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_
      who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it
      onlyâ€"some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his
      character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
      allâ€"all too late now.”

      “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grievedâ€"shocked. But is it
      certainâ€"absolutely certain?”

      “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were
      traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not
      gone to Scotland.”

      “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
      her?”

      “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my
      uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in
      half-an-hour. But nothing can be doneâ€"I know very well that
      nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are
      they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is
      every way horrible!”

      Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

      “When _my_ eyes were opened to his real characterâ€"Oh! had I known
      what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew notâ€"I was afraid of
      doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

      Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was
      walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow
      contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and
      instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything _must_
      sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of
      the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but
      the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to
      her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the
      contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
      wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have
      loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.

      But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
      Lydiaâ€"the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,
      soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with
      her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else;
      and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a
      sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a
      manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise
      restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my
      absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but
      real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
      could be either said or done on my part that might offer
      consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with
      vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.
      This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having
      the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”

      “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say
      that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the
      unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be
      long.”

      He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow
      for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was
      at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her
      relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.

      As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that
      they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality
      as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she
      threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their
      acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at
      the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted
      its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its
      termination.

      If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
      Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor
      faulty. But if otherwiseâ€"if regard springing from such sources is
      unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often
      described as arising on a first interview with its object, and
      even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in
      her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the
      latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill
      success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less
      interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
      with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy
      must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that
      wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had
      she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one
      but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an
      expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this
      development. While the contents of the first letter remained in
      her mind, she was all surpriseâ€"all astonishment that Wickham
      should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for
      money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
      incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an
      attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though
      she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an
      elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no
      difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her
      understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

      She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,
      that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that
      Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody.
      Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite,
      as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections
      had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The
      mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a
      girlâ€"oh! how acutely did she now feel it!

      She was wild to be at homeâ€"to hear, to see, to be upon the spot
      to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon
      her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable
      of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost
      persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s
      interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered
      the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had
      hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that
      their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly
      on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
      summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the
      postscript of the last with trembling energy.â€" Though Lydia had
      never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not
      but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned
      in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror,
      Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth,
      though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude;
      and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating
      to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as
      soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried
      Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
      us; was it so?”

      “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our
      engagement. _That_ is all settled.”

      “What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her
      room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to
      disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

      But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her
      in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth
      been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that
      all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but
      she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst
      the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at
      Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour,
      however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile
      having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be
      done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the
      morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
      have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to
      Longbourn.

Chapter 45

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 44

      Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to
      visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was
      consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole
      of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very
      morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They
      had been walking about the place with some of their new friends,
      and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining
      with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a
      window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving
      up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery,
      guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
      surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour
      which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and
      the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the
      circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the
      preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing
      had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no
      other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter
      than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
      newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation
      of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was
      quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of
      disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should
      have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious
      to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing
      would fail her.

      She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she
      walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw
      such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made
      everything worse.

      Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable
      introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that
      her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.
      Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was
      exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes
      convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it
      difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.

      Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and,
      though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her
      appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her
      brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her
      manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had
      expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as
      ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such
      different feelings.

      They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that
      Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time
      to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when
      Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he
      entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long
      done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood
      its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he
      expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly,
      though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
      the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

      To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting
      personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The
      whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The
      suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece
      directed their observation towards each with an earnest though
      guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full
      conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of
      the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
      the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.

      Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain
      the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her
      own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter
      object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of
      success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were
      prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was
      eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

      In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
      and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his
      were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he
      talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased
      herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying
      to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she
      could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had
      been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side
      that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that
      could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon
      satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere
      they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
      recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of
      saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared.
      He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking
      together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that
      it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing
      her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight
      months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were
      all dancing together at Netherfield.”

      Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he
      afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of
      the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was
      not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there
      was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.

      It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy
      himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an
      expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she
      heard an accent so removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his
      companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners
      which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence
      might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus
      seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people
      with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
      disgraceâ€"when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to
      the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected
      their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonageâ€"the difference, the
      change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she
      could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never,
      even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his
      dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to
      please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as
      now, when no importance could result from the success of his
      endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his
      attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and
      censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.

      Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they
      arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in
      expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss
      Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country.
      Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in
      the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner
      looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how _she_, whom the
      invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance,
      but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that
      this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment
      than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who
      was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she
      ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next
      was fixed on.

      Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing
      Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and
      many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.
      Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak
      of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some
      others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of
      considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though
      while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager
      to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and
      aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
      favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.

      But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity;
      it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident
      that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had
      before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love
      with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify
      inquiry.

      Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,
      as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.
      They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn
      his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report,
      without any reference to any other account, the circle in
      Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it
      for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing
      the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority
      of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and
      whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily
      rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
      their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight.
      They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably
      had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants
      of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was
      acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much
      good among the poor.

      With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was
      not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his
      concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood,
      it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he
      had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards
      discharged.

      As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening
      more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it
      seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings
      towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours
      endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him.
      No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been
      ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so
      called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable
      qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
      time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now
      heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony
      so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in
      so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all,
      above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of
      goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;
      gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving
      her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony
      of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
      accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would
      avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental
      meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any
      indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where
      their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good
      opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his
      sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only
      astonishment but gratitudeâ€"for to love, ardent love, it must be
      attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be
      encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
      exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to
      him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted
      to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,
      and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should
      employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed,
      of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses.

      It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the
      niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to
      see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had
      reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though
      it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their
      side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to
      wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,
      therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked
      herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.

      Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme
      had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made
      of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.

Chapter 43

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

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

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

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

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

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

      This was a lucky recollectionâ€"it saved her from something very
      like regret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

      Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”

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

      “Yes, very handsome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Perhaps we might be deceived.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 42

      Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she
      could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal
      felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and
      beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty
      generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and
      illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all
      real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had
      vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were
      overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek
      comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had
      brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the
      unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the
      country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his
      principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise
      indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his
      amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in
      general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of
      entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive
      benefit from such as are given.

      Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of
      her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with
      pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his
      affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what
      she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that
      continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in
      exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so
      highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now
      the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable
      a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
      from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which,
      rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of
      his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his
      wife.

      When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found
      little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment.
      Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home
      she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the
      dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their
      domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her
      natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were
      removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil
      might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly
      and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
      watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found,
      what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she
      had been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place,
      bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was
      consequently necessary to name some other period for the
      commencement of actual felicityâ€"to have some other point on which
      her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the
      pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and
      prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now
      the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
      for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her
      mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included
      Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

      “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to
      wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment
      would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless
      source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to
      have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which
      every part promises delight can never be successful; and general
      disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little
      peculiar vexation.”

      When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very
      minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always
      long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother
      contained little else than that they were just returned from the
      library, where such and such officers had attended them, and
      where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite
      wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would
      have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
      violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going
      off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister,
      there was still less to be learntâ€"for her letters to Kitty,
      though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words
      to be made public.

      After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,
      good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.
      Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in
      town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer
      engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual
      querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much
      recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event
      of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the
      following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not
      to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and
      malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should
      be quartered in Meryton.

      The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now
      fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a
      letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its
      commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be
      prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in
      July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that
      left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as
      they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and
      comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the
      Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to
      the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than
      Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy
      the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a
      peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly
      passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a
      few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all
      the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the
      Peak.

      Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on
      seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time
      enough. But it was her business to be satisfiedâ€"and certainly her
      temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.

      With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.
      It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of
      Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his
      county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without
      his perceiving me.”

      The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to
      pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass
      away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at
      length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and
      eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the
      particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general
      favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly
      adapted her for attending to them in every wayâ€"teaching them,
      playing with them, and loving them.

      The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
      next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
      One enjoyment was certainâ€"that of suitableness of companions; a
      suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
      inconveniencesâ€"cheerfulness to enhance every pleasureâ€"and
      affection and intelligence, which might supply it among
      themselves if there were disappointments abroad.

      It is not the object of this work to give a description of
      Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which
      their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth,
      Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of
      Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of
      Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where
      she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they
      bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of
      the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found
      from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their
      direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking
      over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
      inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
      willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

      “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have
      heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many
      of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth
      there, you know.”

      Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
      Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing
      it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after
      going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or
      satin curtains.

      Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine
      house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it
      myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the
      finest woods in the country.”

      Elizabeth said no moreâ€"but her mind could not acquiesce. The
      possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,
      instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very
      idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt
      than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;
      and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if
      her private inquiries to the absence of the family were
      unfavourably answered.

      Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
      whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name
      of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family
      were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the
      last questionâ€"and her alarms now being removed, she was at
      leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house
      herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and
      she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper
      air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the
      scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

Chapter 41

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Nearly three weeks.”

      “And you saw him frequently?”

      “Yes, almost every day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 40

      Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened
      could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress
      every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing
      her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the
      chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.

      Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong
      sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear
      perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other
      feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his
      sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but
      still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s
      refusal must have given him.

      “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and
      certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it
      must increase his disappointment!”

      “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he
      has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his
      regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

      “Blame you! Oh, no.”

      “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

      “Noâ€"I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

      “But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very
      next day.”

      She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents
      as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this
      for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world
      without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole
      race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was
      Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of
      consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour
      to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one
      without involving the other.

      “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to
      make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you
      must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of
      merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and
      of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am
      inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you
      choose.”

      It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from
      Jane.

      “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham
      so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear
      Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a
      disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too!
      and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too
      distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”

      “Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you
      so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that
      I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your
      profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much
      longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”

      “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
      countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”

      “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of
      those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other
      all the appearance of it.”

      “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it
      as you used to do.”

      “And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a
      dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s
      genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind.
      One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but
      one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then
      stumbling on something witty.”

      “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not
      treat the matter as you do now.”

      “Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say
      unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane
      to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain
      and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!”

      “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong
      expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they
      _do_ appear wholly undeserved.”

      “Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a
      most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been
      encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I
      want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our
      acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”

      Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can
      be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your
      opinion?”

      “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised
      me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every
      particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as
      possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to
      the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general
      prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the
      death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him
      in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be
      gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he
      really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we
      may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present
      I will say nothing about it.”

      “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin
      him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and
      anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him
      desperate.”

      The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation.
      She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her
      for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane,
      whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was
      still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the
      disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s
      letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been
      valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
      partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
      understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing
      off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if
      that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely
      be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable
      manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till
      it has lost all its value!”

      She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the
      real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still
      cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even
      fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of
      first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater
      steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so
      fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every
      other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
      feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence
      of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health
      and their tranquillity.

      “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion
      _now_ of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am
      determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my
      sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane
      saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving
      young manâ€"and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the
      world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming
      to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
      everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

      “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

      “Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come.
      Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and
      if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort
      is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will
      be sorry for what he has done.”

      But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such
      expectation, she made no answer.

      “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
      Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
      it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is
      an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
      mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in
      _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.”

      “No, nothing at all.”

      “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.
      _They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will
      never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them!
      And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your
      father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say,
      whenever that happens.”

      “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

      “No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt
      they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be
      easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the
      better. _I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only
      entailed on me.”

Chapter 39

      It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies
      set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of â€"â€", in
      Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr.
      Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in
      token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking
      out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an
      hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite
      milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad
      and cucumber.

      After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a
      table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually
      affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable
      surprise?”

      “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend
      us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.”
      Then, showing her purchasesâ€"“Look here, I have bought this
      bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might
      as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get
      home, and see if I can make it up any better.”

      And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
      unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the
      shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim
      it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it
      will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the
      â€"â€"shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”

      “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest
      satisfaction.

      “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want
      papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a
      delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at
      all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a
      miserable summer else we shall have!”

      “Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme
      indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton,
      and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset
      already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of
      Meryton!”

      “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down
      at table. “What do you think? It is excellent newsâ€"capital
      newsâ€"and about a certain person we all like!”

      Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told
      he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

      “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You
      thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he
      often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is
      an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long
      chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear
      Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger
      of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone
      down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”

      “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
      imprudent as to fortune.”

      “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”

      “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said
      Jane.

      “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never
      cared three straws about herâ€"who _could_ about such a nasty
      little freckled thing?”

      Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
      coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
      _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had harboured
      and fancied liberal!

      As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
      ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all
      their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition
      of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.

      “How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I
      bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another
      bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk
      and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear
      what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen
      any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes
      that one of you would have got a husband before you came back.
      Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost
      three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being
      married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
      get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have
      taken Mr. Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any
      fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before any of
      you; and then I would _chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear
      me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel
      Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs.
      Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the
      bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so she asked
      the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was
      forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
      dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for
      a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel
      and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were
      forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how
      well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or
      three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the
      least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I
      should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect something, and
      then they soon found out what was the matter.”

      With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
      Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to
      amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened
      as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent
      mention of Wickham’s name.

      Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to
      see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner
      did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:

      “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

      Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the
      Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were
      the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of
      Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs.
      Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of
      the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and,
      on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and
      Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was
      enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
      would hear her.

      “Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had
      such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and
      pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone
      so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to
      the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated
      the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and
      if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then
      when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have
      got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we
      were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud,
      that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”

      To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear
      sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be
      congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they
      would have no charms for _me_â€"I should infinitely prefer a book.”

      But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
      anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary
      at all.

      In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to
      walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth
      steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss
      Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in
      pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her
      opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was
      resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of
      the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression.
      In a fortnight they were to goâ€"and once gone, she hoped there
      could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

      She had not been many hours at home before she found that the
      Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn,
      was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw
      directly that her father had not the smallest intention of
      yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and
      equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never
      yet despaired of succeeding at last.

Chapter 38

      On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a
      few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the
      opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed
      indispensably necessary.

      “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has
      yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I
      am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving
      her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt,
      I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our
      humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few
      domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford
      extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will
      believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done
      everything in our power to prevent your spending your time
      unpleasantly.”

      Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness.
      She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of
      being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received,
      must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and
      with a more smiling solemnity replied:

      “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your
      time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most
      fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very
      superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the
      frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may
      flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been
      entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s
      family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing
      which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see
      how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
      that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I
      should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion,
      while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”

      Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he
      was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to
      unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.

      “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
      Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you
      will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs.
      Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust
      it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunateâ€"but
      on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure
      you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most
      cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte
      and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in
      everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas
      between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”

      Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where
      that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she
      firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was
      not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by
      the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy
      to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes
      open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to
      go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her
      housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent
      concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

      At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the
      parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After
      an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was
      attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down
      the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all
      her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had
      received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr.
      and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria
      followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he
      suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
      hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at
      Rosings.

      “But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble
      respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their
      kindness to you while you have been here.”

      Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be
      shut, and the carriage drove off.

      “Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it
      seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many
      things have happened!”

      “A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.

      “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
      twice! How much I shall have to tell!”

      Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to
      conceal!”

      Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any
      alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they
      reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few
      days.

      Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of
      studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the
      kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go
      home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for
      observation.

      It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even
      for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s
      proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would
      so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so
      highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been
      able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing
      could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she
      remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her
      fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into
      repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
      further.

Chapter 37

      The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins
      having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting
      obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of
      their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits
      as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone
      through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady
      Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with
      great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that
      she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having
      them all to dine with her.

      Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that,
      had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to
      her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of
      what her ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she
      have said? how would she have behaved?” were questions with which
      she amused herself.

      Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I
      assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I
      believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I
      am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be
      so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so
      they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably
      till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely,
      more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings
      certainly increases.”

      Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here,
      which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

      Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed
      out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by
      supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she
      added:

      “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg
      that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad
      of your company, I am sure.”

      “I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,”
      replied Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I
      must be in town next Saturday.”

      “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I
      expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before
      you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs.
      Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”

      “But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”

      “Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.
      Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if
      you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to
      take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in
      June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the
      barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of youâ€"and
      indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not
      object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”

      “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
      original plan.”

      Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a
      servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot
      bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.
      It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have
      the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young
      women should always be properly guarded and attended, according
      to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to
      Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two
      men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy,
      of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
      propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to
      all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs.
      Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would
      really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”

      “My uncle is to send a servant for us.”

      “Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad
      you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you
      change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at
      the Bell, you will be attended to.”

      Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their
      journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention
      was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or,
      with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was.
      Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was
      alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day
      went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in
      all the delight of unpleasant recollections.

      Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by
      heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its
      writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the
      style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when
      she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him,
      her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed
      feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited
      gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not
      approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or
      feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own
      past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and
      regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of
      yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father,
      contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to
      restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her
      mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely
      insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane
      in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia;
      but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what
      chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
      irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always
      affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless,
      would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and
      vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt
      with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they
      would be going there forever.

      Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr.
      Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good
      opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His
      affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct
      cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness
      of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the
      thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so
      replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been
      deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

      When to these recollections was added the development of
      Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy
      spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much
      affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear
      tolerably cheerful.

      Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last
      week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening
      was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into
      the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the
      best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of
      placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself
      obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and
      pack her trunk afresh.

      When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension,
      wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford
      again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to
      curtsey and hold out her hand to both.

Chapter 36

      If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect
      it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no
      expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may
      well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a
      contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read
      were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first
      understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and
      steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
      to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a
      strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his
      account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an
      eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from
      impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was
      incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes.
      His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved
      to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to
      the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him
      justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which
      satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was
      all pride and insolence.

      But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr.
      Wickhamâ€"when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation
      of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion
      of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own
      history of himselfâ€"her feelings were yet more acutely painful and
      more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and
      even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely,
      repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This
      must be the grossest falsehood!”â€"and when she had gone through
      the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last
      page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
      regard it, that she would never look in it again.

      In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
      nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the
      letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she
      could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related
      to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the
      meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the
      Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the
      kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known
      its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each
      recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the
      difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was
      fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
      impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side
      or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that
      her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the
      closest attention, the particulars immediately following of
      Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his
      receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds,
      again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter,
      weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
      impartialityâ€"deliberated on the probability of each statementâ€"but
      with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again
      she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,
      which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could
      so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than
      infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely
      blameless throughout the whole.

      The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to
      lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more
      so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never
      heard of him before his entrance into the â€"â€"shire Militia, in
      which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on
      meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight
      acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in
      Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,
      had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
      inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him
      at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect
      some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity
      or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
      Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for
      those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what
      Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’
      continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could
      see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address;
      but she could remember no more substantial good than the general
      approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social
      powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a
      considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas!
      the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received
      some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
      Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she
      was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel
      Fitzwilliam himselfâ€"from whom she had previously received the
      information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and
      whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she
      had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked
      by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly
      banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have
      hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
      cousin’s corroboration.

      She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in
      conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening
      at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in
      her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such
      communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her
      before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he
      had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his
      conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of
      seeing Mr. Darcyâ€"that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
      _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield
      ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the
      Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story
      to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been
      everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples
      in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that
      respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.

      How differently did everything now appear in which he was
      concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence
      of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of
      her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but
      his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself
      could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been
      deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his
      vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had
      most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour
      grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr.
      Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned
      by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;
      that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in
      the whole course of their acquaintanceâ€"an acquaintance which had
      latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
      intimacy with his waysâ€"seen anything that betrayed him to be
      unprincipled or unjustâ€"anything that spoke him of irreligious or
      immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed
      and valuedâ€"that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,
      and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
      sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had
      his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a
      violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed
      from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of
      it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

      She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor
      Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind,
      partial, prejudiced, absurd.

      “How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided
      myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my
      abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my
      sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust!
      How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!
      Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind!
      But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the
      preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on
      the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
      prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either
      were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”

      From herself to Janeâ€"from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a
      line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s
      explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read
      it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.
      How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance,
      which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared
      himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment;
      and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had
      always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
      description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though
      fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant
      complacency in her air and manner not often united with great
      sensibility.

      When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
      mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her
      sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her
      too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he
      particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball,
      and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have
      made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.

      The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It
      soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had
      thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she
      considered that Jane’s disappointment had in fact been the work
      of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit
      of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt
      depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.

      After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
      variety of thoughtâ€"re-considering events, determining
      probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to
      a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection
      of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she
      entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,
      and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make
      her unfit for conversation.

      She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had
      each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few
      minutes, to take leaveâ€"but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been
      sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and
      almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.
      Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she
      really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an
      object; she could think only of her letter.

Chapter 35

      Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and
      meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not
      yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was
      impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for
      employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge
      herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her
      favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes
      coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she
      turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
      park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon
      passed one of the gates into the ground.

      After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she
      was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the
      gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now
      passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and
      every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was
      on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of
      a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was
      moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was
      directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near
      enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,
      pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself
      called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she
      moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it
      also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,
      said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in
      the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me
      the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow,
      turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

      With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest
      curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still
      increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of
      letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The
      envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the
      lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight
      o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:â€"

      “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the
      apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments
      or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to
      you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling
      myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both,
      cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation
      and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
      spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
      You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
      attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but
      I demand it of your justice.

      “Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of
      equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first
      mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I
      had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I
      had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and
      humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the
      prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown
      off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my
      father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on
      our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its
      exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two
      young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few
      weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that
      blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each
      circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the
      following account of my actions and their motives has been read.
      If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am
      under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive
      to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be
      obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

      “I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common
      with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any
      other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening
      of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his
      feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love
      before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you,
      I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental
      information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given
      rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it
      as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.
      From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively;
      and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was
      beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
      watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging
      as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I
      remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she
      received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by
      any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken
      here, _I_ must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of
      your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have
      been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment
      has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert,
      that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such
      as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that,
      however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily
      touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
      certainâ€"but I will venture to say that my investigation and
      decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did
      not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed
      it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My
      objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last
      night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put
      aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so
      great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes
      of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing
      to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
      forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes
      must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s
      family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
      total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly
      betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and
      occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to
      offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your
      nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of
      them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have
      conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like
      censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your
      elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition
      of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that
      evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every
      inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve
      my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left
      Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am
      certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

      “The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’
      uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence
      of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time
      was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on
      joining him directly in London. We accordingly wentâ€"and there I
      readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the
      certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them
      earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or
      delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would
      ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded
      by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s
      indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection
      with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
      natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than
      on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived
      himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
      returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been
      given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself
      for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in
      the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it
      is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to
      conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself,
      as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet
      ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence
      is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough
      extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
      concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however,
      and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more
      to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your
      sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives
      which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient,
      I have not yet learnt to condemn them.

      “With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having
      injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you
      the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has
      _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what
      I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted
      veracity.

      “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for
      many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose
      good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my
      father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was
      his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My
      father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridgeâ€"most
      important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the
      extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
      gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young
      man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also
      the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his
      profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it
      is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very
      different manner. The vicious propensitiesâ€"the want of principle,
      which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best
      friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly
      the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing
      him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here
      again I shall give you painâ€"to what degree you only can tell. But
      whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
      suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
      real characterâ€"it adds even another motive.

      “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his
      attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his
      will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his
      advancement in the best manner that his profession might
      allowâ€"and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family
      living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a
      legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
      survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr.
      Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against
      taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for
      him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of
      the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some
      intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that
      the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient
      support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be
      sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his
      proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman;
      the business was therefore soon settledâ€"he resigned all claim to
      assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be
      in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
      thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.
      I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
      society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
      studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
      restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
      about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of
      the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he
      applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His
      circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in
      believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most
      unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being
      ordained, if I would present him to the living in questionâ€"of
      which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well
      assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could
      not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will
      hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for
      resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in
      proportion to the distress of his circumstancesâ€"and he was
      doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his
      reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of
      acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last
      summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

      “I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
      myself, and which no obligation less than the present should
      induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I
      feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten
      years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s
      nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she
      was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in
      London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over
      it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly
      by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance
      between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most
      unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far
      recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart
      retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child,
      that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent
      to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
      excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that
      I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly
      a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana,
      unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother
      whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole
      to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my
      sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I
      wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs.
      Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief
      object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty
      thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
      revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge
      would have been complete indeed.

      “This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
      have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
      it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
      towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form
      of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not
      perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of
      everything concerning either, detection could not be in your
      power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.

      “You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last
      night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what
      could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here
      related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of
      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant
      intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s
      will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of
      these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_
      assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause
      from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the
      possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
      opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of
      the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

      “FITZWILLIAM DARCY”

Chapter 34

      When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate
      herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her
      employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had
      written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual
      complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any
      communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost
      every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which
      had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding
      from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
      disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded.
      Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of
      uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the
      first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had
      been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister’s
      sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to
      Rosings was to end on the day after the nextâ€"and, a still
      greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with
      Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
      spirits, by all that affection could do.

      She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering
      that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had
      made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as
      he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.

      While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound
      of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the
      idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once
      before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire
      particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her
      spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter
      amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried
      manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing
      his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered
      him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then
      getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
      said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came
      towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:

      “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not
      be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire
      and love you.”

      Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared,
      coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient
      encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long
      felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were
      feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was
      not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His
      sense of her inferiorityâ€"of its being a degradationâ€"of the family
      obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on
      with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was
      wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

      In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be
      insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and
      though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at
      first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to
      resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in
      anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with
      patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
      representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in
      spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer;
      and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her
      acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see
      that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of
      apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real
      security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and,
      when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:

      “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
      express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
      unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation
      should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now
      thank you. But I cannotâ€"I have never desired your good opinion,
      and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry
      to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously
      done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings
      which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of
      your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after
      this explanation.”

      Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes
      fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less
      resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger,
      and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He
      was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not
      open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The
      pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, with a
      voice of forced calmness, he said:

      “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of
      expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so
      little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of
      small importance.”

      “I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a
      desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that
      you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even
      against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility,
      if I _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I
      have. Had not my feelings decided against youâ€"had they been
      indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that
      any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been
      the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
      beloved sister?”

      As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the
      emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to
      interrupt her while she continued:

      “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive
      can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You
      dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if
      not the only means of dividing them from each otherâ€"of exposing
      one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and
      the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving
      them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

      She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was
      listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any
      feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of
      affected incredulity.

      “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

      With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of
      denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend
      from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_
      I have been kinder than towards myself.”

      Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil
      reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to
      conciliate her.

      “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my
      dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of
      you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which
      I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject,
      what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can
      you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you
      here impose upon others?”

      “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said
      Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

      “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling
      an interest in him?”

      “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his
      misfortunes have been great indeed.”

      “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have
      reduced him to his present state of povertyâ€"comparative poverty.
      You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been
      designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of
      that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You
      have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his
      misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”

      “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the
      room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you
      hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults,
      according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,”
      added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these
      offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt
      by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented
      my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might
      have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my
      struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled
      by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection,
      by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor
      am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
      just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
      connections?â€"to congratulate myself on the hope of relations,
      whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

      Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she
      tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:

      “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of
      your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared
      me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you
      behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

      She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she
      continued:

      “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible
      way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

      Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
      expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

      “From the very beginningâ€"from the first moment, I may almost
      sayâ€"of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with
      the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your
      selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form
      the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have
      built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month
      before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I
      could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

      “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
      feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have
      been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and
      accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

      And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth
      heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

      The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
      to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried
      for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had
      passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should
      receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have
      been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to
      wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made
      him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must
      appear at least with equal force in his own caseâ€"was almost
      incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
      strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable prideâ€"his
      shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Janeâ€"his
      unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not
      justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned
      Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to
      deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his
      attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very
      agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage
      made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s
      observation, and hurried her away to her room.

Chapter 33

      More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
      unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
      mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought,
      and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him
      at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could
      occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and
      even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary
      penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal
      inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually
      thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
      said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of
      talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of
      their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected
      questionsâ€"about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of
      solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s
      happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly
      understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she
      came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
      seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his
      thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an
      allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a
      little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
      pales opposite the Parsonage.

      She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane’s last
      letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had
      not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by
      Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was
      meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a
      smile, she said:

      “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”

      “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I
      generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at
      the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

      “No, I should have turned in a moment.”

      And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the
      Parsonage together.

      “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.

      “Yesâ€"if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
      disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”

      “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at
      least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know
      anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes
      than Mr. Darcy.”

      “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel
      Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better
      means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many
      others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must
      be inured to self-denial and dependence.”

      “In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little
      of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial
      and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money
      from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a
      fancy for?”

      “These are home questionsâ€"and perhaps I cannot say that I have
      experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of
      greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons
      cannot marry where they like.”

      “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very
      often do.”

      “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not
      many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some
      attention to money.”

      “Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at
      the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And
      pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless
      the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask
      above fifty thousand pounds.”

      He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To
      interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with
      what had passed, she soon afterwards said:

      “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the
      sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not
      marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But,
      perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is
      under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”

      “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he
      must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of
      Miss Darcy.”

      “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make?
      Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age
      are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the
      true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

      As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the
      manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss
      Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she
      had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly
      replied:

      “You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I
      dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world.
      She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my
      acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard
      you say that you know them.”

      “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike
      manâ€"he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”

      “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to
      Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

      “Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him
      in those points where he most wants care. From something that he
      told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley
      very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I
      have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It
      was all conjecture.”

      “What is it you mean?”

      “It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally
      known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it
      would be an unpleasant thing.”

      “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

      “And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
      Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated
      himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences
      of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any
      other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from
      believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that
      sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of
      last summer.”

      “Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”

      “I understood that there were some very strong objections against
      the lady.”

      “And what arts did he use to separate them?”

      “He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam,
      smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”

      Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
      indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her
      why she was so thoughtful.

      “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
      cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the
      judge?”

      “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

      “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety
      of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement
      alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend
      was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as
      we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.
      It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the
      case.”

      “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is
      a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”

      This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a
      picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an
      answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked
      on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There,
      shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she
      could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It
      was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than
      those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the
      world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless
      influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to
      separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
      always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
      arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead
      him, _he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of
      all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had
      ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most
      affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say
      how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.

      “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were
      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and those strong objections probably
      were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and
      another who was in business in London.

      “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility
      of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!â€"her
      understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners
      captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father,
      who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy
      himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will
      probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, her
      confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any
      objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
      pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the
      want of importance in his friend’s connections, than from their
      want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had
      been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by
      the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

      The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on
      a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that,
      added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her
      not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to
      drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did
      not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband
      from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his
      apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her
      staying at home.

Chapter 32

      Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to
      Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the
      village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain
      signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it
      not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension
      was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape
      all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very
      great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.

      He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for
      his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the
      ladies were to be within.

      They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were
      made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was
      absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in
      this emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in
      Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on
      the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:

      “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr.
      Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley
      to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he
      went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope,
      when you left London?”

      “Perfectly so, I thank you.”

      She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a
      short pause added:

      “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of
      ever returning to Netherfield again?”

      “I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may
      spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many
      friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements
      are continually increasing.”

      “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better
      for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely,
      for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But,
      perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the
      convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must
      expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”

      “I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it
      up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

      Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
      friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to
      leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.

      He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very
      comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to
      it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”

      “I believe she didâ€"and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
      kindness on a more grateful object.”

      “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a
      wife.”

      “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with
      one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him,
      or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent
      understandingâ€"though I am not certain that I consider her
      marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems
      perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is
      certainly a very good match for her.”

      “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
      distance of her own family and friends.”

      “An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”

      “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a
      day’s journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”

      “I should never have considered the distance as one of the
      _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have
      said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.”

      “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything
      beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would
      appear far.”

      As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
      understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
      Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:

      “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near
      her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on
      many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the
      expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But
      that is not the case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a
      comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent
      journeysâ€"and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself
      _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.”

      Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_
      cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_
      cannot have been always at Longbourn.”

      Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change
      of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the
      table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:

      “Are you pleased with Kent?”

      A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either
      side calm and conciseâ€"and soon put an end to by the entrance of
      Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The
      _tête-à-tête_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which
      had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a
      few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.

      “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he
      was gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he
      would never have called us in this familiar way.”

      But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very
      likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after
      various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to
      proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was
      the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were
      over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a
      billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and
      in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk
      to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a
      temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day.
      They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
      separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by
      their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam
      came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which
      of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded
      by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his
      evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George
      Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less
      captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she
      believed he might have the best informed mind.

      But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more
      difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he
      frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his
      lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity
      rather than of choiceâ€"a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to
      himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew
      not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally
      laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally
      different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
      her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the
      effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she
      set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him
      whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford;
      but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a
      great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It
      was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether
      there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing
      but absence of mind.

      She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of
      his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the
      idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the
      subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only
      end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a
      doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would vanish, if she could
      suppose him to be in her power.

      In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her
      marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most
      pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life
      was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr.
      Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin
      could have none at all.

Chapter 31

      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the
      Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably
      to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some
      days, however, before they received any invitation thitherâ€"for
      while there were visitors in the house, they could not be
      necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after
      the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an
      attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
      come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very
      little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had
      called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.
      Darcy they had seen only at church.

      The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they
      joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship
      received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by
      no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she
      was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them,
      especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the
      room.

      Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was
      a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty
      friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated
      himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and
      Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books
      and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained
      in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and
      flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well
      as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
      towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship,
      after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged,
      for she did not scruple to call out:

      “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are
      talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it
      is.”

      “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able
      to avoid a reply.

      “Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my
      delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are
      speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose,
      who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better
      natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great
      proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to
      apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully.
      How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”

      Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s
      proficiency.

      “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
      Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to
      excel if she does not practice a good deal.”

      “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such
      advice. She practises very constantly.”

      “So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next
      write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any
      account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is
      to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet
      several times, that she will never play really well unless she
      practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is
      very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every
      day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She
      would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”

      Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and
      made no answer.

      When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of
      having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the
      instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to
      half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew;
      till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual
      deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to
      command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance.
      Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient
      pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:

      “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state
      to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play
      so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to
      be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at
      every attempt to intimidate me.”

      “I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you
      could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming
      you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough
      to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing
      opinions which in fact are not your own.”

      Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said
      to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty
      notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am
      particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose
      my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to
      pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it
      is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my
      disadvantage in Hertfordshireâ€"and, give me leave to say, very
      impolitic tooâ€"for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
      things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”

      “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.

      “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
      Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among
      strangers.”

      “You shall hear thenâ€"but prepare yourself for something very
      dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,
      you must know, was at a ballâ€"and at this ball, what do you think
      he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;
      and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was
      sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the
      fact.”

      “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the
      assembly beyond my own party.”

      “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well,
      Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your
      orders.”

      “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought
      an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to
      strangers.”

      “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth,
      still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man
      of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill
      qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

      “I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying
      to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

      “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said
      Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.
      I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested
      in their concerns, as I often see done.”

      “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument
      in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have
      not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same
      expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own
      faultâ€"because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is
      not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other
      woman’s of superior execution.”

      Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have
      employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege
      of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us
      perform to strangers.”

      Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to
      know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began
      playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening
      for a few minutes, said to Darcy:

      “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more,
      and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very
      good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to
      Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her
      health allowed her to learn.”

      Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
      cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other
      could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his
      behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss
      Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry _her_,
      had she been his relation.

      Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance,
      mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste.
      Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility,
      and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument
      till her ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home.

Chapter 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 29

      Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was
      complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness
      to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility
      towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;
      and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was
      such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew
      not how to admire enough.

      “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all
      surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and
      spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my
      knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could
      have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined
      that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an
      invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
      after your arrival!”

      “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir
      William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great
      really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire.
      About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not
      uncommon.”

      Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but
      their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing
      them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms,
      so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly
      overpower them.

      When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
      Elizabethâ€"

      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.
      Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us
      which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely
      to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the restâ€"there
      is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think
      the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the
      distinction of rank preserved.”

      While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their
      different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady
      Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.
      Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of
      living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to
      company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings
      with as much apprehension as her father had done to his
      presentation at St. James’s.

      As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
      mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its
      prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she
      could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene
      to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of
      the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the
      glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.

      When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every
      moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly
      calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing
      of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary
      talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money
      or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.

      From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
      rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments,
      they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room
      where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were
      sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive
      them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that
      the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a
      proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he
      would have thought necessary.

      In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so
      completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but
      just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat
      without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of
      her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way
      to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and
      could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady
      Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,
      which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
      conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to
      make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not
      rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken
      in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and
      brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the
      observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to
      be exactly what he represented.

      When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and
      deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she
      turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in
      Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was
      neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss
      de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain,
      were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low
      voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing
      remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she
      said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her
      eyes.

      After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the
      windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point
      out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that
      it was much better worth looking at in the summer.

      The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the
      servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had
      promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at
      the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as
      if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved,
      and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was
      commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now
      enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a
      manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But
      Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration,
      and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the
      table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much
      conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an
      opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de
      Bourghâ€"the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady
      Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.
      Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss
      de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
      she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question,
      and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

      When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
      be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without
      any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on
      every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not
      used to have her judgement controverted. She inquired into
      Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a
      great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her
      how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as
      hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her
      poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great
      lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of
      dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.
      Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
      Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she
      knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very
      genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times,
      how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than
      herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether
      they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage
      her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name?
      Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered
      them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,

      “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For
      your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise
      I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It
      was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you
      play and sing, Miss Bennet?”

      “A little.”

      “Oh! thenâ€"some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
      instrument is a capital one, probably superior toâ€"â€"You shall try
      it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”

      “One of them does.”

      “Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The
      Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income
      as yours. Do you draw?”

      “No, not at all.”

      “What, none of you?”

      “Not one.”

      “That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your
      mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit
      of masters.”

      “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates
      London.”

      “Has your governess left you?”

      “We never had any governess.”

      “No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up
      at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your
      mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”

      Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had
      not been the case.

      “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess,
      you must have been neglected.”

      “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us
      as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always
      encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary.
      Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.”

      “Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if
      I had known your mother, I should have advised her most
      strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be
      done in education without steady and regular instruction, and
      nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many
      families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am
      always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of
      Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means;
      and it was but the other day that I recommended another young
      person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the
      family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you
      of Lady Metcalf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss
      Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a
      treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”

      “Yes, ma’am, all.”

      “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the
      second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married!
      Your younger sisters must be very young?”

      “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to
      be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very
      hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share
      of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the
      means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a
      right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back
      on _such_ a motive! I think it would not be very likely to
      promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”

      “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very
      decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

      “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth,
      smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”

      Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct
      answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature
      who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

      “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need
      not conceal your age.”

      “I am not one-and-twenty.”

      When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the
      card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and
      Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose
      to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting
      Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was
      superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did
      not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her
      fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having
      too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
      other table. Lady Catherine was generally speakingâ€"stating the
      mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of
      herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her
      ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and
      apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not
      say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble
      names.

      When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they
      chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to
      Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The
      party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine
      determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From
      these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the
      coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s
      side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as
      they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her
      cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings,
      which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it
      really was. But her commendation, though costing her some
      trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very
      soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands.

Chapter 28

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 27

      With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and
      otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton,
      sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass
      away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at
      first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she
      soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned
      to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater
      certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte
      again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty
      in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
      uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little
      change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would
      moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew
      near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything,
      however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to
      Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and
      his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in
      London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan
      could be.

      The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss
      her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her
      going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to
      answer her letter.

      The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly
      friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not
      make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and
      to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the
      first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu,
      wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to
      expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of
      herâ€"their opinion of everybodyâ€"would always coincide, there was a
      solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
      him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced
      that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of
      the amiable and pleasing.

      Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
      think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter
      Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had
      nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to
      with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth
      loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He
      could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and
      knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his
      information.

      It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so
      early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to
      Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching
      their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to
      welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was
      pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs
      were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their
      cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the
      drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a
      twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
      kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in
      bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

      Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object
      was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear,
      in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always
      struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of
      dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would
      not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of
      Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated
      conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
      herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given
      up the acquaintance.

      Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and
      complimented her on bearing it so well.

      “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss
      King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”

      “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial
      affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does
      discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid
      of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now,
      because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds,
      you want to find out that he is mercenary.”

      “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall
      know what to think.”

      “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of
      her.”

      “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her
      grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.”

      “Noâ€"why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
      affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be
      for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was
      equally poor?”

      “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions
      towards her so soon after this event.”

      “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those
      elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does
      not object to it, why should _we_?”

      “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her
      being deficient in something herselfâ€"sense or feeling.”

      “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
      mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”

      “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry,
      you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in
      Derbyshire.”

      “Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who
      live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in
      Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank
      Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not
      one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to
      recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after
      all.”

      “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of
      disappointment.”

      Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had
      the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle
      and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the
      summer.

      “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.
      Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”

      No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
      acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my
      dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what
      felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to
      disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and
      mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when
      we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
      being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know
      where we have goneâ€"we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes,
      mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
      imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular
      scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let
      _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the
      generality of travellers.”

Chapter 26

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

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

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

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

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

      “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “_That_ you certainly shall.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 25

      After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of
      felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by
      the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might
      be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of
      his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his
      return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to
      make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at
      Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
      cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father
      another letter of thanks.

      On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of
      receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend
      the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible,
      gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by
      nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had
      difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within
      view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and
      agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs.
      Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
      woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces.
      Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a
      particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in
      town.

      The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to
      distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When
      this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her
      turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and
      much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she
      last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of
      marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.

      “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got
      Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard
      to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this
      time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an
      offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of
      it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I
      have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as
      ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are
      all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so
      it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in
      my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
      before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is
      the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you
      tell us, of long sleeves.”

      Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given
      before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with
      her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her
      nieces, turned the conversation.

      When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the
      subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for
      Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen
      so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so
      easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when
      accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort
      of inconsistencies are very frequent.”

      “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it
      will not do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not
      often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a
      young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom
      he was violently in love with only a few days before.”

      “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so
      doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is
      as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s
      acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent
      was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?”

      “I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
      inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every
      time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own
      ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to
      dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an
      answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility
      the very essence of love?”

      “Oh, yes!â€"of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt.
      Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she
      may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to
      _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.
      But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us?
      Change of scene might be of serviceâ€"and perhaps a little relief
      from home may be as useful as anything.”

      Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt
      persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.

      “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard
      to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a
      part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you
      well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that
      they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”

      “And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of
      his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on
      Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think
      of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as
      Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution
      enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter
      it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”

      “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does
      not Jane correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to
      help calling.”

      “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”

      But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to
      place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of
      Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude
      on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did
      not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes
      she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated,
      and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the
      more natural influence of Jane’s attractions.

      Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the
      Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than
      as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her
      brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without
      any danger of seeing him.

      The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the
      Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day
      without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for
      the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not
      once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for
      home, some of the officers always made part of itâ€"of which
      officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,
      Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm
      commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing
      them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their
      preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little
      uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject
      before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the
      imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.

      To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
      unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years
      ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in
      that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had,
      therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had
      been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet
      in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former
      friends than she had been in the way of procuring.

      Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
      character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible
      subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley
      with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in
      bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late
      possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made
      acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she
      tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition
      when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at
      last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy
      formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.

Chapter 24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “And men take care that they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

      “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 23

      Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on
      what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to
      mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his
      daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many
      compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of
      a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matterâ€"to an
      audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet,
      with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be
      entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,
      boisterously exclaimed:

      “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not
      you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”

      Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
      without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding
      carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be
      positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all
      their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.

      Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so
      unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his
      account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte
      herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her
      mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to
      Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by
      making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be
      expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins,
      and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

      Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal
      while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than
      her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she
      persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she
      was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she
      trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly,
      that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were
      plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real
      cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been
      barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she
      principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
      console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out
      her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth
      without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak
      to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months
      were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.

      Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion,
      and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most
      agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that
      Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably
      sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his
      daughter!

      Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she
      said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for
      their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it
      as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas,
      for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no
      other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.

      Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to
      retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well
      married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to
      say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and
      ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness
      away.

      Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept
      them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded
      that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again.
      Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard
      to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her
      opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew
      daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and
      nothing more was heard of his return.

      Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was
      counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.
      The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on
      Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the
      solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family
      might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that
      head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous
      expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of
      their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it
      was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been
      so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at
      Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday
      fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his
      marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible,
      which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his
      amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the
      happiest of men.

      Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
      pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much
      disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange
      that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it
      was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated
      having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent,
      and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were
      the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the
      greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.

      Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day
      after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him
      than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming
      no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly
      incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as
      a most scandalous falsehood.

      Even Elizabeth began to fearâ€"not that Bingley was indifferentâ€"but
      that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away.
      Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s
      happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she
      could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of
      his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend,
      assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of
      London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his
      attachment.

      As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course,
      more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was
      desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth,
      therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such
      delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which
      she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his
      arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come
      back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s
      steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
      tranquillity.

      Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
      reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been
      on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need
      much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of
      love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The
      chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he
      sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology
      for his absence before the family went to bed.

      Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention
      of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of
      ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it
      talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her
      successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous
      abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded
      her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she
      spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were
      talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
      and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were
      dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

      “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that
      Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_
      should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her take
      her place in it!”

      “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope
      for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the
      survivor.”

      This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore,
      instead of making any answer, she went on as before.

      “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If
      it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”

      “What should not you mind?”

      “I should not mind anything at all.”

      “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
      insensibility.”

      “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the
      entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an
      estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for
      the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should _he_ have it more than
      anybody else?”

      “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.

Chapter 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotteâ€"impossible!”

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

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

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

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

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