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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
using this eBook.
Title: Pride and Prejudice
Author: Jane Austen
Release Date: June, 1998 [eBook #1342]
[Most recently updated: August 23, 2021]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
Produced by: Anonymous Volunteers and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***
THERE IS AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK
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cover
Pride and Prejudice
By Jane Austen
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 1
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be
on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well
fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is
considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their
daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you
heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and
she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife
impatiently.
“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is
taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England;
that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the
place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr.
Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before
Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by
the end of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune;
four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
“How so? how can it affect them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so
tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of
them.”
“Is that his design in settling here?”
“Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely
that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
must visit him as soon as he comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may
send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for
as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you
the best of the party.”
“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of
beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.
When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over
thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he
comes into the neighbourhood.”
“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it
would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are
determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you
know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be
impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not.”
“You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be
very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to
assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he
chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my
little Lizzy.”
“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as
Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always
giving _her_ the preference.”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;
“they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has
something more of quickness than her sisters.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?
You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor
nerves.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves.
They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with
consideration these twenty years at least.”
“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men
of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you
will not visit them.”
“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will
visit them all.”
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty
years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his
character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a
woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain
temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.
The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its
solace was visiting and news.
Chapter 2
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.
Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last
always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the
evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It
was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second
daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her
with,
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her
mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him
at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.”
“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two
nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I
have no opinion of her.”
“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that
you do not depend on her serving you.”
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she
times them ill.”
“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.
“When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
“To-morrow fortnight.”
“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come
back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to
introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”
“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and
introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.”
“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”
“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is
certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by
the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else
will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their
chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,
if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
“Nonsense, nonsense!”
“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.
“Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that
is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you
_there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep
reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”
Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.
“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return
to Mr. Bingley.”
“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so
before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not
have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually
paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of
Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first
tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she
had expected all the while.
“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is
such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and
never said a word about it till now.”
“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.
Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the
raptures of his wife.
“What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the
door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends
for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of
life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new
acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would do
anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare
say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”
“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I’m the tallest.”
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he
would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should
ask him to dinner.
Chapter 3
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her
five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw
from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.
They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions,
ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the
skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the
second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her
report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with
him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next
assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To
be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;
and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the
others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat
about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained
hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose
beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies
were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of
ascertaining from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and
rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and
already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do
credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred
it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,
and consequently unable to accept the honour of their
invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could
not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his
arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be
always flying about from one place to another, and never settled
at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to
get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that
Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with
him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of
ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
that instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from
London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered
the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether; Mr.
Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another
young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine
women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr.
Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon
drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome
features, noble mien, and the report which was in general
circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having
ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine
figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than
Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about
half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned
the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to
be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his
large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be
compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the
principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,
danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and
talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable
qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him
and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and
once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other
lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the
room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His
character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there
again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet,
whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into
particular resentment by his having slighted one of her
daughters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen,
to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr.
Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a
conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance
for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as
this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and
there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a
punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley,
“for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant
girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of
them you see uncommonly pretty.”
“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said
Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there
is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very
pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner
to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I
am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies
who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your
partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with
me.”
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and
Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She
told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for
she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in
anything ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.
Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the
Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she
had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified
by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned
to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough
to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet
learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which
they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still
up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present
occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an
evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had
rather hoped that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be
disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story
to hear.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a
most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had
been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it.
Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her
quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of _that_,
my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only
creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all,
he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her;
but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,
you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So he enquired who she was, and got introduced,
and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with
Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth
with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the
_Boulanger_—”
“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband
impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s
sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his
ankle in the first dance!”
“Oh! my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life
saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace
upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another
branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of
spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much
by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid
man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that
there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,
fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance
with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one
of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”
Chapter 4
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been
cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her
sister how very much she admired him.
“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so
much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man
ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is
thereby complete.”
“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second
time. I did not expect such a compliment.”
“Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference
between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_
never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He
could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as
every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for
that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave
to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”
“Dear Lizzy!”
“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in
general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good
and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a
human being in my life.”
“I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always
speak what I think.”
“I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With
_your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and
nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough;—one
meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or
design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it
still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.
And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners
are not equal to his.”
“Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when
you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a
very charming neighbour in her.”
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their
behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy
of temper than her sister, and with a judgment too unassailed by
any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve
them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good
humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of
being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and
of associating with people of rank; and were therefore in every
respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of
others. They were of a respectable family in the north of
England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories
than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired
by trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it
likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was
now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was
doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his
temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at
Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own;
but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley
was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs.
Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less
disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.
Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by
an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did
look at it, and into it for half an hour, was pleased with the
situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
said in its praise, and took it immediately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in
spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to
Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,
though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,
and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the
strength of Darcy’s regard Bingley had the firmest reliance, and
of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was
clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting.
In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offence.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with
pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been
most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no
stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as
to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.
Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom
there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
felt the smallest interest, and from none received either
attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they
admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
authorised by such commendation to think of her as he chose.
Chapter 5
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the
Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable
fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to
the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been
felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business
and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting
them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile
from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled
by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the
world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.
By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation
at St. James’s had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The
eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about
twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk
over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the
assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to
communicate.
“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with
civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first
choice.”
“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.
To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather
believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know
what—something about Mr. Robinson.”
“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson;
did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he
liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there
were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he
thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last
question—‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt, there
cannot be two opinions on that point.’”
“Upon my word! Well, that was very decided indeed—that does seem
as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,”
said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as
his friend, is he?—Poor Eliza!—to be only just _tolerable_.”
“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his
ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would
be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last
night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once
opening his lips.”
“Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said
Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
“Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and
he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very
angry at being spoke to.”
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much
unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is
remarkably agreeable.”
“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how
it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare
say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage,
and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas,
“but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”
“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with
_him_, if I were you.”
“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with
him.”
“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as
pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot
wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune,
everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I
may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.”
“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily
forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”
“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of
her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all
that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common
indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that
there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of
self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or
imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the
words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without
being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves,
vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came
with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would
keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.”
“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said
Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away
your bottle directly.”
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare
that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
Chapter 6
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The
visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing
manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and
though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger
sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted
with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this
attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth
still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,
hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though
their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration.
It was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire
her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to
the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the
first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she
considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered
by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength
of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of
manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the
impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to
impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a
disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her
affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose
the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor
consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so
much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it
is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely—a
slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us
who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.
In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ affection
than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may
never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If
_I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton
indeed not to discover it too.”
“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you
do.”
“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to
conceal it, he must find it out.”
“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley
and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours
together; and as they always see each other in large mixed
parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in
conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every
half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is
secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as
much as she chooses.”
“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is
in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were
determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I
should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not
acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the
degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known
him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;
she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined
in company with him four times. This is not quite enough to make
her understand his character.”
“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she
might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but
you must remember that four evenings have been also spent
together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”
“Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that
they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to
any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has
been unfolded.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart;
and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had
as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his
character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a
matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so
well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does
not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to
grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of
vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the
defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”
“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it
is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister,
Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming
an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy
had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at
her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it
clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good
feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark
eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.
Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure
of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her
figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting
that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was
caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly
unaware;—to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable
nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance
with.
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards
conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with
others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William
Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.
“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening
to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”
“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”
“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I
see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do
not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid
of him.”
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming
to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend
to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking
Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,
“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a
ball at Meryton?”
“With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady
energetic.”
“You are severe on us.”
“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am
going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always
wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my
vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable;
but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who
must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On
Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it
must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There
is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar
with—‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’—and I shall keep
mine to swell my song.”
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a
song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of
several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at
the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of
being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge
and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given
her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and
conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of
excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected,
had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing
half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad
to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the
request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases,
and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end
of the room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and
was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir
William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.
“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!
There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of
the first refinements of polished societies.”
“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
amongst the less polished societies of the world.—Every savage
can dance.”
Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I
doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr.
Darcy.”
“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the
sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”
“Never, sir.”
“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid
it.”
“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
Mr. Darcy bowed.
“I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself—for I am
fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that
the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not
disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving
towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very
gallant thing, and called out to her,
“My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must
allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable
partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much
beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given
it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not
unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said
with some discomposure to Sir William,
“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I
entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg
for a partner.”
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the
honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor
did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at
persuasion.
“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to
deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman
dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am
sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”
“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“He is, indeed—but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss
Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object
to such a partner?”
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with
some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,
“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”
“I should imagine not.”
“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of
your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet
the noise; the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all
these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great
pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman
can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired
he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such
reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all
astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray
when am I to wish you joy?”
“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A
lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to
love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be
wishing me joy.”
“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law,
indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with
you.”
He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced
her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
Chapter 7
Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of
two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was
entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and
their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life,
could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been
an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk
to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother
settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually
tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to
their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two
youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly
frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than
their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to
Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish
conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the
country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both
with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia
regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter,
and Meryton was the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their
knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings
were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the
officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this
opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They
could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large
fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was
worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an
ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,
Mr. Bennet coolly observed,
“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must
be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it
some time, but I am now convinced.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with
perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of
Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the
day, as he was going the next morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be
so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think
slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,
however.”
“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of
it.”
“Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not
agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every
particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two
youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”
“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the
sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I
dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do.
I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,
indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel,
with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I
shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked
very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his
regimentals.”
“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and
Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did
when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in
Clarke’s library.”
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman
with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the
servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter
read,
“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say?
Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”
“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,—
“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa
and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest
of our lives, for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women
can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the
receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with
the officers.—Yours ever,
“CAROLINE BINGLEY”
“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell
us of _that_.”
“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”
“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.
“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems
likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”
“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure
that they would not offer to send her home.”
“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to
Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”
“I had much rather go in the coach.”
“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.
They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?”
“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”
“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s
purpose will be answered.”
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the
horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on
horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many
cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane
had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were
uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued
the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not
come back.
“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more
than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.
Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the
felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a
servant from Netherfield brought the following note for
Elizabeth:
“MY DEAREST LIZZY,—
“I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to
be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends
will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also
on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should
hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and
headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, &c.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the
note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of
illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it
was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”
“Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she
stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I
could have the carriage.”
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her,
though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no
horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her
resolution.
“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such
a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when
you get there.”
“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”
“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
horses?”
“No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is
nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back
by dinner.”
“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but
every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my
opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is
required.”
“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and
Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young
ladies set off together.
“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we
may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings
of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk
alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over
stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and
finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary
ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of
exercise.
She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of
surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the
day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible
to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that
they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very
politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was
something better than politeness; there was good humour and
kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at
all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy
which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the
occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
thinking only of his breakfast.
Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered.
Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and
not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken
to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the
fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note
how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her
entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and
when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little
beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness
she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and
Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much
affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary
came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be
supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must
endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed,
and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily,
for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.
Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other
ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact
nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and
very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,
and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane
testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was
obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to
remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully
consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint
the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.
Chapter 8
At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past
six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries
which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of
distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she
could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means
better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four
times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a
bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves;
and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference
towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth
to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she
could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was
evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they
prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed
she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from
any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister
scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he
was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at
cards; who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout,
had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss
Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her
manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride
and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty.
Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,
“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an
excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this
morning. She really looked almost wild.”
“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.
Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering
about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so
untidy, so blowsy!”
“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches
deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been
let down to hide it not doing its office.”
“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this
was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked
remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her
dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley;
“and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your
sister_ make such an exhibition.”
“Certainly not.”
“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever
it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what
could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort
of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to
decorum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”
said Bingley.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half
whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration
of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.”
A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.
“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a
very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well
settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low
connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
Meryton.”
“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed
heartily.
“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried
Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”
“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men
of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it
their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at
the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room
on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to
coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit
her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of
seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than
pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the
drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was
immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be
playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse,
said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather
singular.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a
great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried
Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
many things.”
“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said
Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her
quite well.”
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a
table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to
fetch her others; all that his library afforded.
“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I
have more than I ever looked into.”
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with
those in the room.
“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have
left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library
you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
generations.”
“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always
buying books.”
“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days
as these.”
“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the
beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_
house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”
“I wish it may.”
“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is
not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”
“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will
sell it.”
“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”
“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”
Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her
very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself
between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.
“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley;
“will she be as tall as I am?”
“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s
height, or rather taller.”
“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who
delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners!—and so
extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the
pianoforte is exquisite.”
“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have
patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”
“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you
mean?”
“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,
and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this,
and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first
time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,
“has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who
deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a
screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your
estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more
than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that
are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.
“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in
your idea of an accomplished woman.”
“Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”
“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be
really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is
usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of
music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to
deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a
certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of
her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but
half deserved.”
“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she
must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of
her mind by extensive reading.”
“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished
women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”
“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility
of all this?”
“_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and
taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.”
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice
of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew
many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called
them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to
what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an
end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.
“Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed
on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend
themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with
many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a
paltry device, a very mean art.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly
addressed, “there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies
sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears
affinity to cunning is despicable.”
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was
worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s
being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no
country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to
town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not
hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their
brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be
sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly
better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared
that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better
relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions
that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her
sister.
Chapter 9
Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and
in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable
answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr.
Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two
elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this
amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to
Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own
judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched,
and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet,
accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon
after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have
been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her
illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering
immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove
her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her
daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the
apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all
advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three
daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley
met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet
worse than she expected.
“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too
ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her.
We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister,
I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold
civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention
while she remains with us.”
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do
not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed,
and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the
world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without
exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell
my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room
here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk.
I do not know a place in the country that is equal to
Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I
hope, though you have but a short lease.”
“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if
I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in
five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite
fixed here.”
“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said
Elizabeth.
“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards
her.
“Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”
“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily
seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”
“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate
character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”
“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not
run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”
“I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you
were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”
“Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have
at least that advantage.”
“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few
subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in
a very confined and unvarying society.”
“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new
to be observed in them for ever.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of
mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite
as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.”
Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a
moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had
gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.
“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the
country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The
country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?”
“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave
it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have
each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”
“Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was
nothing at all.”
“Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for
her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that
there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the
country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”
“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not
meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there
are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with
four-and-twenty families.”
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep
his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her
eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth,
for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s
thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn
since _her_ coming away.
“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man
Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? so much the man of
fashion! So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to
everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons
who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths,
quite mistake the matter.”
“Did Charlotte dine with you?”
“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the
mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants
that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up
differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the
Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity
they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_
plain—but then she is our particular friend.”
“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.
“Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas
herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not
like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not
often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do
not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was
a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her,
that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before
we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her
too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty
they were.”
“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There
has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder
who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away
love!”
“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said
Darcy.
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what
is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of
inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it
entirely away.”
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made
Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself
again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say;
and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks
to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for
troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil
in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also,
and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed
without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the
youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had
been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the
result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with
having promised on his first coming into the country to give a
ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her
mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early
age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural
self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom
her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended
her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore,
to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly
reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to
this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear.
“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and
when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the
very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while
she is ill.”
Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much
better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely
Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given
_your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one
also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he
does not.”
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth
returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’
behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the
latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in
their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms
on _fine eyes_.
Chapter 10
The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the
invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the
evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The
loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and
Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his
letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to
his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.
Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The
perpetual commendations of the lady either on his handwriting,
or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter,
with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received,
formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her
opinion of each.
“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course
of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think
them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to
yours.”
“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I
mend pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on
the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with
her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it
infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do
you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not
for me to determine.”
“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter
with ease, cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too
much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless
way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the
rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by
which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my
correspondents.”
“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm
reproof.”
“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes
an indirect boast.”
“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of
modesty?”
“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity
of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not
estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of
doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the
possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of
the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if
you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in
five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of
compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in
a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,
and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?”
“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all
the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon
my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I
believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume
the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before
the ladies.”
“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite
as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you
were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had
better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would
probably not go—and, at another word, might stay a month.”
“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr.
Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown
him off now much more than he did himself.”
“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting
what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my
temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that
gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think
the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat
denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”
“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original
intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”
“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must
speak for himself.”
“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call
mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,
however, to stand according to your representation, you must
remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire
his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely
desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of
its propriety.”
“To yield readily—easily—to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no
merit with you.”
“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the
understanding of either.”
“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence
of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would
often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for
arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking
of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as
well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we
discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general
and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them
is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great
moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with
the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”
“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which
is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of
intimacy subsisting between the parties?”
“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars,
not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will
have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be
aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall
fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so
much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than
Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his
own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has
nothing to do.”
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that
he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss
Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an
expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.
“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an
argument, and want to silence this.”
“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and
Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall
be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”
“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and
Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and
Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved
with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after a polite request
that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and
more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus
employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over
some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.
Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose
that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and
yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still
more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last, that she
drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and
reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other
person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him
too little to care for his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm
by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing
near Elizabeth, said to her—
“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such
an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with
some surprise at her silence.
“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say
‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste;
but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and
cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have,
therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to
dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
“Indeed I do not dare.”
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at
his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness
in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody;
and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by
her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of
her connections, he should be in some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her
great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received
some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by
talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in
such an alliance.
“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the
shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few
hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage
of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the
younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so
delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something,
bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady
possesses.”
“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”
“Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be
placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your
great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,
only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you
must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to
those beautiful eyes?”
“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but
their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine,
might be copied.”
At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
Elizabeth herself.
“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in
some confusion, lest they had been overheard.
“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away
without telling us that you were coming out.”
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth
to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt
their rudeness, and immediately said,—
“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go
into the avenue.”
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with
them, laughingly answered,
“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and
appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by
admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the
hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so
much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of
hours that evening.
Chapter 11
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into
the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with
many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them
so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the
gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were
considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy,
relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance
with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first
object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy,
and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many
steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite
congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he
was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for
Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first
half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer
from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the
other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the
door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with
great delight.
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence
that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found
even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one
intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the
subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to
do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.
Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst,
principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings,
joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss
Bennet.
Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching
Mr. Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own;
and she was perpetually either making some enquiry, or looking at
his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he
merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite
exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which
she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she
gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an
evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment
like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I
have not an excellent library.”
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her
book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some
amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss
Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:
“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a
dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on
it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much
mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be
rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a
settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup
enough, I shall send round my cards.”
“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they
were carried on in a different manner; but there is something
insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It
would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of
dancing were made the order of the day.”
“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would
not be near so much like a ball.”
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and
walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked
well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly
studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one
effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:
“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and
take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing
after sitting so long in one attitude.”
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss
Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr.
Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention
in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously
closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but
he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives
for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with
either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What
could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
him?
“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be
severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to
ask nothing about it.”
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy
in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation
of his two motives.
“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,
as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this
method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s
confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you
are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage
in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and
if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the
fire.”
“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”
“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said
Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease
him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to
be done.”
“But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy
has not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and
presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to
laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by
attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug
himself.”
“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it
would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I
dearly love a laugh.”
“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their
actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object
in life is a joke.”
“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope
I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and
good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_
divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,
I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”
“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the
study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a
strong understanding to ridicule.”
“Such as vanity and pride.”
“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a
real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good
regulation.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss
Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”
“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He
owns it himself without disguise.”
“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults
enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I
dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little
yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I
cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought,
nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed
about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be
called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”
“_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable
resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your
fault well. I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”
“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best
education can overcome.”
“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”
“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to
misunderstand them.”
“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not
mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”
Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not
sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too
much attention.
Chapter 12
In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth
wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage
might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet,
who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till
the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week,
could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her
answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to
Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the
carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that
if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she
could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however,
Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it
would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered
as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow
Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled
that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning
should be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough
was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day
to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred.
Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for
her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her
affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to
go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it
would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but
Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and
Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to
himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no
sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that could
elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible
that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the
last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.
Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through
the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by
themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to
his book, and would not even look at her.
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to
almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth
increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for
Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the
pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn
or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook
hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in
the liveliest of spirits.
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs.
Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to
give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold
again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions
of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their
importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when
they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and
almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and
human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new
observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and
Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been
done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding
Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their
uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been
hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.
Chapter 13
“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner
to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family
party.”
“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am
sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope
_my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often
sees such at home.”
“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is
Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad
to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a
bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I
must speak to Hill this moment.”
“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom
I never saw in the whole course of my life.”
This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of
being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at
once.
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus
explained:
“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight
ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and
requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,
who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon
as he pleases.”
“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that
mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is
the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be
entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had
been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other
about it.”
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an
entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a
subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and
she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an
estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man
whom nobody cared anything about.
“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and
nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting
Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps
be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very
impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.
I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling
with you, as his father did before him?”
“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on
that head, as you will hear.”
“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15_th October_.
“Dear Sir,—
“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late
honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have
had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal
the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts,
fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to
be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him
to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now
made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter,
I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage
of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir
Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to
the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest
endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies
which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,
moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing
of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on
these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are
highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in
the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your
side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I
cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring
your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as
well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of
waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four
o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the
Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any
inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my
occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other
clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear
sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your
well-wisher and friend,
“WILLIAM COLLINS”
“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making
gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He
seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my
word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance,
especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him
come to us again.”
“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however,
and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the
person to discourage him.”
“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can
mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is
certainly to his credit.”
Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for
Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying,
and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.
“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can
he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot
suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man,
sir?”
“No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him
quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and
self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am
impatient to see him.”
“In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly
new, yet I think it is well expressed.”
To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in
any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their
cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks
since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any
other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done
away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with
a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little;
but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed
neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent
himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of
five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners
were very formal. He had not been long seated before he
complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters;
said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance
fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not
doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage.
This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers;
but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most
readily.
“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it
may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are
settled so oddly.”
“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls,
you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for
such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no
knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”
“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,
and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of
appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young
ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not
say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled
on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s
admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture,
were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything
would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying
supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The
dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know
to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was
owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him
with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good
cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she
declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to
apologise for about a quarter of an hour.
Chapter 14
During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the
servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some
conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in
which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very
fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention
to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very
remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins
was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than
usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he
protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour
in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had
himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously
pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already
had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him
twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday
before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady
Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had
never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken
to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the
smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a
week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to
advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with
discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble
parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations
he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some
herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”
“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,
“and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that
great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near
you, sir?”
“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by
a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”
“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”
“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
extensive property.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off
than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she
handsome?”
“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself
says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far
superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in
her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth.
She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has
prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments
which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by
the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides
with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to
drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”
“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the
ladies at court.”
“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in
town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has
deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her
ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I
am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate
compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more
than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter
seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank,
instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These
are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it
is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound
to pay.”
“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for
you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May
I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse
of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”
“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though
I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such
little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary
occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as
possible.”
Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as
absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest
enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute
composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at
Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet
was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when
tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr.
Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on
beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a
circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,
protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and
Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened
the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity,
read three pages, she interrupted him with:
“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt
told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow
to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from
town.”
Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but
Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by
books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their
benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be
nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no
longer importune my young cousin.”
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist
at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that
he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling
amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly
for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur
again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after
assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and
should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself
at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
Chapter 15
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature
had been but little assisted by education or society; the
greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of
an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one
of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms,
without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in
which his father had brought him up had given him originally
great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted
by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the
consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A
fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh
when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he
felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his
patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his
authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him
altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance
and humility.
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended
to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn
family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the
daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were
represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of
atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it
an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and
excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face
confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of
what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was
his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an
alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs.
Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his
parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his
hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn,
produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.
“As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to
say—she could not positively answer—but she did not _know_ of any
prepossession; her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention—she
felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon
engaged.”
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was
soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.
Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded
her of course.
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might
soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not
bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.
Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every
sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to
attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious
to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither
Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would
continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the
collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little
cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings
discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as
he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other
room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his
civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to
join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact
much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely
pleased to close his large book, and go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The
attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by
_him_. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in
quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet
indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall
them.
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man,
whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike
appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the
way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return
from London Lydia came to enquire, and he bowed as they passed.
All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he
could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find
out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting
something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached
the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned
with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had
accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it
should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him
completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he
had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good
figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed
up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness
at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole
party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,
when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley
were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of
the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman,
and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on
his way to Longbourn on purpose to enquire after her. Mr. Darcy
corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to
fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by
the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the
countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all
astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few
moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was
impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have
noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the
door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made their bows, in spite
of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and
even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window
and loudly seconding the invitation.
Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two
eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and
she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return
home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she
should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see
Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they
were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the
Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received
him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much
more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering
himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the
young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was
quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her
contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by
exclamations and enquiries about the other; of whom, however, she
could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny
had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him
the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and
had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have
continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now
except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the
stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of
them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their
aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give
him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come
in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested
that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect
of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual
good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the
room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were
perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen
pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have
defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong,
she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by
admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested
that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a
more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the
utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her
invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her
before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his
connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
attention in the whole course of his life.
Chapter 16
As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with
their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and
Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most
steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at
a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of
hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had
accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken their
seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire,
and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the
apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself
in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison
that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs.
Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its
proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one
of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the
chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a
comparison with the housekeeper’s room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her
mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble
abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily
employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs.
Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his
consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving
to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To
the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had
nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their
own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last,
however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked
into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing
him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree
of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in
general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of
them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond
them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were
superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing
port wine, who followed them into the room.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female
eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he
finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he
immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its
being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest,
most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill
of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and
the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to
the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at
intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her
watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of
obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be
glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs.
Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for
his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first
there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she
was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond
of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the
game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to
have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common
demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk
to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what
she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the
history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even
mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He enquired how
far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her
answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been
staying there.
“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the
subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in
Derbyshire, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A
clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a
person more capable of giving you certain information on that
head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a
particular manner from my infancy.”
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,
after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our
meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”
“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I
have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him
very disagreeable.”
“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his
being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I
have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is
impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion
of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not
express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your
own family.”
“Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house
in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked
in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will
not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated
beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often
happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or
frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as
he chooses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.
“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,
“whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”
“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away
when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the
——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”
“Oh! no—it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
_he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on
friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I
have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim
before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most
painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,
the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,
and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company
with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and
disgracing the memory of his father.”
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
further enquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all
that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but
very intelligible gallantry.
“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he
added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I
knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend
Denny tempted me further by his account of their present
quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent
acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is
necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits
will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A
military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances
have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my
profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this
time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it
pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of
the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively
attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to
provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the
living fell, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How
could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal
redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest
as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have
doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to
treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert
that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the
living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to
hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less
certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,
and I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are
very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”
“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”
“Some time or other he _will_ be—but it shall not be by _me_.
Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?
What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot
but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy
liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his
father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very
early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of
competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was
often given me.”
“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never
liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed
him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not
suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such
injustice, such inhumanity as this.”
After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the
implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving
temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_
can hardly be just to him.”
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,
“To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite
of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like
_you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being
amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had
probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,
as I think you said, in the closest manner!”
“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the
greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the
same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same
parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which
your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he
gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted
all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most
highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential
friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the
greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and
when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he
felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his
affection to myself.”
“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that
the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If
from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to
be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”
“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions
may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.
It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other
feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour
to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”
“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”
“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give
his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,
and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride—for he is
very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear
to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities,
or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful
motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_
brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian
of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the
most attentive and best of brothers.”
“What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”
He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me
pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her
brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and
pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and
hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a
handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand,
highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been
London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
education.”
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth
could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr.
Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe,
truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they
suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”
“Not at all.”
“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know
what Mr. Darcy is.”
“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does
not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he
thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals
in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the
less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich
he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and
perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered
round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between
his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual enquiries as to
his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great;
he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express
her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity
that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the
money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make
herself uneasy.
“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down
to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things,
and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five
shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not
say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am
removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”
Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr.
Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice
whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the
family of de Bourgh.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given
him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced
to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”
“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne
Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present
Mr. Darcy.”
“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday.”
“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,
and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two
estates.”
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor
Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and
useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,
if he were already self-destined for another.
“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine
and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related
of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that
in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
conceited woman.”
“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I
have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I
never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and
insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and
clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities
from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner,
and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that
everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the
first class.”
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of
it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction
till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies
their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no
conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but
his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was
said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went
away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of
Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but
there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went,
for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked
incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of
Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least
regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper,
and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to
say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at
Longbourn House.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between
Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and
concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so
unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her
nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable
appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such
unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and
nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them
both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account
of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.
“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some
way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people
have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short,
impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which
may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”
“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to
say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been
concerned in the business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be
obliged to think ill of somebody.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful
light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite
in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide
for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had
any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most
intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”
“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on,
than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as
he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without
ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides,
there was truth in his looks.”
“It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what
to think.”
“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr.
Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer
when the affair became public.
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom
they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give
their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at
Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two
ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it
an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been
doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the
family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much
as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats
with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and
hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to
every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as
given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly
flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself,
instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy
evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of
their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a
great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of
everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness
anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single
event, or any particular person, for though they each, like
Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he
was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a
ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her
family that she had no disinclination for it.
“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is
enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening
engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself
one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement
as desirable for everybody.”
Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though
she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could
not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s
invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to
join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to
find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and
was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop,
or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a
ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to
respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far
from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be
honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of
the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,
Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference
which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause,
and not to any disrespect for her.”
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully
proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and
to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse
timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness
and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr.
Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could.
She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea
it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that
_she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being
mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible
visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed
his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent
attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more
astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms,
it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the
probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to _her_.
Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well
aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any
reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did,
it was useless to quarrel about him.
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk
of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable
state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the
day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented
their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news
could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were
got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her
patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of
her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance
on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
Chapter 18
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and
looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats
there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred
to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any
of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed
her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in
the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained
unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might
be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s
pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though
this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence
was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly
applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to
town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;
adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business
would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to
avoid a certain gentleman here.”
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was
caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not
less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise
had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former
was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could
hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite enquiries
which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance,
forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was
resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned
away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly
surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality
provoked her.
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every
prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not
dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to
Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon
able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her
cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first
two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without
being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a
disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment
of her release from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of
talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked.
When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and
was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly
addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his
application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she
accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left
to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to
console her:
“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!
To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not
wish me such an evil.”
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to
claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a
whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham
to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his
consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the
set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being
allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her
neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They
stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,
and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying
that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige
him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He
replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she
addressed him a second time with:—“It is _your_ turn to say
something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_
ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the
number of couples.”
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say
should be said.
“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by
I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public
ones. But _now_ we may be silent.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd
to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the
advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as
that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do
you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am
sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend
to say. _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
“I must not decide on my own performance.”
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone
down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not
very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and,
unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there
the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread
his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though
blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length
Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is
blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his _making_
friends—whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is
less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied
Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to
suffer from all his life.”
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the
subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to
them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the
room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of
superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his
partner.
“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong
to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair
partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this
pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable
event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall
take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to
Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank
me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young
lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but
Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him
forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious
expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.
Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,
and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we
were talking of.”
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not
have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for
themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without
success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.
“Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the
same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at
least be no want of subject. We may compare our different
opinions.”
“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full
of something else.”
“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said
he, with a look of doubt.
“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for
her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon
afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember
hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave,
that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very
cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created?_”
“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their
opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it
out.”
“And what is your success?”
She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such
different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may
vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,
that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment,
as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no
credit on either.”
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
opportunity.”
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly
replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and
parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to
an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably
powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and
directed all his anger against another.
They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her,
and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking
me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite
forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was
the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me
recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit
confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him
ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always
been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the
particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the
least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham
mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not
well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he
was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the
way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing,
indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but
really, considering his descent, one could not expect much
better.”
“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the
same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him
of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,
and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a
sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”
“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much
mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as
this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the
malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had
undertaken to make enquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane
met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such
happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was
satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth
instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else,
gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for
happiness.
“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling
than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But
perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any
third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”
“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which
have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the
good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is
perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less
attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to
say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no
means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very
imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”
“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”
“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”
“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has
heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it
was left to him _conditionally_ only.”
“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth
warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances
only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I
dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the
story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall
venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”
She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each,
and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth
listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which
Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her
power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by
Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose
enquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had
scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told
her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
to make a most important discovery.
“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there
is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to
overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who
does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de
Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these
sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with,
perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I
am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay
my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will
excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the
connection must plead my apology.”
“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”
“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it
earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will
be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well
yesterday se’nnight.”
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring
him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without
introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment
to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should
be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong
to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the
acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air
of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,
replied thus:
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world
in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of
your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a
wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst
the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me
leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in
point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided
that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time
maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of
my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I
look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by
your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted
by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a
young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to
attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly
watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very
evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and
though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it
all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,”
“Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see
him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with
unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him
time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.
Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and
Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length
of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a
slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to
Elizabeth.
“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied
with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the
attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid
me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady
Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a
favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon
the whole, I am much pleased with him.”
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she
turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr.
Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her
observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as
Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the
felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she
felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to
like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw
were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near
her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper,
therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to
find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas)
freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane
would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating
subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while
enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a
charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from
them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was
such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane,
and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her
younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them
in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at
her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to
the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go
into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this
circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it
is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to
find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be
equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing
there was no chance of it.
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her
mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a
less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she
could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy,
who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being
nonsensical.
“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I
am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged
to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”
“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be
for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to
his friend by so doing!”
Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her
mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.
Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She
could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though
every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was
not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his
attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face
changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
steady gravity.
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady
Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights
which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts
of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not
long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over,
singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing
Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the
company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she
endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain;
Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting
was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes
were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched
her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which
was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,
amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she
might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of
half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means
fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner
affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see
how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley.
She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of
derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the
hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,
“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long
enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;
and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech,
was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were
now applied to.
“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to
sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the
company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be
justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there
are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a
parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an
agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the
time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and
the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be
excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not
think it of light importance that he should have attentive and
conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those
to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;
nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of
testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,
which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.
Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.
Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins
for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to
Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young
man.
To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement
to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it
would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more
spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley
and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his
notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much
distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his
two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an
opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she
could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman,
or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was
teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her
side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him
again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did
she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to
introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that
as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief
object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and
that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She
owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often
joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s
conversation to herself.
She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further
notice; though often standing within a very short distance of
her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She
felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.
Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart,
and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their
carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone,
which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by
some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened
their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently
impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every
attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by
the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr.
Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,
and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their
behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,
in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane
were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and
talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was
too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation
of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most
pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at
Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to
assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner
with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal
invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily
engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,
after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the
next day for a short time.
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under
the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary
preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes,
she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in
the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter
married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and
with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the
least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the
match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was
eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
Chapter 19
The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made
his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of
time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following
Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it
distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a
very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed
a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet,
Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after
breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter
Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience
with her in the course of this morning?”
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise,
Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am
sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no
objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her
work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:
“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must
excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not
hear. I am going away myself.”
“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”
And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed
looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your
staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment’s
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to
get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down
again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings
which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet
and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins
began.
“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far
from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other
perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had
there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to
assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for
this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse,
however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my
attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as
I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my
future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons
for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with
the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run
away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that
she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to
stop him further, and he continued:
“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right
thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to
set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am
convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and
thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it
is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble
lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she
condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this
subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr.
Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose
properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_,
let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high,
but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice.
Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and
I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair
cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady
Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my
power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can
describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable
to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect
which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my
views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own
neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable
young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit
this estate after the death of your honoured father (who,
however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself
without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the
melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already
said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my
fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your
esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the
most animated language of the violence of my affection. To
fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of
that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could
not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four
per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother’s
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure
yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when
we are married.”
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made
no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my
thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible
of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to
do otherwise than to decline them.”
“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave
of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the
addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he
first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is
repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no
means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to
lead you to the altar ere long.”
“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am
not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are)
who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of
being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.
You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the
last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your
friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find
me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”
“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr.
Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship
would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I
have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very
highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable
qualification.”
“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and
by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being
otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the
delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take
possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any
self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as
finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have
quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the
subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than
you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of
cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established
custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and
perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as
would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female
character.”
“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you
puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to
you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my
refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”
“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that
your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My
reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to
me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the
establishment I can offer would be any other than highly
desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family
of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances
highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is
by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be
made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all
likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable
qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not
serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it
to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the
usual practice of elegant females.”
“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to
that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable
man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed
sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done
me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely
impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak
plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending
to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth
from her heart.”
“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the
express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals
will not fail of being acceptable.”
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would
make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;
determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals
as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose
negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and
whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the
affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
Chapter 20
Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the
vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw
Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the
staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated
both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their
nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these
felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate
the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he
trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal
which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her
character.
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have
been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to
encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared
not believe it, and could not help saying so.
“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall
be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She
is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own
interest but I will _make_ her know it.”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but
if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she
would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my
situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage
state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,
perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me,
because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not
contribute much to my felicity.”
“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.
“Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything
else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go
directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with
her, I am sure.”
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to
her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr.
Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You
must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his
mind and not have _her_.”
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and
fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the
least altered by her communication.
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she
had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”
“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr.
Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have
Lizzy.”
“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless
business.”
“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon
her marrying him.”
“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
library.
“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have
sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr.
Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth
replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you
have refused?”
“I have, sir.”
“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon
your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”
“Yes, or I will never see her again.”
“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day
you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will
never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will
never see you again if you _do_.”
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a
beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her
husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively
disappointed.
“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised
me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.”
“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to
request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my
understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room.
I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband,
did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again
and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to
secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible
mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with
real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to
her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination
never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had
passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what
motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was
hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite
imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s
reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to
spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,
who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are
come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened
this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she
will not have him.”
Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by
Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they
entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she
likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her
compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to
comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss
Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my
side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels
for my poor nerves.”
Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and
Elizabeth.
“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as
unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were
at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss
Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer
of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and
I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father
is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I
have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,
you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will
find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to
undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in
talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous
complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can
tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not
complain are never pitied.”
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase
the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption
from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who
entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on
perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon
it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr.
Collins have a little conversation together.”
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she
could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.
Collins, whose enquiries after herself and all her family were
very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself
with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a
doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh!
Mr. Collins!”
“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this
point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice
that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your
daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all;
the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I
have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps
not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had
my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often
observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any
disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my
pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid
yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to
interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be
objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your
daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My
object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with
due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my
_manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to
apologise.”
Chapter 21
The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end,
and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings
necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish
allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_
feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or
dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner
and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the
assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself
were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all,
and especially to her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or
ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry
pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his
visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it.
He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant
to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to enquire if Mr.
Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the
Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and
attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and
the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth,
however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his
absence _had_ been self-imposed.
“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not
meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with
him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear,
and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”
She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a
full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they
civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer
walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he
particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double
advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and
it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her
father and mother.
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;
it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of
elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s
fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance
change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some
particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting
the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the
general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the
subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from
Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained
their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said:
“This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me
a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time,
and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming
back again. You shall hear what she says.”
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the
information of their having just resolved to follow their brother
to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor
Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:
“I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in
Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we
will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most
unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these
highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the
insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their
removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it
was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would
prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their
society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in
the enjoyment of his.
“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should
not be able to see your friends before they leave the country.
But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which
Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware,
and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends
will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr.
Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”
“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”
“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business
which took him to London might be concluded in three or four
days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time
convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry
to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither,
that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a
comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for
the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend,
had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I
despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and
that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling
the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.”
“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more
this winter.”
“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he
_should_.”
“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage
which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”
“Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the
truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really
do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance,
and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and
myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from
the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I
do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on
this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding
them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My
brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent
opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her
relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a
sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call
Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all
these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to
prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of
an event which will secure the happiness of so many?”
“What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane
as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not
expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to
be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s
indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings
for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can
there be any other opinion on the subject?”
“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear
it?”
“Most willingly.”
“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her
brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.
She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries
to persuade you that he does not care about you.”
Jane shook her head.
“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen
you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure,
cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as
much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her
wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or
grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss
Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been
_one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a
second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare
say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss
Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is
in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he
took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to
persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very
much in love with her friend.”
“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your
representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know
the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully
deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that
she is deceiving herself.”
“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea,
since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be
deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and
must fret no longer.”
“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to
marry elsewhere?”
“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon
mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his
two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his
wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”
“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know
that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their
disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”
“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot
consider your situation with much compassion.”
“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the
utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of
Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for a moment
suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken,
could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.
She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she
felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its
happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she was
gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection
sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to
Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of
the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s
conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great
deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that
the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting
so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some
length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon
down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of
all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been
invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
full courses.
Chapter 22
The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again
during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen
to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.
“It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged
to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her
satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for
the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but
Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any
conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them
towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances
were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would
have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave
Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the
fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape
out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness,
and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was
anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction
that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture
his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till
its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably
encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure
of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering
kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked
towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally
in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love
and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,
everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both;
and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name
the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such
a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no
inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with
which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any
charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss
Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested
desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment
were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their
consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.
Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for
their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his
prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas
began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter
had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was
likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion,
that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and
his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole
family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The
younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner
than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved
from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.
Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her
point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in
general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither
sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his
attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her
husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,
marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision
for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however
uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained;
and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to
Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any
other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame
her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings
must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her
the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when
he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of
course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without
difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst
forth in such very direct questions on his return as required
some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising
great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous
love.
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any
of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when
the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great
politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see
him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him
to visit them.
“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon
as possible.”
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means
wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:
“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,
my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the
risk of offending your patroness.”
“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to
you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not
taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”
“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather
than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by
your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly
probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall
take no offence.”
“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily
receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other
mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my
fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render
it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health
and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them
equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet
wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his
addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been
prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher
than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections
which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as
herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve
himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of
this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,
and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of
the day before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with
her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or
two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far
from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her
astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first
the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:
“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling
her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so
direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected,
she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:
“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it
incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s
good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with
you?”
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong
effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that
the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her,
and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.
“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be
surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was
wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it
over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am
not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable
home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and
situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness
with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the
marriage state.”
Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward
pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not
stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what
she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all
reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness
of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days
was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had
always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly
like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that,
when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins
was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend
disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the
distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to
be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
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 matter—to an
audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet,
with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be
entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,
boisterously exclaimed:
“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not
you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding
carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be
positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all
their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so
unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his
account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte
herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her
mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to
Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by
making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be
expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins,
and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal
while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than
her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she
persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she
was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she
trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly,
that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were
plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real
cause of 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 fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but
that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away.
Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s
happiness, and so 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 24
Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very
first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled
in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret
at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in
Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the
rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed
affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss
Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions
were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their
increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment
of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She
wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate
of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
the latter with regard to new furniture.
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all
this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided
between concern for her sister, and resentment against all
others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to
Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,
she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had
always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that
want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his
designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,
however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to
sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her
sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible
himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be
long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing
else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or
were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been
aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him
must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s
situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her
feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them
together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield
and its master, she could not help saying:
“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can
have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual
reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long.
He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but
said nothing.
“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or
fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not
_that_ pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to
get the better.”
With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort
immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on
my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your
sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know
what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or
loved you as you deserve.”
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw
back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all
the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.
_I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself
against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my
encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need
not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of
whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I
dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the
inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little
dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not
mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!
In every view it is unaccountable!”
“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They
will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for
difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s
respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.
Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune,
it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for
everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and
esteem for our cousin.”
“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no
one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I
persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only
think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My
dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded,
silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as
well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper
way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte
Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the
meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility
of danger security for happiness.”
“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”
replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing
them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something
else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you,
but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that
person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must
not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must
not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and
circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that
deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”
“And men take care that they should.”
“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have
no idea of there being so much design in the world as some
persons imagine.”
“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to
design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to
make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.
Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings,
and want of resolution, will do the business.”
“And do you impute it to either of those?”
“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by
saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you
can.”
“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”
“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”
“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They
can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no
other woman can secure it.”
“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides
his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and
consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the
importance of money, great connections, and pride.”
“Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied
Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are
supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known
me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their
own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their
brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it,
unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed
him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so,
they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make
everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do
not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison
of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let
me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be
understood.”
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr.
Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning
no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did
not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever
considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to
convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his
attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and
transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but
though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time,
she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best
comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he
one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate
her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little
in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives
her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn
to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is
your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all
the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a
pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We
must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”
“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that
whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate
mother who will make the most of it.”
Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the
gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of
the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other
recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The
whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr.
Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly
acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to
know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had
known anything of the matter.
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might
be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the
society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always
pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but
by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
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!—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 service—and perhaps a little relief
from home may be as useful as anything.”
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt
persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.
“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard
to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a
part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you
well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable 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 it—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 26
Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly
given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her
alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went
on:
“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely
because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not
afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your
guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an
affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.
I have nothing to say against _him_; he is a most interesting
young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should
think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let
your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect
you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”
“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”
“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”
“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,
if I can prevent it.”
“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”
“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love
with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all
comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes
really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should
not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!
My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I
should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial
to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to
be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every
day that where there is affection, young people are seldom
withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than
so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even
to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise
you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry
to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with
him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”
“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so
very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of
inviting him.”
“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:
“very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do
not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your
account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You
know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company
for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do
what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”
Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked
her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful
instance of advice being given on such a point, without being
resented.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been
quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode
with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs.
Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at
length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even
repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_
they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on
Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose
to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,
accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs
together, Charlotte said:
“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”
“_That_ you certainly shall.”
“And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”
“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”
“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,
therefore, to come to Hunsford.”
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in
the visit.
“My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte,
“and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza,
you will be as welcome as either of them.”
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent
from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to
hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her
friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as
it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was
impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling
that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined
not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what
had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were
received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she
would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce
herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt
that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she
might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with
comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The
house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her
taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and
obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings
rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there to know the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce
their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth
hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as
impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without
either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it,
however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from
Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of
the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in
Grosvenor Street.”
She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss
Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,
“but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving
her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my
last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their
brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.
Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy
was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not
long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I
shall see them soon here.”
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in
town.
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She
endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but
she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After
waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing
every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last
appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the
alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister
will prove what she felt.
“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to
have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But,
my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not
think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her
behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I
do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate
with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am
sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit
till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the
meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no
pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and
was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went
away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no
longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very
wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every
advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because
she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am
very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need
not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know this anxiety to
be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account
for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his
sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural
and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such
fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have
met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from
something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner
of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is
really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were
not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say
that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I
will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of
what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable
kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to
Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any
certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that
you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford.
Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you
will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.”
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as
she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister
at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely
over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions.
His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for
him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped
he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s
account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown
away.
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and
Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to
her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,
his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else.
Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it
and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but
slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing
that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted
it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering
himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in
this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his
wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more
natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few
struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and
desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him
happy.
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating
the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear
aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really
experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present
detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my
feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are even
impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at
all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good
sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness
has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in
love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative
insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.
Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.
They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the
mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something
to live on as well as the plain.”
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
her—their opinion of everybody—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 enquiries, that though Jane always
struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of
dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would
not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of
Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated
conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given
up the acquaintance.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.
“But my 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.”
“No—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 herself—sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry,
you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in
Derbyshire.”
“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who
live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in
Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank
Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not
one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to
recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after
all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of
disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had
the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle
and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the
summer.
“We have not 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 gone—we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes,
mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular
scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let
_our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the
generality of travellers.”
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 enquiries after all
her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing
out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as
soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,
with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually
repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not
help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the
room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself
particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had
lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and
comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of
repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she
could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.
Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily
turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a
faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After
sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the
room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of
their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr.
Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was
large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he
attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of
countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of
the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.
Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and
scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked
for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left
beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every
direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most
distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with
the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that
bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was
a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two
meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the
remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William
accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the
house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity
of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small,
but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and
arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave
Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten,
there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must
be often forgotten.
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the
country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when
Mr. Collins joining in, observed:
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady
Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need
not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and
condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some
portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any
hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in
every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.
Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at
Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her
ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say,
one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”
“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,”
added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”
“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort
of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
and telling again what had already been written; and when it
closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to
meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand
her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her
husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She
had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor
of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr.
Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A
lively imagination soon settled it all.
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting
ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole
house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard
somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly
after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing
place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—
“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the
dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not
tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing
more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the
lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a
low phaeton at the garden gate.
“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the
pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady
Catherine and her daughter.”
“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is
not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives
with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is
quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be
so thin and small?”
“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all
this wind. Why does she not come in?”
“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of
favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”
“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.
“She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well.
She will make him a very proper wife.”
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in
conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s
high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest
contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing
whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.
At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on,
and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw
the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good
fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the
whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.
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
Elizabeth—
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.
Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us
which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely
to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—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
Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady
Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.
Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss
de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
she 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 enquired 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! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try
it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”
“One of them does.”
“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The
Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income
as 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 speaking—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 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
the commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active
magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were
carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers
were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she
sallied forth into the village to settle their differences,
silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.
The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a
week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being
only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was
the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few,
as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond
Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and
upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were
half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the
weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great
enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine,
was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where
there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but
herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s
curiosity.
In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed
away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to
bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a
circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her
arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few
weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom
she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively
new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused
in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his
behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by
Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration,
and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been
frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.
His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was
walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into
Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and
after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park,
hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following
morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were
two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had
brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his
uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte
had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and
immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour
they might expect, adding:
“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy
would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the
compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell,
and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not
handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.
Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in
Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to
Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth
merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very
pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight
observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some
time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his
civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the
health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and
after a moment’s pause, added:
“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you
never happened to see her there?”
She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to
see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed
between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little
confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to
meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the
gentlemen soon afterwards went away.
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 thither—for
while there were visitors in the house, they could not be
necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after
the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an
attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very
little of 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 Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very
impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among
strangers.”
“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very
dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,
you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think
he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;
and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was
sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the
fact.”
“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the
assembly beyond my own party.”
“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well,
Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your
orders.”
“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought
an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to
strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth,
still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man
of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill
qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying
to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said
Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.
I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested
in their concerns, as I often see done.”
“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument
in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have
not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same
expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own
fault—because I 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 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 enquiries after Rosings were
made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was
absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in
this emergence recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in
Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on
the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr.
Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley
to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he
went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope,
when you left London?”
“Perfectly so, I thank you.”
She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a
short pause added:
“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of
ever returning to Netherfield again?”
“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may
spend very little of his time there in 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 did—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
understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her
marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems
perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is
certainly a very good match for her.”
“It must be very agreeable 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
journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself
_near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.”
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_
cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_
cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change
of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the
table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
“Are you pleased with Kent?”
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either
side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of
Charlotte and her sister, just returned from 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 on us in this familiar way.”
But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very
likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and after
various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to
proceed from the difficulty of finding 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 choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to
himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew
not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally
laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally
different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would 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 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
enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually
thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of
talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of
their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected
questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of
solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s
happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly
understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she
came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his
thoughts? She supposed, if he meant 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.
“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his
disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”
“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at
least 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 questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of
greater weight, I may suffer from 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
man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”
“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to
Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”
“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him
in those points where he most wants care. From something that he
told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley
very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I
have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It
was all conjecture.”
“What is it you mean?”
“It is a circumstance 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!—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 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 next—and, a still
greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with
Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
spirits, by all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering
that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had
made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as
he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound
of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the
idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once
before called late in the evening, and might now come to enquire
particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her
spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter
amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried
manner he immediately began an enquiry after her health, imputing
his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered
him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then
getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came
towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
“In vain 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 inferiority—of its being a degradation—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 cannot—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 enquire,” 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 you—had they been
indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that
any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been
the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
beloved sister?”
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the
emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to
interrupt her while she continued:
“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive
can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You
dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if
not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing
one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, 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 poverty—comparative poverty.
You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been
designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of
that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You
have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his
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?—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 beginning—from the first moment, I may almost
say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with
the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your
selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form
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 case—was almost
incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so
strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not
justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned
Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to
deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his
attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very
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 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:—
“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
certain—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 required the utmost force of passion
to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be
so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other
causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and
existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself
endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of
your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in
comparison 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 went—and there I
readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the
certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them
earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or
delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would
ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded
by the assurance 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 Cambridge—most
important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the
extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young
man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also
the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his
profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it
is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very
different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle,
which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best
friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly
the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing
him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here
again I shall give you pain—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 character—it adds even another motive.
“My excellent father died about five years ago; and his
attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his
will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his
advancement in the best manner that his profession might
allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family
living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a
legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr.
Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against
taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for
him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of
the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some
intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that
the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient
support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be
sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his
proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman;
the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to
assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be
in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.
I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of
the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he
applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His
circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in
believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most
unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being
ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of
which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well
assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could
not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will
hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for
resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in
proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was
doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his
reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of
acquaintance was 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 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.
Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation
of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion
of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own
history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and
more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and
even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely,
repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This
must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through
the whole letter, though scarcely knowing 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
impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but
with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again
she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,
which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could
so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than
infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely
blameless throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to
lay 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 ——shire Militia, in
which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on
meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight
acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in
Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character,
had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of
enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him
at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect
some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity
or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for
those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class 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 himself—from whom she had previously received the
information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and
whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she
had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked
by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly
banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have
hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin’s corroboration.
She perfectly remembered 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. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield
ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the
Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story
to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been
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 acquaintance—an acquaintance which had
latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be
unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or
immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed
and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,
and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling; that had
his actions been 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 Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a
line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s
explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read
it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal.
How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance,
which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared
himself to 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 thought—re-considering events, determining
probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to
a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection
of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she
entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,
and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make
her unfit for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had
each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few
minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been
sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and
almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.
Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she
really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an
object; she could think only of her letter.
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 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 you—and
indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not
object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”
“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
original plan.”
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a
servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot
bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.
It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have
the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young
women should always be properly guarded and attended, according
to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to
Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two
men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy,
of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to
all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs.
Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would
really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”
“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”
“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad
you have somebody who thinks of 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 enquired minutely into
the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the
best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of
placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself
obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and
pack her trunk afresh.
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension,
wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford
again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to
curtsey and hold out her hand to both.
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 unfortunate—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 39
It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies
set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in
Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr.
Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in
token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking
out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an
hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite
milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a 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 purchases—“Look here, I have bought this
bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might
as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get
home, and see if I can make it up any better.”
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the
shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim
it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it
will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the
——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”
“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest
satisfaction.
“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want
papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a
delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost 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 news—capital
news—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 her—who _could_ about such a nasty
little freckled thing?”
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the
_sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had 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 enquiring 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_—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 go—and once gone, she hoped there
could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
She had not been many hours at home before she found that the
Brighton scheme, of 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 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?”
“No—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 man—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 enquired 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 41
The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.
It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the
young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The
dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were
still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course
of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for
this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was
extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in
any of the family.
“Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would
they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be
smiling so, Lizzy?”
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered
what she had herself endured on a similar occasion,
five-and-twenty years ago.
“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when
Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have
broken my heart.”
“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.
“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.
“Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable.”
“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”
“And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of
good,” added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all
sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of
Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed
to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for
she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the
colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This
invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately
married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had
recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_
months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.
Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of
Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her
sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless
ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and
talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty
continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as
unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as
Lydia,” said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I
have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for
I am two years older.”
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to
make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was
so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother
and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all
possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as
such a step must make her were it known, she could not help
secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented
to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the
little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a
woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the
temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her
attentively, and then said:
“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some
public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with
so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the
present circumstances.”
“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great
disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of
Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already
arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the
affair.”
“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened
away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast
down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a
little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the
list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s
folly.”
“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It
is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now
complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must
be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of
all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must
speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble
of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her
present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will
soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be
fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in
the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any
attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the
ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off
any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for
admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is
comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,
can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and
despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not
be often involved in the disgrace?”
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are
known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear
to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very
silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does
not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a
sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she
is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At
Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt
than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth
their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may
teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the
rest of her life.”
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own
opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and
sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her
vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having
performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or
augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference
with her father, their indignation would hardly have found
expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a
visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly
happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets
of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself
the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present
unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched
forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the
view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting
with at least six officers at once.
Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects
and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?
They could have been understood only by her mother, who might
have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that
consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never
intending to go there himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their
raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of
Lydia’s leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having
been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation
was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality
entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very
gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a
sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to
herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the
inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,
after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern
for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such
idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed
it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing,
that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had
been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference
secured at any time by their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he
dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
his making some enquiry as to the manner in which her time had
passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr.
Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,
if he was acquainted with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly
seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very
gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer
was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon
afterwards added:
“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
“And you saw him frequently?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”
“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon
acquaintance.”
“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her.
“And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a
gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to
add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not
hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is
improved in essentials.”
“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very
much what he ever was.”
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an
apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:
“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean
that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but
that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better
understood.”
Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and
agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off
his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the
gentlest of accents:
“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to
assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that
direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others,
for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have
suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which
you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his
visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands
much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when
they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish
of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain
he has very much at heart.”
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered
only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted
to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was
in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with
the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no
further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last
with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never
meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to
Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning.
The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than
pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep
from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good
wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her
injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying
herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason
to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous
happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle
adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
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 looked forward with impatient desire did not, in taking
place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It
was consequently necessary to name some other period for the
commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which
her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the
pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and
prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now
the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her
mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included
Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to
wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment
would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless
source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to
have all my expectations of pleasure 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 learnt—for her letters to Kitty,
though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words
to be made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,
good humour, and cheerfulness began to 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 satisfied—and certainly her
temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.
It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of
Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his
county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without
his perceiving me.”
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to
pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass
away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at
length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and
eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the
particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general
favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly
adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them,
playing with them, and loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a
suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and
affection and intelligence, which might supply it among
themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of
Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which
their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, 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 more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,
instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very
idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt
than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;
and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if
her private enquiries to the absence of the family were
unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name
of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family
were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the
last question—and her alarms 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 43
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance
of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length
they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.
They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some
time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and
admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually
ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of
a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was
instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite
side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.
It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising
ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front,
a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but
without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal
nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen
a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty
had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt
that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all
her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest
the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place,
they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited
for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she
was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much
less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding
her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,
well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after
slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.
The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving
increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.
Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the
whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the
winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with
delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were
beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their
furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but
Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither
gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real
elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!
With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!
Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in
them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and
aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my
uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been
allowed to invite them.”
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very
like regret.
She longed to enquire of the housekeeper whether her master was
really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,
the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with
alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we
expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How
rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any
circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and
saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other
miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,
how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it
was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s
steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He
is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has
turned out very wild.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth
could not return it.
“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the
same time as the other—about eight years ago.”
“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs.
Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But,
Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.
“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”
“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
“Yes, very handsome.”
“I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up
stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of
them.”
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,
drawn when she was only eight years old.
“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs.
Gardiner.
“Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room
is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my
master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,
encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;
Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great
pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend
half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer
months.”
“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”
“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
“Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know
who is good enough for him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
“It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think
so.”
“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows
him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty
far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the
housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in
my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite
to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her
firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed
to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are
lucky in having such a master.”
“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I
could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that
they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when
they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most
generous-hearted boy in the world.”
Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought
she.
“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like
him—just as affable to the poor.”
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for
more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She
related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the
rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner,
highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he
attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led
again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many
merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that
ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of
nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or
servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him
proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it
is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”
“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought
Elizabeth.
“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked,
“is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”
“Perhaps we might be deceived.”
“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”
On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very
pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it
was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a
liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked
towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should
enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added.
“Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in
a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,
were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good
paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such
as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to
look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects
were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could
have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked
in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.
At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to
Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to
have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several
minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and
returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.
Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s
lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more
gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at
the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on
him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is
more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a
brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s
happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain
was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be
done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the
housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood
before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment
of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its
warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had
been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the
housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at
the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth
turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and
while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,
the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,
which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was
his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their
eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with
the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed
immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced
towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of
perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the
picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure
the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s
expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately
have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to
their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift
her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to
his civil enquiries 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 enquiries as to the time of her having left
Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so
hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a
few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected
himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his
figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by
her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered
by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate,
the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must
appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so
vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself
in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come
a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment
arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She
blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And
his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he
should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such
civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she
seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with
such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast
did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his
letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to
account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,
and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a
finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it
was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and,
though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her
uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as
they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her
thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to
know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he
thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was
still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt
himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her
with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence
of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more
like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a
while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where
the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many
charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long
range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the
stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole
park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant
smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the
matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought
them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to
the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They
crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air
of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet
visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed
room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough
coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its
windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived
their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great
walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the
carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,
obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on
the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but
their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to
indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in
the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced
but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were
again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to
what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more
prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and
to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a
few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into
some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk
concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was
immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost
none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she
began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she
had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise
of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her
colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,
he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to
her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was
quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his
being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people
against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself.
“What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they
are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named
their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to
see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his
decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.
That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident; he
sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going
away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with
Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but
triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some
relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his
intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.
Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as
often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood,
offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and
pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually
most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with
Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said
nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be
all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what
can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_—it cannot be for _my_ sake
that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could
not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should
still love me.”
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the
two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending
to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some
curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It
originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the
morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and
consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by
her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,
the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been
assured of his absence before she came to the place, and
accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very
unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed,
before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not
immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth
of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned
his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with
whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,”
he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an
acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were
instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had
been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by
his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.
“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after
a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will
you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to
your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too
great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She
immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of
being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,
without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying
to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of
her.
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.
Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was
flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her
was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the
others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself
not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time
much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She
wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every
subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling,
and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance.
Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas
were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over.
On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go
into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined,
and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy
handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,
Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of
them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they
had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and
unassuming,” said her uncle.
“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,”
replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not
unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some
people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.”
“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was
more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no
necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was
very trifling.”
“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as
Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his
features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he
was so disagreeable?”
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had
liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that
she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”
replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I
shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind
another day, and warn me off his grounds.”
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his
character, but said nothing.
“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I
really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so
cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not
an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing
about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity
in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea
of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his
house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help
laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,
and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them
to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what
she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were
capable of a very different construction; and that his character
was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had
been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she
related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in
which they had been connected, without actually naming her
authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave
way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in
pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its
environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by
the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off
again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was
spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many
years’ discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave
Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she
could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s
civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted
with his sister.
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 enquiring 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 enquired in a friendly,
though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting
personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The
whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The
suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece
directed their observation towards each with an earnest though
guarded enquiry; and they soon drew from those enquiries the full
conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of
the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain
the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her
own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter
object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of
success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were
prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was
eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his
were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he
talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased
herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying
to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she
could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had
been set up as a rival 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
disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to
the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected
their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the
change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she
could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never,
even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his
dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to
please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as
now, when no importance could result from the success of his
endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his
attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and
censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors 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 enquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.
Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak
of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some
others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of
considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though
while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager
to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and
aunt, she 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
enquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,
as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.
They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn
his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report,
without any reference to any other account, the circle in
Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have 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 gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be
attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be
encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to
him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted
to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,
and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should
employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed,
of bringing on 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 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 enquiry
after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all
the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till
after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to
Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was
now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all
talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,
nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding
whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.
Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;
and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes
to predominate, she began to regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three
other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had
left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended
a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than
Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;
a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the
more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the
whole party were awakened against them, and that there was
scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first
came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so
strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles
which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her
attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her
brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and
Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to
get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt
at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this
likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first
opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from
Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”
In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but
Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her
thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave
her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel
the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a
tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance
showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking
at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to
lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then
giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained
from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she
believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which
might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the
latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of
her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had
ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no
creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except
to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was
particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which
Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and
without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate
him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something
to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his
emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not
approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,
though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,
whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest
in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed
to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on
her more and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not
join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her
favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such
terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of
finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy
returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”
she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she
is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and
I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he
contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other
alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous
consequence of travelling in the summer.
“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never
could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion
has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her
nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her
teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for
her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never
see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish
look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there
is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this
was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people
are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat
nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely
silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak,
she continued:
“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed
we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I
particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been
dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ a beauty!—I should as soon call her
mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I
believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”
“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but
_that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since
I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my
acquaintance.”
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any
pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred
during their visit, as they returned, except what had
particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of
everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who
had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister,
his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet
Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him,
and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s
beginning the subject.
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 you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say
relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just
as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us
that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to
own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,
however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very
sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to
hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this
step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His
choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can
give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father
bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know
what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They
were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were
not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent
off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten
miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here
soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their
intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I
hardly know what I have written.”
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely
knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter
instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost
impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than
the conclusion of the first.
“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
Imprudent as 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 enquiry on that side
London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and
Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to
pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn,
and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to
his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one
can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my 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
friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.
Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him
too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in
a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ might have prevented it! _I_
who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it
only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his
character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
all—all too late now.”
“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it
certain—absolutely certain?”
“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were
traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not
gone to Scotland.”
“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
her?”
“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my
uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in
half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that
nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are
they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is
every way horrible!”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known
what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of
doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was
walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow
contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and
instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; 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.
Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,
soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with
her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to 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 otherwise—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 surprise—all astonishment that Wickham
should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an
attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though
she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an
elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no
difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her
understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,
that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that
Lydia 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
girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot
to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon
her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable
of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost
persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s
interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered
the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had
hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that
their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly
on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the
postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had
never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not
but be deeply 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.”
“That is all settled;” repeated the other, as she ran into her
room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to
disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”
But wishes were vain, or at 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 47
“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,
as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious
consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as
your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very
unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a
girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was
actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly
inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would
not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His
temptation is not adequate to the risk!”
“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a
moment.
“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your
uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,
honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so
very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him
up, as to believe him capable of it?”
“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!
But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if
that had been the case?”
“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute
proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”
“Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is
such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be
found on the Barnet road.”
“Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional
purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on
either side; and it might strike them that they could be more
economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than
in Scotland.”
“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His
most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded
of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a
woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims
has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good
humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of
benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I
know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But
as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good.
Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from
my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little
attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in
his family, that _he_ would do as little, and think as little
about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”
“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love
of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than
marriage?”
“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied
Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of
decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,
really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her
justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to
think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a
twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and
vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most
idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in
her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton,
nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head.
She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and
talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?
susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively
enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person
and address that can captivate a woman.”
“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very
ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”
“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever
might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of
such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane
knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that
he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has
neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful
as he is insinuating.”
“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the
other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you
yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke
of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality
towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at
liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about
the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss
Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved,
disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must
know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her.”
“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what
you and Jane seem so well to understand?”
“Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and
saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel
Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I
returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or
fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I
related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our
knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any
one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him
should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that
Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her
eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such
a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was
far enough from my thoughts.”
“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,
I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”
“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on
either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you
must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be
thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready
enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near
Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months;
but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention;
and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the
regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
favourites.”
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could
be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this
interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could
detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From
Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the
keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval
of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one
night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day.
It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not
have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were
standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;
and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise
that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their
whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first
pleasing earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty
kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running
down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears
filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether
anything had been heard of the fugitives.
“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I
hope everything will be well.”
“Is my father in town?”
“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”
“And have you heard from him often?”
“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday
to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his
directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely
added that he should not write again till he had something of
importance to mention.”
“And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”
“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are
greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction
in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary
and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.”
“But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much
you must have gone through!”
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and
their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to
by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and
aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles
and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which
Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the
others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to
give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence
of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still
expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would
bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain
their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few
minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be
expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives
against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her
own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to
whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must
principally be owing.
“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to
Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but
poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the
Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was
some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the
kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked
after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge
of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And
now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and
what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out
before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,
brother, I do not know what we shall do.”
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,
after general assurances of his affection for her and all her
family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,
and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering
Lydia.
“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right
to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it
as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a
few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know
that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not
let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I
shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to
Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what
is to be done.”
“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what
I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find
them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married
already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not
let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much
money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And,
above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a
dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and
have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms
in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not
to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,
for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest
endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation
to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with
her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left
her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in
the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no
real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not
attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence
enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited
at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the household,
and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her
fears and solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who
had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make
their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other
from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably
calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss
of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself
incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than
usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress
enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of
grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much
talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the
wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from
it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is
irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;
that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and
that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the
undeserving of the other sex.”
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much
oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console
herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before
them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed
herself of the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane
was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general
lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which
Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could
not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it
which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What
did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything
before the elopement took place? They must have seen them
together for ever.”
“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some
partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him
any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive
and kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure
us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone
to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened
his journey.”
“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he
know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny
himself?”
“Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing
anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion
about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
marrying—and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might have
been misunderstood before.”
“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you
entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”
“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I
felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness
with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not
been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of
that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then
owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest
of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such
a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each
other, many weeks.”
“But not before they went to Brighton?”
“No, I believe not.”
“And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself?
Does he know his real character?”
“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he
formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.
And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he
left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”
“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of
him, this could not have happened!”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to
expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their
present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the
best intentions.”
“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to
his wife?”
“He brought it with him for us to see.”
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.
These were the contents:
“My dear Harriet,
“You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I
am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess
with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man
in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy
without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send
them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it
will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign
my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can
hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not
keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I
hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I
shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you
would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown
before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel
Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
“Your affectionate friend,
“LYDIA BENNET.”
“Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she
had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a
moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the
subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade
her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor
father! how he must have felt it!”
“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for
full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the
whole house in such confusion!”
“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it
who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”
“I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a
time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I
endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid
I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what
might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”
“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not
look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care
and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in
every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either
of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,
that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt
Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away;
and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of
great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very
kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us,
and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they
should be of use to us.”
“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps
she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one
cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is
impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at
a distance, and be satisfied.”
She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father
had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his
daughter.
“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place
where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if
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
enquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house
the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make
enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out
the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other
designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be
gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had
difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”
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 up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh
instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom
went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three
months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared
to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues,
all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into
every tradesman’s family. 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 enquire at all the
principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they
might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,
before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not
expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that
Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London
and promised to write again very soon. There was also a
postscript to this effect:
“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be
likely to know in what part of 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 ——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 misfortune—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 49
Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were
walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the
housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to
call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead
of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to
Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but
I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I
took the liberty of coming to ask.”
“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”
“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you
know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He
has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.
They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from
thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were
on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when
they were met by the butler, who said:
“If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards
the little copse.”
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall
once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was
deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of
the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for
breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
“Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”
“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”
“Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”
“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the
letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself
what it is about.”
“Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August_ 2.
“My dear Brother,
“At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon
after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out
in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till
we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen
them both—”
“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are
married!”
Elizabeth read on:
“I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to
perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your
side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,
her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your
children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during
your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying
with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall
send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me
your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,
that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are
generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that
respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,
even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in
addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case,
you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole
of this business, I will immediately give directions to
Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be
the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore
stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care.
Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write
explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be
married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She
comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more
is determined on. Yours, etc.,
“EDW. GARDINER.”
“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it
be possible that he will marry her?”
“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said
her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”
“And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.
“No; but it must be done soon.”
Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time
before he wrote.
“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write
immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a
case.”
“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
yourself.”
“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the
house.
“And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must
be complied with.”
“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”
“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”
“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But
there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how
much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the
other, how am I ever to pay him.”
“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight
a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty
after I am gone.”
“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred
to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to
remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I
am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all
this.”
“No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a
farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to
think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”
“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
repaid?”
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,
continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then
went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the
breakfast-room.
“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as
they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we
are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their
chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are
forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”
“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he
certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for
her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing
him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like
it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have
more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”
“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”
said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our
sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for
them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness
of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her
home, and affording her their personal protection and
countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of
gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually
with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she
will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
first sees my aunt!”
“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”
said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His
consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is
come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will
steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,
and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past
imprudence forgotten.”
“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither
you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of
it.”
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to
the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would
not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and,
without raising his head, coolly replied:
“Just as you please.”
“May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”
“Take whatever you like, and get away.”
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went
up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:
one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight
preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet
could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr.
Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst
forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She
was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever
been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She
will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at
sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he
would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear
Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write
to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run
down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,
stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will
put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we
shall be together when we meet!”
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the
violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the
obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under.
“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a
great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”
“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it
but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and
my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the
first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few
presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a
daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was
only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter,
that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write
for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,
and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful
orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her
to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s
delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother
was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes,
too, came into her head.
“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and
tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come
back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and
order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I
am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here
comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss
Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of
punch to make merry at her wedding.”
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received
her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this
folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with
freedom.
Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it
was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and
though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor
worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in
looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she
felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
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
it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger;
but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten
miles from me; and as for 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 much—not,
however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to
herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between
them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable
terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect
himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now
be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with 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 ——’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.—Yours, etc.,
“E. GARDINER.”
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s
removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But
Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being
settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure
and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her
plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe
disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia
should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with
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 ——’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 51
Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt
for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was
sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by
dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets,
and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would
have attended herself, had _she_ been the culprit, and was
wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to
receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the
carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably
grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown
open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,
embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with
an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and
wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of
their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was
not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;
and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young
couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was
disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia
still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned
from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when
at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took
notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a
laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his
manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his
marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy
address, while he claimed their relationship, would have
delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite
equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within
herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an
impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of
colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could
neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to
sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in
that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very
unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have
the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was
recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects
which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went
away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been
things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went
away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came
back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth
looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,
“Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I
was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in
his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let
down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let
my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the
ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the
room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through
the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough
to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right
hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take
your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married
woman.”
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.
Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.
Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to
hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the
mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of
being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the
breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a
charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope
they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton.
That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we
did not all go.”
“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I
don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”
“Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.
We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there
will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for
them all.”
“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.
“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my
sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them
before the winter is over.”
“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I
do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.
Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he
was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so
short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with
her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These
parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even
more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.
Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had
expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had
scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the
reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the
strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have
wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope
with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was
rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were
the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of
having a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on
every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He
did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill
more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the
country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe.
You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.
Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”
“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too
little said on the subject.”
“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We
were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s
lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should
all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to
go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well,
Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,
you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I
should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the
time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she
was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I
longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”
“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would
never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my
uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with
them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of
doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme,
or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the
Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came
to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that
horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did
not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But,
luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all
set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he _had_ been
prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy
might have done as well.”
“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
“Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But
gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word
about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say?
It was to be such a secret!”
“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”
“Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
“we will ask you no questions.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell
you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out
of her power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at
least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had
been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly
among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least
temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and
wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none.
Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the
noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such
suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short
letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had
dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.
“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must
be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and
(comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have
been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me
understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in
the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must
endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”
“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she
finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in
an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and
stratagems to find it out.”
Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was
glad of it;—till it appeared whether her enquiries would receive
any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
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 enquiries to be necessary on _your_
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing
but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed
him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
ignorant, I must be more explicit.
“On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had
a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with
him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my
curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _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 —— 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
enquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town
the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person
whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore
readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the
former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was
only known that a gentleman had called on business.
“On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at
home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk
together.
“They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not
all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was
sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I
fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,
after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times,
but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did
not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be
thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most
readily have settled the whole.
“They battled it together for a long time, which was more than
either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at
last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed
to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having
the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain;
and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great
pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him
of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due.
But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at
most.
“You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the
young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to
considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in
addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission
purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone,
was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s
character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had
been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_
reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all
this fine talking, my 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;—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 her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to
overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind
of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure,
done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a
reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch
of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;
and though she would not place herself as his principal
inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality
for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of
mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly
painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who
could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,
her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she
grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,
every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself
she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of
himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and
again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding
how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that
affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.
“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”
said he, as he joined her.
“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not
follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good
friends; and now we are better.”
“True. Are the others coming out?”
“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage
to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and
aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”
She replied in the affirmative.
“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be
too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle.
And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she
was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my
name to you.”
“Yes, she did.”
“And what did she say?”
“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not
turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things
are strangely misrepresented.”
“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each
other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”
“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at
this time of year.”
“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I
thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”
“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”
“And do you like her?”
“Very much.”
“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within
this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very
promising. I am very glad you 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!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would
have suited me in every respect.”
“How should you have liked making sermons?”
“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my
duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought
not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing
for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have
answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you
ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”
“I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _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 53
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation
that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear
sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no
means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle,
was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
“Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”
“Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”
“Write to me very often, my dear.”
“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have
nothing else to do.”
Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.
He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and
makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even
Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several
days.
“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as
parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”
“This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a
daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied
that your other four are single.”
“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is
married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so
far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so
soon.”
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was
shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of
hope, by an article of news which then began to be in
circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders
to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in
a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was
quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook
her head by turns.
“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for
Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the
better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,
you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But,
however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes
it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that is nothing to us.
You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word
about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”
“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was
in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself
on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was
certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very
likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me,
on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got
three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without
changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his
name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together,
she said:
“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the
present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t
imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the
moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure
you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or
pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we
shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of _myself_, but
I dread other people’s remarks.”
Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him
in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming
there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she
still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the
greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend’s
permission, or being bold enough to come without it.
“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man
cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could
easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were
more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,
“you will wait on him of course.”
“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,
if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it
ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand
again.”
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
returning to Netherfield.
“’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our
society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not
spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they
go away and come back again.”
“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do
not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him
to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the
Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there
will be just room at table for him.”
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that
her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it,
before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—
“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her
sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one
can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be,
when his stay at Netherfield is over!”
“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;
“but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the
usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied
me, because you have always so much.”
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of
servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the
period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as
it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their
invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on
the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw
him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride
towards the house.
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane
resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy
her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with
him, and sat down again by her sister.
“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it
be?”
“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do
not know.”
“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be
with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”
“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any
friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure;
but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but
little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the
awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost
for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both
sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and
of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her
dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only
as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them.
But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew
Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment
towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she
had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own
more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole
family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she
regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at
least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her
astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to
Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to
what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in
Derbyshire.
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half
a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added
lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that
his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would
not be secure.
“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be
early enough for expectation.”
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without
daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them
to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the
door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than
Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour
increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a
propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of
resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and
sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not
often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He
looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at
Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be
what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not
an improbable, conjecture.
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short
period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was
received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her
two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold
and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his
friend.
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the
latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful
degree by a distinction so ill applied.
Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
question which she could not answer without confusion, said
scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the
reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.
There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.
But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his
voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of
curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found
him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object
but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,
than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was
disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.
“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he
come?”
She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;
and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.
“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.
Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.
“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
_did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;
but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have
happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is
married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you
have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It
was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put
in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham,
Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said
of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was
my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.
Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,
therefore, she could not tell.
“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr.
Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me.
They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it
seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His
regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving
the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank
Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he
deserves.”
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew
from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else
had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he
meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he
believed.
“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her
mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you
please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy
to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”
Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would
be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,
she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself
amends for moments of such painful confusion.
“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more
to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no
pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me
never see either one or the other again!”
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from
observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the
admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had
spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be
giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she
had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though
not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should
be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she
talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that
she did not always know when she was silent.
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of
her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine
at Longbourn in a few days time.
“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for
when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family
dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you
see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did
not come back and keep your engagement.”
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
something of his concern at having been prevented by business.
They then went away.
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and
dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good
table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be
good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or
satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a
year.
Chapter 54
As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her
spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on
those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour
astonished and vexed her.
“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said
she, “did he come at all?”
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt,
when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come
hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing,
teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the
approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look,
which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than
Elizabeth.
“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel
perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be
embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on
Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we
meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”
“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh,
Jane, take care.”
“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
now?”
“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in
love with you as ever.”
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs.
Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy
schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley,
in half an hour’s visit, had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and
the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their
punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they
repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see
whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former
parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother,
occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by
herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane
happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He
placed himself by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his
friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have
imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had
she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an
expression of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as
showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than
formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself,
Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though
she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received
pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the
animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no
cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the
table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She
knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either,
or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to
hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they
spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner
whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of
what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she
would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him
that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of
the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity
of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not
pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of
conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his
entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the
drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull
to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to
their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure
for the evening must depend.
“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him
up for ever.”
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the
table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring
out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a
single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the
gentlemen’s approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her
than ever, and said, in a whisper:
“The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none
of them; do we?”
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed
him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely
patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged
against herself for being so silly!
“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish
enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the
sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second
proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to
their feelings!”
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”
“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”
“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”
“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
Scarborough, these three weeks.”
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to
converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her,
however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young
lady’s whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the
ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined
by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a
victim to her mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few
moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost
every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening
at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his
eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to
make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of
the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
“What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off
uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as
any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody
said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times
better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr.
Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well
done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least.
And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.
Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what
do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have
her at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long
is as good a creature as ever lived—and her nieces are very
pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them
prodigiously.”
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen
enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she
would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her
family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that
she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next
day, to make his proposals.
“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to
Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one
with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies
me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation
as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish
beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now
are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is
only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a
stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”
“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me
smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”
“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”
“And how impossible in others!”
“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?”
“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all
love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth
knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not
make _me_ your confidante.”
Chapter 55
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone.
His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to
return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and
was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine
with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed
himself engaged elsewhere.
“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if
she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of
waiting on them.
“Can you come to-morrow?”
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
invitation was accepted with alacrity.
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of
them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her
dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley
is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come
to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never
mind Miss Lizzy’s hair.”
“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say
Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half
an hour ago.”
“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be
quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
go down without one of her sisters.
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in
the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was
his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two
obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking
and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time,
without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not
observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently
said, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me
for? What am I to do?”
“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat
still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious
occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here,
my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane
instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at
such premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in
to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and
called out:
“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”
Elizabeth was forced to go.
“We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her
mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up
stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then
returned into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was
every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her
daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable
addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged
officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with
a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to
the daughter.
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he
went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and
Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot with
her husband.
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word
passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went
to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded,
unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously,
however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have
taken place with that gentleman’s concurrence.
Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet
spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was
much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was
nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his
ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more
communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen
him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the
evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every
body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon
after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards,
she could not be wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes.
But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was
finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to
fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening
the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together
over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had
this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily
turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it
all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she thought
was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who
as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering
a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.
Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence
would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged,
with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in
the world.
“’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve
it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”
Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a
warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every
sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But
she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half
that remained to be said for the present.
“I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on
any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her
to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father
already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give
such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much
happiness!”
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up
the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity
and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given
them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious
circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance!
the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with
her father had been short and to the purpose.
“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.
“With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare
say.”
He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good
wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily
expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They
shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came
down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own
happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being a
lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity
to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the
excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane,
and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
himself.
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the
satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet
animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever.
Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon.
Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation
in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked
to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet
joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how
really happy he was.
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till
their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was
gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.
“You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of
your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means
unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever
be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and
so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”
“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
would be unpardonable in _me_.”
“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what
are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and
very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear,
dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep
all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so,
at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I
remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into
Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you
should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!”
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition
her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects
of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always
remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous
neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an
invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her
sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow
on anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both
of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur.
In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth,
for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone,
Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me
that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I
had not believed it possible.”
“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account
for it?”
“It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no
friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,
since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many
respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their
brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we
shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once
were to each other.”
“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I
ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see
you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”
“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of
_my_ being indifferent would have prevented his coming down
again!”
“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of
his modesty.”
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his
diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good
qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed
the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most
generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a
circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!”
cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and
blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there
were but such another man for you!”
“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy
as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can
have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and,
perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr.
Collins in time.”
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be
long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs.
Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the
same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in
the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first
run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for
misfortune.
Chapter 56
One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane
had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting
together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn
to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a
chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the
morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to
that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and
neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded
it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet
to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with
him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of
the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction,
till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was
Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them,
even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,
made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight
inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.
Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s
entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of
such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness.
After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to
Elizabeth,
“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
mother.”
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
“And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”
“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady
Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all
is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds,
walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part
of the family.”
“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after
a short silence.
“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but
I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.”
“This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,
in summer; the windows are full west.”
Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,
and then added:
“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left
Mr. and Mrs. Collins well.”
“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her
from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her
calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take
some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not
very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up,
said to Elizabeth,
“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a
turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”
“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be
decent looking rooms, walked on.
Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the
gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to
make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more
than usually insolent and disagreeable.
“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she
looked in her face.
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
following manner:—
“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of
my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell
you why I come.”
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to
account for the honour of seeing you here.”
“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought
to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere
_you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character
has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in
a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from
it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I
was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most
advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew,
my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scandalous
falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for
this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”
“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth,
colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the
trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by
it?”
“At once to insist upon having such a report universally
contradicted.”
“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said
Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if,
indeed, such a report is in existence.”
“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such
a report is spread abroad?”
“I never heard that it was.”
“And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for
it?”
“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
_You_ may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.”
“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”
“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”
“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of
his reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of
infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to
all his family. You may have drawn him in.”
“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”
“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to
such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in
the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”
“But you are not entitled to know _mine;_ nor will such behaviour
as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”
“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy
is engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?”
“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
he will make an offer to me.”
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the
favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in
their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when
the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their
marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of
no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do
you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his
earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”
“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there
is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall
certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt
wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you
could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on
others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination
confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And
if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”
“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it.
Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by
his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the
inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and
despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a
disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”
“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife
of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness
necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the
whole, have no cause to repine.”
“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your
gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to
me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss
Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of
carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not
been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the
habit of brooking disappointment.”
“_That_ will make your ladyship’s situation at present more
pitiable; but it will have no effect on _me_.”
“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and
my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the
maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s,
from respectable, honourable, and ancient—though
untitled—families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They
are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their
respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart
pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or
fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If
you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit
the sphere in which you have been brought up.”
“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s
daughter; so far we are equal.”
“True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother?
Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of
their condition.”
“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew
does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”
“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say,
after a moment’s deliberation:
“I am not.”
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an
engagement?”
“I will make no promise of the kind.”
“Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a
more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a
belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have
given me the assurance I require.”
“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be
intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship
wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you
the wished-for promise make _their_ marriage at all more
probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing
to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which
you have supported this extraordinary application have been as
frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely
mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such
persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your
interference in _his_ affairs, I cannot tell; but you have
certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”
“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I
am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s
infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying
her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and
uncles. And is _such_ a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is _her_
husband, who is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his
brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the
shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”
“You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully
answered. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must
beg to return to the house.”
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my
nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a
connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”
“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my
sentiments.”
“You are then resolved to have him?”
“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that
manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly
unconnected with me.”
“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey
the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to
ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the
contempt of the world.”
“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,
“have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No
principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr.
Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the
indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his
marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the
world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”
“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very
well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet,
that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I
hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry
my point.”
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I
take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your
mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously
displeased.”
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it
herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up
stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the
dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again
and rest herself.
“She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”
“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the
Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say,
and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call
on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you,
Lizzy?”
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
Chapter 57
The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for
many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady
Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this
journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her
supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to
be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could
originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she
recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, and
_her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to
supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the
marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together.
And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their
communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had
reached Lady Catherine), had only set _that_ down as almost
certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked forward to as
possible at some future time.
In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not
help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of
her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of
her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to
Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew;
and how he might take a similar representation of the evils
attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She
knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his
dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he
thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with
_one_, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own,
his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions
of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to
Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good
sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had
often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a
relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to
be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case
he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way
through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to
Netherfield must give way.
“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come
to his friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to
understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every
wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting
me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall
soon cease to regret him at all.”
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied
it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs.
Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on
the subject.
The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my
room.”
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had
to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in
some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck
her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated
with dismay all the consequent explanations.
She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
down. He then said,
“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to
know its contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_
daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a
very important conquest.”
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the
instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew,
instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be
pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his
letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father
continued:
“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such
matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to
discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr.
Collins.”
“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”
“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest
daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the
good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your
impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates
to yourself, is as follows: ‘Having thus offered you the sincere
congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event,
let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which
we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet,
after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of
her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most
illustrious personages in this land.’
“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? ‘This young
gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the
heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble
kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these
temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of
what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this
gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to
take immediate advantage of.’
“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
comes out:
“‘My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to
imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on
the match with a friendly eye.’
“_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man
within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have
given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy,
who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who
probably never looked at _you_ in his life! It is admirable!”
Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could
only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been
directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
“Are you not diverted?”
“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”
“‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her
ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual
condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it
became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on
the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what
she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give
the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her
noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’
Mr. Collins moreover adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin
Lydia’s sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only
concerned that their living together before the marriage took
place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect
the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement
at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as
soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and
had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously
have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them, as a
Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of
Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his
dear Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young
olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it.
You are not going to be _missish_, I hope, and pretend to be
affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make
sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”
“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
strange!”
“Yes—_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other
man it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference,
and _your_ pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much
as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s
correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter
of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over
Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my
son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this
report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as
it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not
distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at
a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was
necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father
had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s
indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want
of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too
_little_, she might have fancied too _much_.
Chapter 58
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend,
as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to
bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed
after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and,
before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his
aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who
wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It
was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary
could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together.
Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip
them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were
to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly
forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the
same.
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call
upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a
general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him
alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and,
while her courage was high, she immediately said:
“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of
giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be
wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your
unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known
it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully
I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not
have merely my own gratitude to express.”
“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of
surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what
may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not
think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”
“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first
betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of
course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me
thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that
generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble,
and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering
them.”
“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself
alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force
to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to
deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I
believe I thought only of _you_.”
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short
pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with
me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me
so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one
word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and
anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and
immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand
that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the
period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude
and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this
reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;
and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had
Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how
well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face,
became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and
he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she
was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too
much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any
other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their
present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_
call on him in her return through London, and there relate her
journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her
conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every
expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief
that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that
promise from her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But,
unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly
contrariwise.
“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed
myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be
certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided
against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine,
frankly and openly.”
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know
enough of my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After
abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple
in abusing you to all your relations.”
“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It
was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to
that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if
strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we
have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of
what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions
during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,
inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I
shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike
manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely
conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I
confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong
an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever
felt in such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every
proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I
shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed
you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not
do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily
ashamed of it.”
Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make
you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit
to its contents?”
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
all her former prejudices had been removed.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it
was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was
one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your
having the power of reading again. I can remember some
expressions which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential
to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason
to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I
hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself
perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so.
The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The
feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it,
are now so widely different from what they were then, that every
unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You
must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its
remembrance gives you pleasure.”
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the
contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is
much better, of innocence. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful
recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be
repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice,
though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was
_right_, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given
good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_), I was
spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father,
particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed,
encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to
care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all
the rest of the world; to _wish_ at least to think meanly of
their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from
eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but
for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous.
By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of
my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my
pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you
to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I
assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might
often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_
evening?”
“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began
to take a proper direction.”
“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met
at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”
“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed
by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary
politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive _more_
than my due.”
“My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every
civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the
past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill
opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended
to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly
tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and
of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally
leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that
his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her
sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his
gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other
struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a
subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy
to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their
watches, that it was time to be at home.
“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted
with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest
information of it.
“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had
been pretty much the case.
“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago.
I told him of all that had occurred to make my former
interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise
was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him,
moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had
done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could
easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt
no doubt of their happiness together.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing
his friend.
“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you
told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information
last spring?”
“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two
visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her
affection.”
“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
conviction to him.”
“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case,
but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to
confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended
him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had
been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and
purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am
persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your
sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most
delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had
yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to
begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course
was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation
till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
Chapter 59
“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a
question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she
entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to
table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered
about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she
spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a suspicion
of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary.
The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged
were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness
overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather
_knew_ that she was happy than _felt_ herself to be so; for,
besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils
before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when
her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him
but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_
which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very
far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely
incredulous here.
“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,
no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”
“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on
you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not.
Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He
still loves me, and we are engaged.”
Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know
how much you dislike him.”
“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot.
Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in
such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the
last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.
“Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,”
cried Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate
you—but are you certain? forgive the question—are you quite
certain that you can be happy with him?”
“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already,
that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you
pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”
“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself
more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as
impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh,
Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you
quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?”
“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do,
when I tell you all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I
am afraid you will be angry.”
“My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very
seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without
delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?”
“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it
began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his
beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn
assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss
Bennet had nothing further to wish.
“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as
myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his
love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as
Bingley’s friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and
yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very
reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at
Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another,
not to you.”
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been
unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own
feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But
now she would no longer conceal from her his share in Lydia’s
marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in
conversation.
“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the
next morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here
again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so
tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he
would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us
with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk
out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;
yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him
such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,
and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good
information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet,
have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way
again to-day?”
“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to
walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and
Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”
“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I
am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” Kitty
owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet
followed her, saying:
“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind
it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion
for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put
yourself to inconvenience.”
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent
should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved
to herself the application for her mother’s. She could not
determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting
whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome
her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set
against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain
that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her
sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,
she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on
seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition,
but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be
through her means—that _she_, his favourite child, should be
distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears
and regrets in disposing of her—was a wretched reflection, and
she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at
him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he
approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your
father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your
senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been
more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have
spared her from explanations and professions which it was
exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she
assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich,
to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages
than Jane. But will they make you happy?”
“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief
of my indifference?”
“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of
man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I
love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly
amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain
me by speaking of him in such terms.”
“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the
kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything,
which he condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are
resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of
it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be
neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your
husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively
talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal
marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My
child, let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to
respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her
reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was
really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change
which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute
certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had
stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with
energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s
incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no
more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not
have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr.
Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
astonishment.
“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every
thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s
debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will
save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle’s
doing, I must and _would_ have paid him; but these violent young
lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him
to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and
there will be an end of the matter.”
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his
reading Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some
time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted the room,
“If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am
quite at leisure.”
Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and,
after half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was
able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was
too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away;
there was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the
comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she
followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect
was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat
quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under
many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard;
though not in general backward to credit what was for the
advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to
any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy!
Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest
Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what
jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane’s is nothing to
it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming
man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for
my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook
it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is
charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord!
What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be
doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard
only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three
minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.
“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord!
And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special
licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is
particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”
This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the
gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in
the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of
her relations’ consent, there was still something to be wished
for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for
Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law
that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power
to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his
opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains
to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that
he was rising every hour in his esteem.
“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham,
perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband
quite as well as Jane’s.”
Chapter 60
Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted
Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.
“How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on
charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could
set you off in the first place?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the
words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in
the middle before I knew that I _had_ begun.”
“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my
behaviour to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil,
and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain
than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little
less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference,
of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who
were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for _your_
approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so
unlike _them_. Had you not been really amiable, you would have
hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise
yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your
heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it
perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of
me—but nobody thinks of _that_ when they fall in love.”
“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
she was ill at Netherfield?”
“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a
virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your
protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;
and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing
and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin
directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the
point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called,
and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?”
“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no
encouragement.”
“But I was embarrassed.”
“And so was I.”
“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”
“A man who had felt less, might.”
“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,
and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder
how long you _would_ have gone on, if you had been left to
yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have spoken, if I had not
asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to
Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too much_, I am afraid; for
what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach
of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This
will never do.”
“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly
fair. Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us
were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for
my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your
gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of
yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, and I was
determined at once to know every thing.”
“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her
happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come
down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and
be embarrassed? or had you intended any more serious
consequence?”
“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could,
whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or
what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were
still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession
to him which I have since made.”
“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what
is to befall her?”
“I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it
shall be done directly.”
“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you
and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady
once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer
neglected.”
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr.
Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs.
Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate
which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to
find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of
happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to
have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of
particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You
supposed more than really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as
you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your
imagination in every possible flight which the subject will
afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot
greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and
again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to
wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round
the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world.
Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such
justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh.
Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare
from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours,
etc.”
Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;
and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr.
Collins, in reply to his last.
“Dear Sir,
“I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has
more to give.
“Yours sincerely, etc.”
Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote
even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat
all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but
she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could
not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was
deserved.
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar
information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four
sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and
all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family
heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The
reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine
had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her
nephew’s letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match,
was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a
moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to
Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must
sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr.
Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could
even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on
carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed
his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James’s, with
very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not
till Sir William was out of sight.
Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax
on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her
sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the
familiarity which Bingley’s good humour encouraged, yet, whenever
she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him,
though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more
elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the
frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to
herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings
arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of
its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked
forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from
society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and
elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
Chapter 61
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs.
Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what
delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked
of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake
of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in
the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an
effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman
for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her
husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so
unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection
for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do.
He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least
expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.
So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not
desirable even to _his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart.
The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an
estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and
Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were
within thirty miles of each other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her
time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what
she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not
of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the
influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and
management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From
the further disadvantage of Lydia’s society she was of course
carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to
come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men,
her father would never consent to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was
necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs.
Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix
more with the world, but she could still moralize over every
morning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons
between her sisters’ beauty and her own, it was suspected by her
father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution
from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the
conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with
whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown
to her; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope
that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The
congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her
marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by
himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:
“My dear Lizzy,
“I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my
dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to
have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope
you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at
court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money
enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of
about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to
Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
“Yours, etc.”
As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and
expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her
power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy
in her own private expences, she frequently sent them. It had
always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under
the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and
heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their
support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even
when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was
unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to
place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more
than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into
indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and in spite of her
youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation
which her marriage had given her.
Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him further in his profession.
Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone
to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they
both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley’s good
humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of
giving them a hint to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but
as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at
Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of
Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid
off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the
sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able
to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had
the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first
she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her
lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had
always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her
affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind
received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By
Elizabeth’s instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman
may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than
himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her
nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her
character in her reply to the letter which announced its
arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of
Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But
at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to
overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a
little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment
gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to
see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods
had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,
but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were
both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons
who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of
uniting them.
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