Chapter XXI
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 allusion 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 still meant to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire 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 every body 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, and was opened immediately. 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 that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst
had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to regret
any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest
friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns of
the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean while may lessen
the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence.
I depend on you for that." To these high flown 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 soon 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 acquaintance
are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest
friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, 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 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 to 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 think you 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 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 the 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 any one; and all
that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived 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 every one.
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 of thinking 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 XXII
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 less 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 sure 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 could 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,
every thing 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 waved 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 of matrimony,
marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable 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
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 other 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 on your guard. Risk any thing 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, as well as 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 to find 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 her's, 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 that 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 her 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 all 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, connections, 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 could not have supposed it 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 XXIII
ELIZABETH was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she were 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 all the mischief; and the other, that she herself had been barbarously
used by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during
the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing 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 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
dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently recurring. 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 suspence 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 should 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 the 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 any thing 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 my 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 any thing at all."
"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility."
"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the
entail. How any one 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.
END OF VOL. I VOLUME II
Chapter I
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 the 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 his own happiness to
the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been
the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what
ever 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; whichever
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 any one 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 any body.
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 either 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
prudent, steady 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 every body's sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem
for our cousin."
"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, 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 marries
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 intreat 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 chuse 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
every body 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 slight, 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 seemed 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 in love a little now
and then. It is something to think of, and 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 at
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 always 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 every body was pleased
to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known
any thing 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 II
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 next 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. Philips,
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 very 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 on 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
not it 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 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 inconstancies 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 an 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 on 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 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 the 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 re-animated, 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 time, than as she
hoped that, 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 staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,
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 of
him, 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 acquaintance in common;
and, though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy's father,
five years before, 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 something 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 III
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 honor; 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 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 down stairs together, Charlotte said,
"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."
"That you certainly shall."
"And I have another favour to ask. 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 to come to me in March," added Charlotte,
"and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will
be as welcome to me as either of them."
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent
from the church door, and every body 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
soon see them 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 judgment, at my expence, 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 mean time.
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 may 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,
long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she
said herself; and yet it should 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.
Your's, &c."
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 any 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 his 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 should certainly be a more interesting
object to all my acquaintance, 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 IV
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. Every thing, 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 every body -- 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 subject
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 was 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 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
shews 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 quite 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. "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
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 any thing. 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 quarrelling
about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less
insupportable
than those of the generality of travellers."
Chapter V
EVERY object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth;
and her spirits were in a state for 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 discernable. The garden sloping to
the road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge,
everything declared that they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at a 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 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
every thing 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 any thing 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 his
garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired
the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness
of the excercise, 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 the 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 shewing 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 a great air of 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 that 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 been already 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 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 VI
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 any thing 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 daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever
of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion for any thing
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 and 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 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 her's, 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
had 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 were 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 judgment controverted.
She enquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly and minutely,
and gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told
her how every thing ought to be regulated in so small a family as her's,
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
your's. -- 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 Metcalfe's calling yesterday
to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. "Lady Catherine," said she,
you have given me a treasure.
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 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 every thing 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 broke 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 VII
SIR WILLIAM staid 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 mornings
to driving him out in his gig and shewing 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 window in his own book room, which fronted the road. The room in
which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth at first had rather wondered
that Charlotte should not prefer the dining parlour for common use; it
was a better sized room, and had a pleasanter 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 on
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 for 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
of the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses' 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
acquaintance 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 towards 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 any body.
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 VIII
COLONEL Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure 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 either Lady Catherine
or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the parsonage more than
once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had only seen 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; any thing
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 practise a great 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 piano forte 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 moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano forte, 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? But 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 with every attempt to intimidate
me."
"I shall not say that 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 well 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! I am sorry to pain you -- but so it was. 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 would 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 any thing 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 IX
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
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 emergency 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 future. He has many friends, and
he 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 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 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 to 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. Any thing
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 expence 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 their walk. The te^te-a`-te^te 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 any body, 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 any thing 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 be always 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 have
liked to believe this change the effect of love, and the object of that
love, her friend Eliza, she sat 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 pleasantest 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 X
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 any thing,
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 re-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 great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body
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 any thing 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 the 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 expence make us too dependant, 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 somebody 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 gentleman-like
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, of course, would 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 his 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 judgment alone, he was
to determine and direct in what manner that 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 lessening 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 till
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 Mr. 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 these 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
any thing be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities,
has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability
which he will probably never reach." When she thought of her mother, indeed,
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 XI
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 characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a
mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards every one, 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 have I 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 judgment 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 any one. 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 mantle-piece 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,
in 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 design 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 own 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, 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 every thing 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 misfortunes 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 offences 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 every thing. 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
gentleman-like manner."
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,
"You could not have made me 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 that ground-work of
disapprobation,
on which succeeding events have built so immoveable 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 agitating 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 XII
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 any thing
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 her 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 offences 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 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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry. -- The
necessity must be obeyed -- and farther apology would be absurd. -- I had
not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that
Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an
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 investigations 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 of 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 eldest 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, which 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 judgment 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 god-son, 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
the 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 of 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 dropt. 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 has imposed
on you; but his success is not, perhaps, to be wondered at. Ignorant as
you previously were of every thing 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 every thing 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 XIII
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 be well 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
stedfastly 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 every thing 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 any thing 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 to 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 every thing that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips'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 every where 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 every thing 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 any thing.
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 shewn. 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 any thing that betrayed him to
be unprincipled or unjust -- any thing 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 Wickham
represented them, so gross a violation of every thing 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 that she had been blind, partial,
prejudiced, absurd.
"How despicably have I 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 distrust. -- 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 have been 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 been thus 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 any thing 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 XIV
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
nobody 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 to 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 those 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 for ever.
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 developement 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 XV
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 any one 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 every thing 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 the greatest 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 any one 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 every thing 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 entrance of the lady from whom they
sprung. 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 privately added, "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 farther.
Chapter XVI
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 upstairs. 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 sallad 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 shewing 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 any thing 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 to table. "What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news,
and about a certain person that we all like."
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told
that 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 not it? 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 formerly 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, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
"How nicely we are 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 Philips 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 Foster'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 Col. 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 kind 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 which
occupied them. Lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria, across the table, 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 Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any
other person's, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to
any body 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 me drew up all 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 any body 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 any body 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 see how every body 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 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 XVII
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 have told 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 one
without involving the other.
"This will not do," said Elizabeth. "You never will be able
to make both of them good for any thing. 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
Mr. Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse."
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 any thing just; but one cannot be always 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 was very
uncomfortable,
I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of 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 acquaintance 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 own 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 anybody here, what he really
is. Sometime 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 forbad 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 his 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 incumbrance
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 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 Philips so the
other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London.
Well, he is a very undeserving young man -- and I do not suppose there
is 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 every body, too, who is likely to know."
"I do not believe that 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 that 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 quite
as 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."
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