Chapter XVIII
THE first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It
was the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal.
The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep,
and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were
they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery
was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any
of the family.
"Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!" would
they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?"
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered
what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years
ago.
"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when
Colonel Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart."
"I am sure I shall break mine," said Lydia.
"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.
"Oh, yes! -- if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."
"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."
"And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good,"
added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.
But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for
she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of
the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was
a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their three months' acquaintance they had been intimate two.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew
about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for everyone's congratulations,
and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless
Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable
as her accent was peevish.
"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well
as Lydia," said she, "though I am not her particular friend. I
have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am
two years older."
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for
the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known,
she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She
represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour,
the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman
as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with
such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than
at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,
"Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some
public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances."
"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage
to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded
and imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure
you would judge differently in the affair."
"Already arisen!" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened
away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows
who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."
"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent,
It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining.
Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me -- for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that
ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt, too, in the worst
and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and
a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly
unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage
for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty is also comprehended.
She will follow wherever Lydia leads. -- Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely
uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they
will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their
sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?"
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and
affectionately
taking her hand, said in reply,
"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane
are known, you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to
less advantage for having a couple of -- or I may say, three -- very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton.
Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out
of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey
to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance, even as a common
flirt, than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth
their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her
her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse
without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own
opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It
was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over
unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference
with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in
their united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at
present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents stretched
forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the
gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she saw herself
seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at
once.
Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects
and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They
could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly
the same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the melancholy
conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their
raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's
leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having
been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,
an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour
to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination
he soon testified of renewing those attentions which had marked the early
part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed,
to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected
as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily
repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing
that, however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn,
her vanity would be gratified and her preference secured at any time by
their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton, he
dined with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some enquiry
as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned
Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at
Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied that he had formerly seen him
often; and after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked
her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an
air of indifference he soon afterwards added, "How long did you say that
he was at Rosings?"
"Nearly three weeks."
"And you saw him frequently?"
"Yes, almost every day."
"His manners are very different from his cousin's."
"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves on
acquaintance."
"Indeed!" cried Wickham with a look which did not escape her.
"And pray may I ask -- ?" but checking himself, he added in a gayer tone,
"Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add ought of civility
to his ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and
more serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."
"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is
very much what he ever was."
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether
to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something
in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious
attention, while she added,
"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean
that either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that
from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."
Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his embarrassment,
he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents,
"You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the appearance of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter
him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the
sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely
adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he
stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they
were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding
the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart."
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered
only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage
her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the appearance, on his
side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the opportunity
of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there was every
reason to believe would be attended to; and in the clamorous happiness
of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters
were uttered without being heard.
Chapter XIX
HAD Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman
whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had, very early in their marriage,
put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence
had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown.
But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort, for the disappointment
which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which
too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was
fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his
principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted,
than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This
is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to
his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of
her father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain;
but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment
of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and
to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children,
was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now
the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage,
nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a
direction of talents; talents which rightly used, might at least have preserved
the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the
mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found
little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their
parties abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother
and sister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around
them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might
in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her
brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil
might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance
by a situation of such double danger as a watering place and a camp. Upon
the whole, therefore, she found what has been sometimes found before, that
an event to which she had looked forward with impatient desire, did not,
in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It
was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement
of actual felicity; to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes
might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console
herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour
to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best
consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness
of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane
in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something
to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would
be certain. But here, by my carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret
in my sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations
of pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the
defence of some little peculiar vexation."
When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very
minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected,
and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else, than
that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made
her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would
have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry,
as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the camp; -- and from
her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt --
for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines
under the words to be made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,
good humour, and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything
wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter
came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June
Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears;
an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following
Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer
above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the
War-Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now
fast approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so far,
and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure
and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes,
and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the present plan,
were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that county, there
was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to
Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she
had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to
spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity, as
all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart
on seeing the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough.
But it was her business to be satisfied -- and certainly her temper to
be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected.
It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley
and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with
impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to
pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away,
and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear
at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness
of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way -- teaching
them, playing with them, and loving them.
The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment
was certain -- that of suitableness as companions; a suitableness which
comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences -- cheerfulness to
enhance every pleasure -- and affection and intelligence, which might supply
it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of
Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay;
Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are sufficiently
known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little
town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and where
she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they bent
their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country;
and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley
was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or
two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner
expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared
his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have
heard so much?" said her aunt. "A place too, with which so many of your
acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,
she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine
house richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself;
but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country."
Elizabeth said no more -- but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred.
It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and thought it would
be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against
this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the
last resource, if her private enquiries as to the absence of the family
were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its
proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question -- and her
alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity
to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning,
and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air
of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME VOLUME III
Chapter I
ELIZABETH, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.
They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and
admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended
for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley
House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road,
with some abruptness, wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building,
standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;
-- and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater,
but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor
falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for
which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little
counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration;
and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions
of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall;
and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder
at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much
less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which
they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was
a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked
on the whole scene -- the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and
the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it -- with delight.
As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions;
but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty
and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor;
but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy
nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than
the furniture of Rosings.
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress!
With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. -- But no," -- recollecting
herself, -- "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost
to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky
recollection -- it saved her from something like regret.
She longed to enquire of the housekeeper whether her master were
really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question
was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
replied that he was, adding, "but we expect him tomorrow, with a large
party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had
not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached,
and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantlepiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up
by him at his own expence. -- "He is now gone into the army," she added,
"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth
could not return it.
"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures,
"is my master -- and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other -- about eight years ago."
"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs.
Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy,
you can tell us whether it is like or not."
Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.
"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth coloured, and said -- "A little."
"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"
"Yes, very handsome."
"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery
up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room
was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they
used to be then. He was very fond of them."
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,
drawn when she was only eight years old.
"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner.
"Oh! yes -- the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and
so accomplished! -- She plays and sings all day long. In the next room
is a new instrument just come down for her -- a present from my master;
she comes here to-morrow with him."
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged
her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.
"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
"Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend
half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."
"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
"Yes, Sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not
know who is good enough for him."
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
"It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that
knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty
far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,
"I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him
ever since he was four years old."
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite
to her ideas. That he was not a good tempered man had been her firmest
opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and
was grateful to her uncle for saying,
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are
lucky in having such a master."
"Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could
not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-
natured
when children are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the
sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world."
Elizabeth almost stared at her. -- "Can this be Mr. Darcy!"
thought she.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
"Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like
him -- just as affable to the poor."
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more.
Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture,
in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to
which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led
again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as
they proceeded together up the great staircase.
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that
ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing
but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will
give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never
saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men."
"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked,
"is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
"Perhaps we might be deceived."
"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very
pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness
than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done
to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
last at Pemberley.
"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked
towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight when she should
enter the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added. --
"Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment.
There is nothing he would not do for her."
The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,
were all that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could
have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in
quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it
arrested her -- and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with
such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen, when
he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's life
time.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more
gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height
of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered
how many people's happiness were in his guardianship! -- How much of pleasure
or pain it was in his power to bestow! -- How much of good or evil must
be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper
was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas, on
which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought
of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised
before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had
been seen, they returned down stairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper,
were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.
As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned
back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was
his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly
met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He
absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from surprise; but
shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth,
if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome.
Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just
been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now
saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise on beholding his master
must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking
to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes
to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil enquiries
after her family. Amazed at the alteration in his manner since they last
parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment;
and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to
her mind, the few minutes in which they continued together were some of
the most uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;
when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated
his enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay
in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.
At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing
a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and
took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of
his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her
own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and
vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged
thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a disgraceful
light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? or, why did he thus
come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner,
they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination, for it was
plain that he was that moment arrived, that moment alighted from his horse
or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the
meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered, -- what could it mean?
That he should even speak to her was amazing! -- but to speak with such
civility, to enquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his
manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as
on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address
in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what
to think, nor how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,
and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically
to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her
eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of
the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,
whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what
at that moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought of her,
and whether, in defiance of every thing, she was still dear to him. Perhaps
he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been
that in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more
of pain or of pleasure in seeing her, she could not tell, but he certainly
had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence
of mind roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening
of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of
the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With
a triumphant smile, they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled
the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them
again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of
the water, in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge,
in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned
than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen,
allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-
wood
which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they
had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs.
Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought
only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man
about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow
manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite
equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than
on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth,
however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before,
and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended
to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably
strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk
concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before
them. With a glance she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility;
and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty
of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and
"charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied
that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her
colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,
he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she
could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance
of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted, in his
offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he
knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion."
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named
their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how
he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast
as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by
the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation
with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph.
It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there
was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed
between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle,
which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose
while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply
him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where
there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm
with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said
nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for
herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she
repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot
be for me, it cannot be for my sake that his manners are
thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as
this. It is impossible that he should still love me."
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front,
the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places after descending to
the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant,
there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner,
who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate
to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took
her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,
the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured
of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing
that his arrival had been very unexpected -- "for your housekeeper,"
she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow;
and indeed, before we left Bakewell we understood that you were not immediately
expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said
that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few
hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early tomorrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you, -- Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned
between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, his mind
was not very differently engaged.
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued
after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you, -- Will
you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too
great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately
felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with
her must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought.
Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased.
His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest
kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage,
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house -- but she declared herself
not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there
seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had
been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great
perseverance.
Yet time and her aunt moved slowly -- and her patience and her ideas were
nearly worn out before the te^te-a`-te^te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's
coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment;
but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness.
Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth
saw him walking slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of
them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.
"There is something a little stately in him to be sure," replied
her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can
now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,
I have seen nothing of it."
"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was
more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for
such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."
"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome
as Wickham; or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
are perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so disagreeable?"
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she
had liked him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had
never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,"
replied her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not
take him at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another
day, and warn me off his grounds."
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character,
but said nothing.
"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I
really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a
way by any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured
look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would
not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure, the good
lady who shewed us the house did give him a most flaming character! I could
hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,
and that in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue."
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
vindication
of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations
in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and
that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable,
as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this,
she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which
they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating
it to be such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the
charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to
her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of any thing
else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had no sooner
dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the
evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after
many years discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave
Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do
nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and
above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
Chapter II
ELIZABETH had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved
not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion
was false; for on the very morning after their own arrival at Lambton,
these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of
their new friends, and were just returned to the inn to dress themselves
for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them
to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a curricle, driving up
the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognising the livery, guessed what
it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise to her relations by
acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt
were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined
to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding
day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested
it before, but they now felt that there was no other way of accounting
for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality
for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads,
the perturbation of Elizabeth's feelings was every moment increasing. She
was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
in her favour; and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she
walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such
looks of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made every thing worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable
introduction
took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance
was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton,
she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation
of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy.
She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and,
though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming
and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and
unembarrassed
an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning
such different feelings.
They had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley
was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step
was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth's
anger against him had been long done away; but, had she still felt any,
it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality
with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He enquired in a friendly,
though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same
good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting
personage
than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
arisen, of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards
each with an earnest, though guarded, enquiry; and they soon drew from
those enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what
it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt;
but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain
the feelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and
to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared
most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured
to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana
was eager, and Darcy determined to be pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
and oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed
in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that
as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But though this
might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss
Darcy, who had been set up as a rival of Jane. No look appeared on either
side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could
justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied;
and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted which, in
her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane not untinctured
by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention
of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were
talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that
it "was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her --"
and, before she could reply, he added, "It is above eight months. We have
not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at
Netherfield."
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and manner which gave
them meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so far removed
from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement
of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however temporary its existence
might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking
the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people, with whom any
intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace; when she saw him
thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had
openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage,
the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her
mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible.
Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified
relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could
result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance
of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule
and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors staid with them above half an hour, and when they
arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet to dinner at
Pemberley before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence
which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she,
whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance,
but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however, that this studied
avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment, than any dislike of the
proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect
willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and
the day after the next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing
Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to make
after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into
a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and on this account,
as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable
of considering the last half hour with some satisfaction, though while
it was passing the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone,
and fearful of enquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she staid with
them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and
then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity;
it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she
was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea
of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much
to interest, but nothing to justify enquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,
as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They
could not be untouched by his politeness, and, had they drawn his character
from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognised it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that
the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old,
and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected.
Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends
that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him
of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be
imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did
not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and
did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was
not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns
with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well
known fact that on his quitting Derbyshire he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening
more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long,
was not long enough to determine her feelings towards one in that
mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out.
She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him that
could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable
qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased
to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened into somewhat
of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing
forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced.
But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her
of good will which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude. -- Gratitude,
not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough
to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him,
and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she
had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this
accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without
any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their
two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her
friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a
man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but gratitude -- for
to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such, its impression
on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though
it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful
to him; she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to
know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far
it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power,
which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on the renewal
of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece,
that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to them on the
very day of her arrival at Pemberley -- for she had reached it only to
a late breakfast -- ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it
would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning.
They were, therefore, to go. -- Elizabeth was pleased, though, when she
asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme
had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his
meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.
Chapter III
CONVINCED as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into the
saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows,
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting
there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived
in London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil; but attended with
all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
however, did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey;
and on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always
be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley,
a genteel, agreeable looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the others;
and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth,
the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for
courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence,
when there was least danger of its being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss
Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy,
without calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented
her from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient
distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much.
Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some
of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared, that the
master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared
it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter
of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by
receiving from her a cold enquiry after the health of her family. She answered
with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by
the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a
significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given,
to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party;
for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful
pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the
table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding
whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three
other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left
him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; -- a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when
he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity
so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread
her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not
yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means
over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more
to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself
to get acquainted, and forwarded, as much as possible, every attempt at
conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in
the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering
civility,
"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from
Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family."
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but
Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts;
and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently
answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While she spoke,
an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened complexion, earnestly
looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion and unable to lift
up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved
friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had
merely intended to discompose Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of
a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility
which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter
of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were
connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss
Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where
secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish
which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter
her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that
it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is
probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare
of his friend.
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion;
and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer
to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have fixed
them on her more, and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage,
Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation
was enough to ensure her favour: his judgment could not err, and he had
spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power
of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to
the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what
she had been saying to his sister.
"How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she
cried; "I never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since
the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
that we should not have known her again."
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he
contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration
than her being rather tanned -- no miraculous consequence of travelling
in the summer.
"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never
could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character;
there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not
out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called
so fine, I never could perceive any thing extraordinary in them. They have
a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether,
there is a self-sufficiency without fashion which is intolerable."
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this
was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not
always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all
the success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a
determination of making him speak she continued,
"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed
we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, "She
a beauty! -- I should as soon call her mother a wit." But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time."
"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but
that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since
I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction
of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during
their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested
them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed,
except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself;
yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and
Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning
the subject.
Chapter IV
ELIZABETH had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter
from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had
been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt
of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had
been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had
written the direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves.
The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days
ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and
engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half,
which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more
important intelligence. It was to this effect:
"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you
-- be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor
Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to
bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! -- Imagine our
surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! -- But I am willing
to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless
and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice
over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly
grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let
them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves.
They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were
not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly.
My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster
gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his
wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be
long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out,
but I hardly know what I have written."
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely
knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized
the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows --
it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first:
"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for
time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent.
Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for
you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham
and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken
place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not
many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave
them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was
dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there,
or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly
taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did
trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place
they removed into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought
them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to
continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every
possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire,
anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet
and Hatfield, but without any success; no such people had been seen to
pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke
his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am
sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on
them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother
believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances
might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than
to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design
against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can
I suppose her so lost to every thing? -- Impossible. I grieve to find,
however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage;
he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was
not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill and keeps her room.
Could she exert herself it would be better, but this is not to be expected;
and as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty
has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter
of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that
you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as
the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am
not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I
take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but
circumstances
are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as
soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid
of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former.
My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to
discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive
distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest
way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening.
In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be every thing
in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely
upon his goodness."
"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from
her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him without
losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it
was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to speak,
she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily
exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner
this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to
lose."
"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling
than politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute,
but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough; -- you cannot go yourself."
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she
felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling
back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress
home instantly.
On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself,
and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave
her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you present
relief? -- A glass of wine; -- shall I get you one? -- You are very ill."
"No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.
"There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed
by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes
could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane,
with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My youngest
sister has left all her friends -- has eloped; -- has thrown herself into
the power of -- of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,
nothing that can tempt him to -- she is lost for ever."
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added,
in a yet more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it!
-- I who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only
-- some part of what I learnt -- to my own family! Had his character been
known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now."
"I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved -- shocked. But
is it certain, absolutely certain?"
"Oh yes! -- They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and
were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone
to Scotland."
"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
her?"
"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my
uncle's immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour.
But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How
is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
"When my eyes were opened to his real character. -- Oh!
had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not -- I was
afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched, mistake!"
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was
walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted,
his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed and instantly understood it. Her
power was sinking; every thing must sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She should neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was,
on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes;
and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now,
when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia
-- the humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all -- soon swallowed
up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth
was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of several minutes,
was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion,
who, in a manner, which though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint,
said, "I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I
any thing to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing, concern.
Would to heaven that any thing could be either said or done on my part,
that might offer consolation to such distress! -- But I will not torment
you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.
This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure
of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."
"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say
that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth
as long as it is possible. -- I know it cannot be long."
He readily assured her of his secrecy -- again expressed his sorrow
for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting, look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that
they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective
glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions
and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would
now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in
its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise,
if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural,
in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview
with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing
can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial
to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill-success
might perhaps authorise her to seek the other less interesting mode of
attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret; and in this
early example of what Lydia's infamy must produce, found additional anguish
as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane's
second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry
her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an
expectation.
Surprise was the least of her feelings on this developement. While the
contents of the first letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise
-- all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible
he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had
appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an
attachment as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did
not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without
the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,
that Lydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia
had wanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes
one officer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually fluctuating,
but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence
towards such a girl. -- Oh! how acutely did she now feel it.
She was wild to be at home -- to hear, to see, to be upon the
spot, to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her,
in a family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion
and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience
was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
by the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; -- but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause
of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
of the last with trembling energy. -- Though Lydia had never been a favourite
with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply affected. Not
Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations
of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily promised every assistance
in his power. -- Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with
tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, every thing
relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as
soon as possible. "But what is to be done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs.
Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; -- was
it so?"
"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
That is all settled."
"That is all settled!" repeated the other, as she ran into her
room to prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose
the real truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!"
But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her
in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at
leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment
was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner
meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be
done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found
herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated
in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
Chapter V
"I HAVE been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle as
they drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am
much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form
such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless,
and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly
inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step
forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such
an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk."
"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for
a moment.
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your
uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour,
and interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up as to believe
him capable of it?"
"Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare
not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the
case?"
"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute
proof that they are not gone to Scotland."
"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach
is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found
on the Barnet road."
"Well, then -- supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
though, for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose.
It is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and
it might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland."
"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
their marriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot
afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she beyond youth,
health, and good humour, that could make him, for her sake, forgo every
chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the
apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement
with her, I am not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that
such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid
it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he
might imagine, from my father's behaviour, from his indolence and the little
attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family,
that he would do as little, and think as little about it, as any
father could do in such a matter."
"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love
of him, as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?"
"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth,
with tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in
such a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year, nay,
for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity.
She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous
manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the ----shire
were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers
have been in her head. She has been doing every thing in her power, by
thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater -- what shall I call
it? -- susceptibility to her feelings, which are naturally lively enough.
And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that
can captivate a woman."
"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so
ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt."
"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever
might be their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an
attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I
do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in
every sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That
he is as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
"I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the
other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when
last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances
which I am not at liberty -- which it is not worth while to relate; but
his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said
of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable
girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was amiable
and unpretending as we have found her."
"But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of
what you and Jane seem so well to understand?"
"Oh, yes! -- that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent,
and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam,
I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case,
neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary
to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to
any one that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should
then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with
Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never
occurred to me. That she could be in any danger from the deception
never entered my head. That such a consequence as this should ensue,
you may easily believe was far enough from my thoughts."
"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,
I suppose, to believe them fond of each other."
"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on
either side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be
aware that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When
first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so
we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about
him for the first two months; but he never distinguished her by
any particular attention, and consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others
of the regiment who treated her with more distinction again became her
favourites."
It may be easily believed that, however little of novelty could
be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject
by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and, sleeping one
night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was
a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were
standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and when
the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up
their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies in a variety
of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty
kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs
from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled
the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been
heard of the fugitives.
"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come,
I hope every thing will be well."
"Is my father in town?"
"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word."
"And have you heard from him often?"
"We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday,
to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which
I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
again till he had something of importance to mention."
"And my mother -- How is she? How are you all?"
"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are
greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing
you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven! are quite well."
"But you -- How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale.
How much you must have gone through!"
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well;
and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner
were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked
them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing room, the questions which
Elizabeth
had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet deserted
her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning
would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their
proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few
minutes conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected;
with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;
blaming every body but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors
of her daughter must be principally owing.
"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going
to Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but
poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever
let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or
other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing,
if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit
to have the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear
child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham
wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become
of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold in his grave;
and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do."
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,
after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told
her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he; "though it is
right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it
as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days
more, we may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not
married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter
over as lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother and make
him come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult together
as to what is to be done."
"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly
what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them
out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, make them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell
Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses to buy them, after they
are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell
him what a dreadful state I am in, -- that I am frightened out of my wits;
and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me such spasms in my
side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get
no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia, not to give any directions
about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are
the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will contrive
it all."
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest
endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in
her hopes as her fears; and, after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper,
who attended in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no
real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt
to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants while they waited at table, and judged it better
that one only of the household, and the one whom they could most
trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who
had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their
appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette.
The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which
she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more of
fretfulness
than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough
of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflection,
soon after they were seated at table,
"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much
talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded
bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation."
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
added, "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this
useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable -- that
one false step involves her in endless ruin -- that her reputation is no
less brittle than it is beautiful, -- and that she cannot be too much guarded
in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much
oppressed
to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half an hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
the opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager
to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
subject by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it which I have
not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel Forster
say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement took place?
They must have seen them together for ever."
"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
was coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any
idea of their not being gone to Scotland; when that apprehension first
got abroad, it hastened his journey."
"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he
know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"
"Yes; but when questioned by him, Denny denied knowing
any thing of their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it.
He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying -- and from that,
I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."
"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained
a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"
"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains!
I felt a little uneasy -- a little fearful of my sister's happiness with
him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how imprudent
a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing
more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared
her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with
each other many weeks."
"But not before they went to Brighton?"
"No, I believe not."
"And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself?
Does he know his real character?"
"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he
formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since
this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly
in debt; but I hope this may be false."
"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew
of him, this could not have happened!"
"Perhaps it would have been better," replied her sister. "But
to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."
"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note
to his wife?"
"He brought it with him for us to see."
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.
These were the contents:
"MY DEAR HARRIET,
You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed.
I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think
you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is
an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be
off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not
like it, for it will make the surprise the greater when I write to them
and sign my name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly
write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my engagement
and dancing with him to night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he
knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet,
with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn;
but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin
gown before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster.
I hope you will drink to our good journey.
Your affectionate friend,
LYDIA BENNET."
"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she
had finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment.
But at least it shews that she was serious in the object of her
journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
side a scheme of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"
"I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for
full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house
in such confusion!"
"Oh! Jane!" cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging
to it, who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"
"I do not know. -- I hope there was. -- But to be guarded at
such a time, is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though
I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did
not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly
happen, almost took from me my faculties."
"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not
look well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."
"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in
every fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady
Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole
with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if they could
be of use to us."
"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps
she meant well, but under such a misfortune as this, one cannot
see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."
She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father
had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
"He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place
where they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing
could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with
a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a gentleman and
lady's removing from one carriage into another might be remarked, he meant
to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how discover at what house
the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make enquiries
there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number
of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed: but
he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed,
that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this."
Chapter VI
THE whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent, but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send,
but even of that they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner
had waited only for the letters before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to
the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security
for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire
a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering
and heartening them up, though as she never came without reporting some
fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went
away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three
months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be
in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured
with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Every body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and
every body began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance
of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what
was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister's
ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it,
became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when,
if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired
of, they must in all probability have gained some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received
a letter from him; it told them that on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham before his arrival, but without
gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to
enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible
they might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before
they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not expect any success
from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist
him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined
at present, to leave London, and promised to write again very soon. There
was also a postscript to this effect:
"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out,
if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, whether
Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in
what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there were any one
that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that,
it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide
us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every thing in his power to satisfy
us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps Lizzy could tell us what
relations he has now living better than any other person."
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference
for her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved.
She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a
father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible,
however, that some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to
give more information; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting
it, the application was a something to look forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most
anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
was the first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived
for their father from a different quarter -- from Mr. Collins; which, as
Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters
always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:
"MY DEAR SIR,
I feel myself called upon by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering
under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire.
Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise
with you, and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which
must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no
time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate
so severe a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of
your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it
is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose, as my dear
Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter
has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence, though at the same time,
for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty
of such an enormity at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are
grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs.
Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have
related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false
step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others;
for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect
with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last November, for had
it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace.
Let me advise you then, my dear Sir, to console yourself as much as possible,
to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave
her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence.
I am, dear Sir, &c. &c."
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer
from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up
any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His
former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia,
it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any
of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out as likely
to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances
there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of
discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had
left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster
believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his
expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the town, but his debts of
honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal
these particulars from the Longbourn family; Jane heard them with horror.
"A gamester!" she cried. "This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea
of it."
Mr. Gardiner added, in his letter, that they might expect to see
their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
his brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and leave
it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing
their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so
much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety
for his life had been before.
"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!" she cried.
"Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight
Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?"
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that
she and her children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth
and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world.
His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return, that could come from Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse
for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from that, though Elizabeth, who was by this
time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit
of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and
it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing
her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say nothing of
that. Who would suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought
to feel it."
"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so
prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much
I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough."
"Do you suppose them to be in London?"
"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
"She is happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence
there will probably be of some duration."
Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy, I bear you
no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
considering
the event, shews some greatness of mind."
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.
"This is a parade," cried he, "which does one good; it gives
such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will
sit in my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much
trouble as I can, -- or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away."
"I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if
I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
"You go to Brighton! -- I would not trust you so near
it as East-Bourne, for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to
be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to
enter my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will
be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have
spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner."
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to
cry.
"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you
are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at
the end of them."
Chapter VII
TWO days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming
towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their mother,
went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they
approached her she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon, madam, for
interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news
from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."
"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."
"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't
you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has
been here this half hour, and master has had a letter."
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.
They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to
the library; -- their father was in neither; and they were on the point
of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler,
who said,
"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards
the little copse."
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall
once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running,
as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out,
"Oh, Papa, what news? what news? Have you heard from my uncle?"
"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."
"Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?"
"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the
letter from his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it." Elizabeth
impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself
what it is about."
"Gracechurch-street, Monday, August 2.
MY DEAR BROTHER,
At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left
me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London
they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet. It is enough to know
they are discovered; I have seen them both --"
"Then it is as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
Elizabeth read on:
"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform
the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will
not be long before they are. All that is required of you is to assure to
your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds
secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister;
and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your
life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering
every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought
myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time
may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from
these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless
as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that
respect; and, I am happy to say, there will be some little money, even
when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to
her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers
to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately
give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There
will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore,
stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back
your answer as soon as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We
have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of
which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again
as soon as any thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.
EDW. GARDINER."
"Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. --
"Can it be possible that he will marry her?"
"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him!"
said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
"And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth.
"No; but it must be done soon."
Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before
he wrote.
"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is, in such a case."
"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
yourself."
"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the
house.
"And may I ask -- ?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose,
must be complied with."
"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
"And they must marry! Yet he is such a man!"
"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done.
But there are two things that I want very much to know: -- one is, how
much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how
I am ever to pay him."
"Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?"
"I mean that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight
a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone."
"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred
to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain!
Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man; I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."
"No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with
a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so
ill of him in the very beginning of our relationship."
"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to
be repaid?"
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,
continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to
the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon
as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for this
we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance
of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice!
Oh, Lydia!"
"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly
would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has children
of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?"
"If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,"
said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we
shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham
has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection
and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude
cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such
goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be
happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!"
"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"
said Jane. "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten."
"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither
you, nor I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood,
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore,
and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known
to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly replied,
"Just as you please."
"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"
"Take whatever you like, and get away."
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went
up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married,
her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance.
She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been
fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married
was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled
by any remembrance of her misconduct.
"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!
-- She will be married! -- I shall see her again! -- She will be married
at sixteen! -- My good, kind brother! -- I knew how it would be -- I knew
he would manage every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham
too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner
about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia!
-- How merry we shall be together when we meet!"
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence
of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in
a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself
to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should
do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my
children must have had all his money, you know, and it is the first time
we have ever had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am
so happy. In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham!
How well it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I
am in such a flutter that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and
you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards;
but the things should be ordered immediately."
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,
and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders,
had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed, would
be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate
as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed,
and tell the good, good news to my sister Phillips. And as I come back,
I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
any thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all
have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding."
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received
her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that
it was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though,
in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could
be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared,
only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
Chapter VIII
MR. BENNET had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for
the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect,
Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or
credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on
one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband
might then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage
to any one should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law,
and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,
and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join
in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet,
for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This
event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving.
Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband's love of independence
had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.
Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst
the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could
have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of
grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed
most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all
that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been
made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed
on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience
to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds
a year the loser, by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with
her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which
passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very
little within that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,
too, was another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was
to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports
of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally
returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for
though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution.
He begged to know farther particulars of what he was indebted to his brother;
but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
The good news quickly spread through the house; and with
proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of
conversation,
had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative,
been secluded from the world in some distant farm house. But there was
much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her
well-doing, which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies
in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit in this change of circumstances,
because with such an husband, her misery was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but
on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and
in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of
her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment,
and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant
nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching
through the neighbourhood for a "proper situation" for her daughter,
and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected
many as deficient in size and importance.
"Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings would quit
it, or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth
is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as
for Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while
the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs.
Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter,
let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood,
they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of
either by receiving them at Longbourn."
A long dispute followed this declaration, but Mr. Bennet was firm;
it soon led to another, and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter.
He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever
on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger
could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment, as to refuse
his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem
valid, exceeded all that she could believe possible. She was more alive
to the disgrace which the want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's
nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham
a fortnight before they took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the
distress
of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination
to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning
from all those who were not immediately on the spot.
She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There
were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
but at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty
would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of disadvantage
from it individually to herself; for at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable
between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most honourable
terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with
a family where, to every other objection would now be added an alliance
and relationship of the nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink.
The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should
meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that
the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would
now have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted
not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal, there must
be a triumph.
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper,
though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union
that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness,
his mind might have been softened, his manners improved, and from his judgment,
information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit
of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring
multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency,
and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong
to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were
stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's acknowledgments
he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to promote the welfare
of any of his family, and concluded with intreaties that the subject might
never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was
to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the Militia.
"It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as
soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me in
considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his
account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars;
and, among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing
to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General
----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have
it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and, I hope,
among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve,
they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform
him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the
various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton with assurances of
speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself
the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton,
of whom I shall subjoin a list, according to his information. He has given
in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has
our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join
his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand
from Mrs. Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all, before
she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered
to you and her mother. -- Your's, &c.
E. GARDINER."
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's
removal from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.
Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,
just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company -- for
she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire
-- was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a pity that Lydia
should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with every body,
and had so many favourites.
"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite
shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too,
that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General
----'s regiment."
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received
at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing,
for the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should
be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly, yet
so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn
as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they
thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction
of knowing that she should be able to shew her married daughter in the
neighbourhood, before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote
again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come;
and it was settled that, as soon as the ceremony was over, they should
proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should
consent to such a scheme; and, had she consulted only her own inclination,
any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes.
Chapter IX
THEIR sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for
her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet
them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival
was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave
Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she been the
culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to
receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove
up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown
open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced
her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate
smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with
an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was
not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he
scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed,
was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet
was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and
fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations;
and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took
notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that
it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly
what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their
relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed
him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself
to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. She
blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion
suffered no variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could
neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies.
They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing
of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects
which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I
went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been
things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I
am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though
I thought it would be very good fun if I was."
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth
looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing
of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he
should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took
off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that
he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing."
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of
the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the
hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia,
with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman."
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
embarrassment
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits
increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their
other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham" by each of
them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her ring, and
boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the
breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming
man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half
my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands.
What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."
"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia,
I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"
"Oh, lord! yes; -- there is nothing in that. I shall like it
of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.
We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."
"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother.
"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter
is over."
"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but
I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands."
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.
Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to
join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short;
and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter,
and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable
to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.
Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected
to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present
observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement
had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and
she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose
to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was
rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case,
he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on
every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the
first of September, than any body else in the country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,
"Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe.
You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not
you curious to hear how it was managed?"
"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too
little said on the subject."
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off.
We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings
were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by
eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was
my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as
if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed
to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."
"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would
never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and
aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight.
Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin,
but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage
came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid
man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is
no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for
my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could
not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes'
time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if
he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for
Mr. Darcy might have done as well."
"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
"Oh, yes! -- he was to come there with Wickham, you know, But
gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it.
I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such
a secret!"
"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word
on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
"we will ask you no questions."
"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly
tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry."
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out
of her power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at
least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been
at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures
as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she
was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct
in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense;
and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt,
to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible
with the secrecy which had been intended.
"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity
must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it -- unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance."
"Not that I shall, though," she added to herself, as
she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an
honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems
to find it out."
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;
-- till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction,
she had rather be without a confidante.
Chapter X
ELIZABETH had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter
as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than,
hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted,
she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length
of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial.
"Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.
MY DEAR NIECE,
I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise
what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application;
I did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for
I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such enquiries to be
necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive
my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am -- and nothing
but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to
act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must
be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your
uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up
with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity
was not so dreadfully racked as your'sseems to have been. He came
to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham
were, and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,
Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after
ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The
motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that
Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible
for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously
imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before
thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His
character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to
step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on
by himself. If he had another motive, I am sure it would
never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more
than we had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving
to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time
ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some
cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large
house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings.
This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and
he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it
was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She
would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,
for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed
had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able
to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with
her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction.
They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing
Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends
as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance,
as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining
where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of
his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be
married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such
were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite
a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily
learnt had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave
the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing;
and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her
own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as
to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must
go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing
to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once.
Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been
able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited
by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still
cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in
some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several
times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more
than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Every thing
being settled between them, Mr. Darcy's next step was to make your
uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch-street the
evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr.
Darcy found, on further enquiry, that your father was still with him, but
would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a
person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily
postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not
leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman
had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone,
your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk
together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was
not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent
off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused
of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. Nothing
was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not
speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would
most readily have settled the whole. They battled it together for a long
time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it
deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being
allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having
the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really
believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required
an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the
praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself,
or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for
the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to
considerably
more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled
upon her, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this
was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing
to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's
character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been
received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in this;
though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody'sreserve,
can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never
have yielded, if we had not given him credit for another interest
in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his
friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he
should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money
matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have now told
you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great
surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia
came to us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. He
was exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would
not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while
she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday,
that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore
what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly
in the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what
she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If
she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I
was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth
and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual
in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined
with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday.
Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity
of saying (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like
him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when
we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he
wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, if he marry
prudently, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly; -- he
hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive
me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as
to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all
round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would
be the very thing. But I must write no more. The children have been wanting
me this half hour. Your's, very sincerely,
M. GARDINER."
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of
spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain
bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty
had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication
had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where
he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally
bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name
it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl
whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he
had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations,
and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient, when required
to depend on his affection for her -- for a woman who had already refused
him -- as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against
relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride
must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was
ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference,
which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that
he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means
of exercising it; and though she would not place herself as his principal
inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her
might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that
they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return.
They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him.
Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had
ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him.
For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a
cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.
She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly
enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though
mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had
been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy
and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken
by Wickham.
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?"
said he, as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does
not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome."
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always
good friends; and now we are better."
"True. Are the others coming out?"
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage
to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley."
She replied in the affirmative.
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be
too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you
saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very
fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
"Yes, she did."
"And what did she say?"
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had --
not turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things
are strangely misrepresented."
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she
had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each
other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."
"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this
time of year."
"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought
I understood from the Gardiners that you had."
"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
"And do you like her?"
"Very much."
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within
this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am
very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."
"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
"I do not recollect that we did."
"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have
had. A most delightful place! -- Excellent Parsonage House! It would have
suited me in every respect."
"How should you have liked making sermons?"
"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my
duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;
-- but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet,
the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness!
But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance,
when you were in Kent?"
"I have heard from authority, which I thought as
good, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of
the present patron."
"You have. Yes, there was something in that; I told you
so from the first, you may remember."
"I did hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making
was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly."
"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked
fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke
him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,
"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not
let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of
one mind."
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,
though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
Chapter XI
MR. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that
he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
had said enough to keep him quiet.
The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
continue at least a twelvemonth.
"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps."
"Write to me very often, my dear."
"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing
else to do."
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's.
He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love
to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several
days.
"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as
parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."
"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,"
said Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four
are single."
"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is
married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off.
If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was
shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by
an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper
at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master,
who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks.
Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and
shook her head by turns.
"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for
Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). "Well, so much the better.
Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I
am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very
welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what may
happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago
never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"
"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls
was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on
purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true.
He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She
was going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat
on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth;
but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,
"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of
the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine
it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because
I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news
does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing,
that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am
afraid of myself, but I dread other people's remarks."
Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him
in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with
no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there
with his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without
it.
"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man
cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all
this speculation! I will leave him to himself."
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
more unequal, than she had often seen them.
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet,
"you will wait on him of course."
"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,
if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended
in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
attention
would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.
"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society,
let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours
in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again."
"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you
do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to
dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon.
That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table
for him."
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours
might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before they did.
As the day of his arrival drew near,
"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her
sister. "It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference,
but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother
means well; but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from
what she says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"
"I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied Elizabeth;
"but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction
of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always
so much."
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the
days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless
of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in
Hertfordshire,
she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride
towards the house.
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane
resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother,
went to the window -- she looked, -- she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat
down again by her sister.
"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can
it be?"
"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I
do not know."
"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used
to be with him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man."
"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy! -- and so it does, I vow. Well, any
friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else
I must say that I hate the very sight of him."
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but
little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after
receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough.
Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother
talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil
to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them.
But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by
Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's letter,
or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could
be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she had
undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person
to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom
she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least
as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment
at his coming -- at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily
seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing
his altered behaviour in Derbyshire.
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half
a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and
wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then
be early enough for expectation."
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without
daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the
face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked
a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected.
On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them
with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from
any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and
sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command.
She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual;
and, she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than
as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
not an improbable, conjecture.
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short
period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by
Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
her curtsey and address to his friend.
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the
latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,
was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
applied.
Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any
thing. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence;
but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing
the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse
of curiosity, she raised he eyes to his face, she as often found him looking
at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More
thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were
plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry with herself for being
so.
"Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did
he come?"
She was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself;
and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.
"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said
Mrs. Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.
"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but,
however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the
neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled.
And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you
must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the
Courier,
I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, "Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet," without there being a syllable
said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing. It was
my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make
such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
not tell.
"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well
married," continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it
is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay
I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard
of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the regulars.
Thank Heaven! he has some friends, though perhaps not so many as
he deserves."
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in
the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said
her mother, "I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please
on Mr. Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you,
and will save all the best of the covies for you."
Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had flattered
them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be hastening to
the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt that years of
happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful
confusion.
"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never
more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no
pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see
either one or the other again!"
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former
lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every
five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her
as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected,
though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should
be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as
much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always
know when she was silent.
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of
her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn
in a few days time.
"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added,
"for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family
dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and
I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and
keep your engagement."
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something
of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and
dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she
did not think any thing less than two courses could be good enough for
a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and
pride of one who had ten thousand a year.
Chapter XII
AS soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,"
said she, "did he come at all?"
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt,
when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither?
If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will
think no more about him."
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the
approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed
her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance."
"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly.
"Oh, Jane, take care."
"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
now?"
"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in
love with you as ever."
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs.
Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which
the good humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit,
had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and
the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality
as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room,
Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place,
which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister.
Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to
sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened
to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself
by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.
He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley
had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise
turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed
an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his own,
would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence,
she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all
the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no cheerful
humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide
them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation
would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to advantage. She
was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how
seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner
whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness, made the sense of what
they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind; and she would, at times,
have given any thing to be privileged to tell him that his kindness was
neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity
of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy,
the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came,
was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked
forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure
for the evening must depend.
"If he does not come to me, then," said she, "I shall
give him up for ever."
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her
which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,
"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none
of them; do we?"
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed
him with her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience
enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself
for being so silly!
"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish
enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who
would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same
woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee
cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,
"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"
"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."
"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"
"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
Scarborough,
these three weeks."
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some
minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth
again, he walked away.
When the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed,
the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by
him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to
her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing
to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the
room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen
to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others,
and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
"What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly
well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
venison was roasted to a turn -- and everybody said they never saw so fat
a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases'
last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably
well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And,
my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so
too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said
besides? "Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last." She
did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived --
and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome:
I like them prodigiously."
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen
enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get
him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a
happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed
at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth.
"The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I
hope we may often meet again."
Elizabeth smiled.
"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies
me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any
design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater
sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than
any other man."
"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me
smile, and are provoking me to it every moment."
"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"
"And how impossible in others!"
"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than
I acknowledge?"
"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all
love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante."
Chapter XIII
A FEW days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good
spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions
of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."
He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.;
and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting
on them.
"Can you come to-morrow?"
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation
was accepted with alacrity.
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none
of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,
"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come -- Mr. Bingley
is come. -- He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to
Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy's hair."
"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare
say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an
hour ago."
"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be
quick! Where is your sash, my dear?"
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
go down without one of her sisters.
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in
the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom,
and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being
thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine
for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth
would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently
said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What
am I to do?"
"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat
still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion,
she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want
to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look
at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty
that she would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet
half-opened the door and called out,
"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."
Elizabeth was forced to go.
"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her
mother, as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going up stairs
to sit in my dressing room."
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
into the drawing room.
Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was
every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter.
His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother,
and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance
particularly grateful to the daughter.
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he
went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's
means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word
passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed
in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence.
Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet
spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much
more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the other
had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in
the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body
away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went
into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others
were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract
her mother's schemes.
But on returning to the drawing room, when her letter was finished,
she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both,
as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have
told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but her's
she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well
as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to
her sister, ran out of the room.
Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would
give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve
it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?"
Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,
a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness
was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself
to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present.
"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not
on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to
hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy,
to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken
up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity
and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them
so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest,
wisest, most reasonable end!"
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with
her father had been short and to the purpose.
"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.
"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare
say."
He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good
wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed
her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen
to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and
in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations
of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent
understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity
of feeling and taste between her and himself.
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction
of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face,
as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak
her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she
talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet
joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy
he was.
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned
to his daughter, and said,
"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.
"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure
in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy,
that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always
exceed your income."
"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
would be unpardonable in me."
"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what
are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very
likely more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane,
I am so happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew
how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could
not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him,
when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it
was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!"
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition
her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which
she might in future be able to dispense.
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper;
unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested,
had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged
to accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister;
for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else;
but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours
of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always
attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and
when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling
me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had
not believed it possible."
"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account
for it?"
"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no
friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he
might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when
they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they
will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though
we can never be what we once were to each other."
"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that
I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you
again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."
"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my
being indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!"
"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit
of his modesty."
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence,
and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased
to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though
Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it
was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!"
cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there were
but such another man for you!"
"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy
as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be
long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips,
and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all
her neighbours in Meryton.
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family
in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run
away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
Chapter XIV
ONE morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had
been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together
in the dining room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by
the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up
the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody
was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement
of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both
set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with
little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered.
It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment
was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty,
though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth
felt.
She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,
made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination
of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned
her name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
introduction had been made.
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest
of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After
sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
mother."
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
"And that I suppose is one of your sisters."
"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady
Catherine. "She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately
married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young
man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family."
"You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after
a short silence.
"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say;
but I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."
"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,
in summer; the windows are full west."
Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,
and then added,
"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left
Mr. and Mrs. Collins well."
"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her
from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling.
But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take
some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
declined eating any thing; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,
"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in
it, if you will favour me with your company."
"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and shew her ladyship about
the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall,
Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room,
and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms,
walked on.
Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
conversation
with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.
"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she
looked in her face.
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
following manner: --
"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason
of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you
why I come."
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able
to account for the honour of seeing you here."
"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you
ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere
you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character
has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause
of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report
of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not
only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married,
but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood,
be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though
I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure
him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
you."
"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth,
colouring with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble
of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"
"At once to insist upon having such a report universally
contradicted."
"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth
coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
is in existence."
"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report
is spread abroad?"
"I never heard that it was."
"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation
for it?"
"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer."
"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied.
Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"
"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."
"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of
his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
may have drawn him in."
"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."
"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed
to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the
world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."
"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such
behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit."
"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have
the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?"
"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
he will make an offer to me."
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,
"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish
of his mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned
the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the
family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit
engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety
and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he
was destined for his cousin?"
"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there
is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not
be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry
Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage.
Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor
inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice?
And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"
"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it.
Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family
or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him. Your
alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by
any of us."
"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the
wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine."
"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your
gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on
that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I
came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will
I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's
whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."
"That will make your ladyship's situation at present more
pitiable; but it will have no effect on me."
"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and
my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal
side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
honourable, and ancient -- though untitled -- families. Their fortune on
both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The
upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune.
Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible
of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have
been brought up."
"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting
that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we
are equal."
"True. You are a gentleman's daughter. But who was your
mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
condition."
"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your
nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you."
"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
moment's deliberation,
"I am not."
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"
"I will make no promise of the kind."
"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find
a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief
that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the
assurance I require."
"And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated
into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to
marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make
their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me,
would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his
cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which
you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous
as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character,
if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot
tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must
beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject."
"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all
the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am
no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement.
I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business,
at the expence of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to
be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's
steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth! -- of what are you thinking?
Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"
"You can now have nothing farther to say," she resentfully
answered. "You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to
return to the house."
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"
"Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my
sentiments."
"You are then resolved to have him?"
"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that
manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."
"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey
the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him
in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."
"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth,
"have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle
of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard
to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the
former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
concern -- and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
the scorn."
"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very
well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point."
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, "I take
no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You
deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother impatiently
met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would
not come in again and rest herself.
"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."
"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.
She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton,
thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular
to say to you, Lizzy?"
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for
to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
Chapter XV
THE discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth
into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many hours, learn
to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had
actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose
of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational
scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could
originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that
his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being the
sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding
made every body eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself
forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more
frequently together. And her neighbours at Lucas lodge, therefore (for
through their communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded,
had reached Lady Catherine), had only set that down as almost certain
and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some
future time.
In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could
not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her
persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution
to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
an application to her nephew; and how he might take a similar
representation
of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce.
She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his dependence
on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher
of her ladyship than she could do; and it was certain that, in
enumerating
the miseries of a marriage with one whose immediate connections
were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side.
With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments,
which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good
sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which
had often seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation
might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should
come to his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to
understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of
his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
at all."
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with
the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity;
and Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.
The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by
her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my
room."
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had
to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might
be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent
explanations.
She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down.
He then said,
"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the
brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest."
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself
at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself;
when her father continued,
"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such
matters as these; but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to discover
the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."
"From Mr. Collins! and what can he have to say?"
"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which,
it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases.
I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that
point. What relates to yourself, is as follows." "Having thus offered
you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy
event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which
we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth,
it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder
sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably
looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land."
"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This
young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart
of mortal can most desire, -- splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure
with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined
to take immediate advantage of."
"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
comes out."
"My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to
imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match
with a friendly eye."
"Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I have
surprised
you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within the circle
of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually
to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see
a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! It is admirable!"
Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could
only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in
a manner so little agreeable to her.
"Are you not diverted?"
"Oh! yes. Pray read on."
"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship
last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what
she felt on the occasion; when it become apparent, that on the score of
some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her
noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily
into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins
moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business
has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together
before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not,
however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my
amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house
as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had
I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed
it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a Christian, but never to admit
them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing."
"That is his notion of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is
only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young
olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are
not going to be Missish, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle
report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and
laugh at them in our turn?"
"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is
so strange!"
"Yes -- that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any
other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and
your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration.
Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference
even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law.
And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call
to refuse her consent?"
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as
it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by
his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings
appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather
have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said
of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such
a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too
little, she might have fancied too much.
Chapter XVI
INSTEAD of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with
him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit.
The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him
of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread,
Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out.
It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could
never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and
Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind,
while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little
was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth
was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing
the same.
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call
upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment
for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she
immediately said,
"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of
giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's.
I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge
to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family,
I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."
"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of
surprise and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in
a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
was so little to be trusted."
"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed
to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake
of discovering them."
"If you will thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself
alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the
other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
only of you."
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short
pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If
your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once.
My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will
silence me on this subject for ever."
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety
of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though
not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness
which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;
and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a
man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to
encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt
delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not
look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving
of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more
valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too
much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects.
She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly
denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such a relation
must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which
she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect
had been exactly contrariwise.
"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed
myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain
that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would
have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know
enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After
abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing
you to all your relations."
"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though
your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour
to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable.
I cannot think of it without abhorrence."
"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to
that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
in civility."
"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection
of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the
whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to
me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: "had you behaved
in a more gentleman-like manner." Those were your words. You know not,
you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; -- though it was
some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."
"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong
an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in
such a way."
"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every
proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall
never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way that would induce you to accept me."
"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will
not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed
of it."
Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soon
make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to
its contents?"
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
all her former prejudices had been removed.
"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but
it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power
of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make
you hate me."
"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential
to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think
my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies."
"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself
perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in
a dreadful bitterness of spirit."
"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end
so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely
different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance
attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy.
Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."
"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind.
Your
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence.
But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which
cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all
my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught
what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was
given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately
an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents,
who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent
and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and
overbearing;
to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the
rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense
and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty;
and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth!
What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but
most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without
a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions
to please a woman worthy of being pleased."
"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"
"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you
to be wishing, expecting my addresses."
"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I
assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead
me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening?"
"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began
to take a proper direction."
"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we
met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"
"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."
"Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being
noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary
politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more
than my due."
"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by
every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past;
and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by
letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other
wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about
half an hour after I had seen you."
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and
of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading
to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution
of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there
had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject
to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy
to know any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches,
that it was time to be at home.
"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which
introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted
with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information
of it.
"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.
"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."
"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
much." And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been
pretty much the case.
"On the evening before my going to London," said he, "I made
a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told
him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs
absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest
suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing,
as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could
easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt
of their happiness together."
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing
his friend.
"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when
you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last
spring?"
"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two
visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection."
"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction
to him."
"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence
had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one
thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow
myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter,
that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But
his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt
of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now."
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most
delightful
friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and
it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation
till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
Chapter XVII
"MY dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question
which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room, and
from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in
reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge.
She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing else, awakened
a suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary.
The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and
Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy
than felt herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in
the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked
him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a dislike
which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very
far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! -- engaged to Mr. Darcy!
No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."
"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was
on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet,
indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves
me, and we are engaged."
Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know
how much you dislike him."
"You know nothing of the matter. That is all to be forgot.
Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases
as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall
ever remember it myself."
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.
"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"
cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would -- I do congratulate you --
but are you certain? forgive the question -- are you quite certain that
you can be happy with him?"
"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already,
that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"
"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself
more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And
do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather
than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you
ought to do?"
"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel more than I ought
to do, when I tell you all."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley.
I am afraid you will be angry."
"My dearest sister, now be serious. I want to talk very
seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will
you tell me how long you have loved him?"
"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when
it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful
grounds at Pemberley."
Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced
the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
farther to wish.
"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy
as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love
of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and
your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it to another, not to you."
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been
unwilling
to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal
from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half
the night spent in conversation.
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window
the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again
with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way."
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;
yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,
and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"
"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet,
"to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr.
Darcy has never seen the view."
"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but
I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?" Kitty owned
that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to
see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying,
"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to
him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience."
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should
be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would
take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be
enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently
set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that
her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense; and
she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of
her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation.
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,
she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing
it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going
to be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means -- that she,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her -- was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending
to admire her work said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he wants you
in the library." She was gone directly.
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
"Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to
be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been
more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her
from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich,
to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than
Jane. But will they make you happy?"
"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your
belief of my indifference?"
"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort
of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him."
"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes,
"I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable.
You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking
of him in such terms."
"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He
is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing,
which he condescended to ask. I now give it to you, if you are resolved
on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your
disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable,
unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as
a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger
in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery.
My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect
your partner in life. You know not what you are about."
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her
reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really
the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation
of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months suspense,
and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her
father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have
no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have
parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy."
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what
Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every
thing: made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and
got him his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of
trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and would
have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his
love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his
reading Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed
her at last to go -- saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men
come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."
Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and,
after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to
join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any
thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would
come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed
her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter
a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend
what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for the
advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of
them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get
up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy!
Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy!
how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane's is nothing to it -- nothing at all. I am so pleased
-- so happy. Such a charming man! -- so handsome! so tall! -- Oh, my dear
Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope
he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that
is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What
will become of me. I shall go distracted."
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted:
and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.
"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else!
Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And
a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence.
But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
that I may have it tomorrow."
This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain possession
of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations' consent, there was
still something to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much better
than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended
son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her
power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains
to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was
rising every hour in his esteem.
"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham,
perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like your husband
quite as well as Jane's."
Chapter XVIII
ELIZABETH'S spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could
you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?"
"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words,
which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before
I knew that I had begun."
"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners --
my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil,
and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not.
Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"
"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."
"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little
less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused,
and interested you, because I was so unlike them. Had you not been
really amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains
you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just;
and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There -- I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;
and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable.
To be sure, you knew no actual good of me -- but nobody thinks of that
when they fall in love."
"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
she was ill at Netherfield?"
"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue
of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you
are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs
to me to find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as
may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?"
"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."
"But I was embarrassed."
"And so was I."
"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."
"A man who had felt less, might."
"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,
and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long
you would have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder
when you would have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution
of thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
Too much, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if
our comfort springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned
the subject. This will never do."
"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly
fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the
means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness
to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
to wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."
"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make
her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down
to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
or had you intended any more serious consequence?"
"My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could,
whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I
avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to
Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since
made."
"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what
is to befall her?"
"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth.
But it ought to done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall
be done directly."
"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you
and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did.
But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr.
Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter; but now, having that to communicate which she knew
would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
follows:
"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to
have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but
to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really
existed. But now suppose as much as you chuse; give a loose to your
fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject
will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly
err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than
you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the
Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is
delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature
in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with
such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr.
Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You
are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Your's, &c."
Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;
and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins,
in reply to his last.
"DEAR SIR,
I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
Your's sincerely, &c."
Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former
professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and
though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much kinder
answer than she knew was deserved.
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
congratulations
to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the Collinses
were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden removal
was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly angry
by the contents of her nephew's letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing
in the match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At
such a moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth,
though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure
dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious
civility of her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness.
He could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on
carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes
of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure.
If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
Mrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax
on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood
in too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
humour encouraged, yet, whenever she did speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely
to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from
the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to herself,
and to those of her family with whom he might converse without mortification;
and though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this took from the
season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future;
and she looked forward with delight to the time when they should be removed
from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance
of their family party at Pemberley.
Chapter XIX
HAPPY for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet
got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed.
I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment
of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children produced
so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman
for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband,
who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that
she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection
for her drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted
in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.
So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable
even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart. The darling
wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring
county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other
source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her
time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had
generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable
a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant,
and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's society she
was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited
her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men,
her father would never consent to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was
necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she
could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no longer
mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own, it was
suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution
from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction
that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every thing,
was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make
his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia
on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by
himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
"MY DEAR LlZZY,
I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my
dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you
so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of
us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
Your's, &c."
As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every intreaty and expectation
of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by
the practice of what might be called economy in her own private expences,
she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their
support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or herself
were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging
their bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace
dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always
moving from place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending
more than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into indifference;
her's lasted a little longer; and in spite of her youth and her manners,
she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage had given
her.
Though Darcy could never receive him at Pemberley, yet,
for Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia
was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently staid
so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded
so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but
as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley,
she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost
as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the
sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love
each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an
astonishment
bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother.
He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame
her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received
knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions,
she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband
which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger
than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her
nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character
in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all
intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he
was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and,
after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment
gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how
his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley,
in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from
the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from
the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
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