textfiles/etext/FICTION/austen-pride-757.txt

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by JANE AUSTEN

Originally written in 1813.

Digitized by an unknown party, this text has been on
the Internet for several years and in a number of places.
This is the only electronic edition we have seen that
is good enough to make available at Wiretap.

Corrected against the 1923 R.W.Chapman edition.

This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN, posted to Wiretap 8/94.

From: Henry Churchyard <churchh@uts.cc.utexas.edu>
Message-Id: <199408291359.IAA18607@curly.cc.utexas.edu>
To: gopher@wiretap.spies.com
Subject: Pride and Prejudice 
Date: Mon, 29 Aug 1994 08:59:47 -0500

I have uploaded a much-improved and corrected version of the somewhat
corrupted e-text of Jane Austen' _Pride_and_Prejudice_ that has been
floating around the net.

--
         --Henry Churchyard     churchh@uts.cc.utexas.edu

[This e-text is in the public domain, and has been corrected
against the 1923 R.W. Chapman edition, with slight punctuation
modernization, by LIFY436@utxvms.cc.utexas.edu.  Chapman's
chronology and dramatis personae are included at the end of
this file.  Roman-numeral chapter numbers are relative to each
volume, while parenthesized chapter numbers are continuous
throughout the whole work.  Some spelling inconsistencies and
archaisms have been retained from the first editions.]

================================================================

<TITLE                  Pride And Prejudice
>
<SUBTITLE             A Novel in Three Volumes

              by the Author of "Sense and Sensibility"
>
<AUTHOR                     Jane Austen
>
<DATE                          1813
>

<VOLUME I>
<CHAPTER I (1)>

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be
on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well
fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is
considered as the rightful property of some one or other of
their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you
heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here,
and she told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do not you want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife
impatiently.

"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield
is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of
England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to
see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed
with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession
before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the
house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh!  single, my dear, to be sure!  A single man of large
fortune; four or five thousand a year.  What a fine thing for
our girls!"

"How so?  how can it affect them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so
tiresome!  You must know that I am thinking of his marrying
one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design!  nonsense, how can you talk so!  But it is very likely
that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
must visit him as soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that.  You and the girls may go, or
you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still
better; for, as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley
might like you the best of the party."

"My dear, you flatter me.  I certainly _have_ had my share of
beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now.
When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give
over thinking of her own beauty."

"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."

"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he
comes into the neighbourhood."

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters.  Only think what an establishment
it would be for one of them.  Sir William and Lady Lucas are
determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you
know they visit no new comers.  Indeed you must go, for it will
be impossible for us to visit him, if you do not."

"You are over-scrupulous, surely.  I dare say Mr. Bingley will
be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to
assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he
chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my
little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing.  Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as
Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia.  But you are always
giving _her_ the preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he;
"they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy
has something more of quickness than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such way?
You take delight in vexing me.  You have no compassion on my
poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear.  I have a high respect for your
nerves.  They are my old friends.  I have heard you mention
them with consideration these twenty years at least."

"Ah!  you do not know what I suffer."

"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young
men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."

"It will be no use to us if twenty such should come, since you
will not visit them."

"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty I will
visit them all."

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic
humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three
and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife
understand his character.  _Her_ mind was less difficult to
develope.  She was a woman of mean understanding, little
information, and uncertain temper.  When she was discontented,
she fancied herself nervous.  The business of her life was to
get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.

                              __

<CHAPTER II (2)>

MR. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on
Mr. Bingley.  He had always intended to visit him, though
to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go;
and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no
knowledge of it.  It was then disclosed in the following
manner.  Observing his second daughter employed in trimming
a hat, he suddenly addressed her with,

"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."

"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said
her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit."

"But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him
at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce
him."

"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing.  She has
two nieces of her own.  She is a selfish, hypocritical woman,
and I have no opinion of her."

"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that
you do not depend on her serving you."

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to
contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake!  Have a
little compassion on my nerves.  You tear them to pieces."

"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father;
"she times them ill."

"I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully.

"When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?"

"To-morrow fortnight."

"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come
back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to
introduce him, for she will not know him herself."

"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and
introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_."

"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
with him myself; how can you be so teazing?"

"I honour your circumspection.  A fortnight's acquaintance is
certainly very little.  One cannot know what a man really is by
the end of a fortnight.  But if we do not venture, somebody
else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand
their chance; and therefore, as she will think it an act of
kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself."

The girls stared at their father.  Mrs. Bennet said only,
"Nonsense, nonsense!"

"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried
he.  "Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress
that is laid on them, as nonsense?  I cannot quite agree with
you _there_.  What say you, Mary?  for you are a young lady of
deep reflection I know, and read great books, and make
extracts."

Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us
return to Mr. Bingley."

"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.

"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so
before?  If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would
not have called on him.  It is very unlucky; but as I have
actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance
now."

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of
Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first
tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what
she had expected all the while.

"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet!  But I knew I
should persuade you at last.  I was sure you loved our girls
too well to neglect such an acquaintance.  Well, how pleased
I am!  and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have
gone this morning, and never said a word about it till now."

"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse," said
Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with
the raptures of his wife.

"What an excellent father you have, girls," said she, when the
door was shut.  "I do not know how you will ever make him
amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter.  At our
time of life, it is not so pleasant I can tell you, to be
making new acquaintance every day; but for your sakes, we would
do any thing.  Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest,
I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball."

"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_
the youngest, I'm the tallest."

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he
would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they
should ask him to dinner.

                              __

<CHAPTER III (3)>

NOT all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her
five daughters, could ask on the subject was sufficient to draw
from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.
They attacked him in various ways; with barefaced questions,
ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the
skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the
second-hand intelligence of their neighbour Lady Lucas.  Her
report was highly favourable.  Sir William had been delighted
with him.  He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next
assembly with a large party.  Nothing could be more delightful!
To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in
love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were
entertained.

"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
Netherfield," said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the
others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for."

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat
about ten minutes with him in his library.  He had entertained
hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of
whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father.
The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the
advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window, that he wore a
blue coat and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and
already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do
credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which
deferred it all.  Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the
following day, and consequently unable to accept the honour of
their invitation, &c.  Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted.  She
could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon
after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and
never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be.  Lady Lucas
quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being
gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a
report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve
ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.  The girls
grieved over such a large number of ladies; but were comforted
the day before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he
had brought only six with him from London, his five sisters and
a cousin.  And when the party entered the assembly room, it
consisted of only five altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two
sisters, the husband of the oldest, and another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good looking and gentlemanlike; he had a
pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners.  His
brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his
friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his
fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien; and the
report which was in general circulation within five minutes
after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year.  The
gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the
ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he
was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening,
till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his
popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his
company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate
in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be
compared with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the
principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,
danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early,
and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield.  Such amiable
qualities must speak for themselves.  What a contrast between
him and his friend!  Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs.
Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to
any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking
about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
His character was decided.  He was the proudest, most
disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he
would never come there again.  Amongst the most violent against
him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was
sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one
of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of
gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of
that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her
to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who
came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend
to join it.

"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance.  I hate to see
you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.  You had
much better dance."

"I certainly shall not.  You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner.  At such an assembly
as this, it would be insupportable.  Your sisters are engaged,
and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be
a punishment to me to stand up with."

"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for
a kingdom!  Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant
girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several
of them, you see, uncommonly pretty."

"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,"
said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

"Oh!  she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!  But
there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who
is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.  Do let me ask
my partner to introduce you."

"Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a
moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his
own and coldly said, "She is tolerable; but not handsome
enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no humour at present to give
consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.
You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me."

Mr. Bingley followed his advice.  Mr. Darcy walked off; and
Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him.
She told the story however with great spirit among her friends;
for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in
any thing ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole
family.  Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired
by the Netherfield party.  Mr. Bingley had danced with her
twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters.  Jane was
as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a
quieter way.  Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure.  Mary had heard
herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl
in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all
that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball.  They returned
therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they
lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants.  They
found Mr. Bennet still up.  With a book, he was regardless of
time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of
curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised such
splendid expectations.  He had rather hoped that all his wife's
views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found
that he had a very different story to hear.

"Oh!  my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have
had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball.  I wish
you had been there.  Jane was so admired, nothing could be like
it.  Every body said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley
thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice.  Only
think of _that_ my dear; he actually danced with her twice; and
she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time.  First of all, he asked Miss Lucas.  I was so vexed to
see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her
at all: indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite
struck with Jane as she was going down the dance.  So, he
enquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the
two next.  Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and
the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane
again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger -- "

"If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband
impatiently, "he would not have danced half so much!  For God's
sake, say no more of his partners.  Oh!  that he had sprained
his ancle in the first dance!"

"Oh!  my dear," continued Mrs. Bennet, "I am quite delighted
with him.  He is so excessively handsome!  and his sisters are
charming women.  I never in my life saw any thing more elegant
than their dresses.  I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's
gown -- "

Here she was interrupted again.  Mr. Bennet protested against
any description of finery.  She was therefore obliged to seek
another branch of the subject, and related, with much
bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking
rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose
much by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable,
horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.  So high and so
conceited that there was no enduring him!  He walked here, and
he walked there, fancying himself so very great!  Not handsome
enough to dance with!  I wish you had been there, my dear, to
have given him one of your set downs.  I quite detest the man."

                              __

<CHAPTER IV (4)>

WHEN Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been
cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her
sister how very much she admired him.

"He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible,
good humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! --
so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!"

"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man
ought likewise to be, if he possibly can.  His character is
thereby complete."

"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second
time.  I did not expect such a compliment."

"Did not you?  _I_ did for you.  But that is one great
difference between us.  Compliments always take _you_ by
surprise, and _me_ never.  What could be more natural than his
asking you again?  He could not help seeing that you were about
five times as pretty as every other women in the room.  No
thanks to his gallantry for that.  Well, he certainly is very
agreeable, and I give you leave to like him.  You have liked
many a stupider person."

"Dear Lizzy!"

"Oh!  you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in
general.  You never see a fault in any body.  All the world are
good and agreeable in your eyes.  I never heard you speak ill
of a human being in my life."

"I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I
always speak what I think."

"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder.
With _your_ good sense, to be honestly blind to the follies
and nonsense of others!  Affectation of candour is common
enough; -- one meets it every where.  But to be candid without
ostentation or design -- to take the good of every body's
character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad
-- belongs to you alone.  And so, you like this man's sisters
too, do you?  Their manners are not equal to his."

"Certainly not; at first.  But they are very pleasing women
when you converse with them.  Miss Bingley is to live with her
brother and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall
not find a very charming neighbour in her."

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced.  Their
behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
general; and with more quickness of observation and less
pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment, too,
unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little
disposed to approve them.  They were in fact very fine ladies,
not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and
conceited.  They were rather handsome, had been educated in one
of the first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of
twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than
they ought, and of associating with people of rank; and were
therefore in every respect entitled to think well of
themselves, and meanly of others.  They were of a respectable
family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune
and their own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an
hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to
purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. -- Mr. Bingley
intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county;
but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of
a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the
easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next
generation to purchase.

His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his
own; but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss
Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table, nor
was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than
fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when
it suited her.  Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when
he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at
Netherfield House.  He did look at it and into it for half an
hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms,
satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in
spite of a great opposition of character. -- Bingley was
endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, ductility of his
temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to
his own, and though with his own he never appeared
dissatisfied.  On the strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had
the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion.
In understanding, Darcy was the superior.  Bingley was by no
means deficient, but Darcy was clever.  He was at the same time
haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well
bred, were not inviting.  In that respect his friend had
greatly the advantage.  Bingley was sure of being liked
wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually giving offence.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
sufficiently characteristic.  Bingley had never met with
pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; every body had
been most kind and attentive to him, there had been no
formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all
the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel
more beautiful.  Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection
of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none
received either attention or pleasure.  Miss Bennet he
acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so -- but still they
admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet
girl, and one whom they should not object to know more of.
Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl, and
their brother felt authorised by such commendation to think of
her as he chose.

                              __

<CHAPTER V (5)>

WITHIN a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the
Bennets were particularly intimate.  Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable
fortune and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to
the King during his mayoralty.  The distinction had perhaps
been felt too strongly.  It had given him a disgust to his
business and to his residence in a small market town; and
quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas
Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own
importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely
in being civil to all the world.  For though elated by his
rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he
was all attention to every body.  By nature inoffensive,
friendly and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made
him courteous.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be
a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. -- They had several
children.  The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young
woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk
over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the
assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to
communicate.

"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet
with civil self-command to Miss Lucas.  "You were Mr.
Bingley's first choice."

"Yes; -- but he seemed to like his second better."

"Oh! -- you mean Jane, I suppose -- because he danced with her
twice.  To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her --
indeed I rather believe he _did_ -- I heard something about it
-- but I hardly know what -- something about Mr. Robinson."

"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr.
Robinson; did not I mention it to you?  Mr. Robinson's asking
him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did
not think there were a great many pretty women in the room,
and _which_ he thought the prettiest?  and his answering
immediately to the last question -- ``Oh!  the eldest Miss
Bennet beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that
point.''"

"Upon my word! -- Well, that was very decided indeed --
that does seem as if -- but, however, it may all come to
nothing, you know."

"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_,
Eliza," said Charlotte.  "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth
listening to as his friend, is he? -- Poor Eliza! -- to be
only just _tolerable_."

"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by
his ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man that it
would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him.  Mrs. Long
told me last night that he sat close to her for half an hour
without once opening his lips."

"Are you quite sure, Ma'am? -- is not there a little mistake?"
said Jane. -- "I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."

"Aye -- because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield,
and he could not help answering her; -- but she said he seemed
very angry at being spoke to."

"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much
unless among his intimate acquaintance.  With _them_ he is
remarkably agreeable."

"I do not believe a word of it, my dear.  If he had been so
very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long.  But I can
guess how it was; every body says that he is ate up with pride,
and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not
keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise."

"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long," said Miss Lucas,
"but I wish he had danced with Eliza."

"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with
_him_, if I were you."

"I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance
with him."

"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend _me_ so much
as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it.  One
cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family,
fortune, every thing in his favour, should think highly of
himself.  If I may so express it, he has a _right_ to be
proud."

"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily
forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_."

"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of
her reflections, "is a very common failing I believe.  By all
that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common
indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that
there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of
self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or
imaginary.  Vanity and pride are different things, though the
words are often used synonimously.  A person may be proud
without being vain.  Pride relates more to our opinion of
ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas who came
with his sisters, "I should not care how proud I was.  I would
keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every
day."

"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said
Mrs. Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it, I should take
away your bottle directly."

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare
that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

                              __

<CHAPTER VI (6)>

THE ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield.
The visit was returned in due form.  Miss Bennet's pleasing
manners grew on the good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley;
and though the mother was found to be intolerable and the
younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better
acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest.
By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure;
but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of
every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not
like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a
value, as arising in all probability from the influence of
their brother's admiration.  It was generally evident whenever
they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to _her_ it was equally
evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had
begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to
be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since
Jane united with great strength of feeling a composure of
temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard
her from the suspicions of the impertinent.  She mentioned this
to her friend Miss Lucas.

"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to
impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a
disadvantage to be so very guarded.  If a woman conceals her
affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may
lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but
poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark.
There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself.  We can
all _begin_ freely -- a slight preference is natural enough;
but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really
in love without encouragement.  In nine cases out of ten, a
woman had better shew _more_ affection than she feels.  Bingley
likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than
like her, if she does not help him on."

"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow.
If _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton
indeed not to discover it too."

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as
you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to
conceal it, he must find it out."

"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her.  But though Bingley
and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours
together; and as they always see each other in large mixed
parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed
in conversing together.  Jane should therefore make the most of
every half hour in which she can command his attention.  When
she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love
as much as she chuses."

"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is
in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were
determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I
should adopt it.  But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not
acting by design.  As yet, she cannot even be certain of the
degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness.  She has
known him only a fortnight.  She danced four dances with him at
Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has
since dined in company with him four times.  This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character."

"Not as you represent it.  Had she merely _dined_ with him, she
might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but
you must remember that four evenings have been also spent
together -- and four evenings may do a great deal."

"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that
they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect
to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much
has been unfolded."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart;
and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she
had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying
his character for a twelvemonth.  Happiness in marriage is
entirely a matter of chance.  If the dispositions of the
parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so
similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least.  They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike
afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to
know as little as possible of the defects of the person with
whom you are to pass your life."

"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound.  You know
it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way
yourself."

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister,
Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming
an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend.
Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he
had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they
next met, he looked at her only to criticise.  But no sooner
had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had
hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was
endered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of
her dark eyes.  To this discovery succeeded some others equally
mortifying.  Though he had detected with a critical eye more
than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced
to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in
spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the
fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.  Of
this she was perfectly unaware; -- to her he was only the man
who made himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought
her handsome enough to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards
conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with
others.  His doing so drew her notice.  It was at Sir William
Lucas's, where a large party were assembled.  "What does
Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?"

"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."

"But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know
that I see what he is about.  He has a very satirical eye, and
if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon
grow afraid of him."

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming
to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend
to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking
Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,

"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself
uncommonly well just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to
give us a ball at Meryton?"

"With great energy; -- but it is a subject which always makes a
lady energetic."

"You are severe on us."

"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas.
"I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what
follows."

"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! -- always
wanting me to play and sing before any body and every body! --
If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been
invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down
before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best
performers."  On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added,
"Very well; if it must be so, it must."  And gravely glancing
at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body
here is of course familiar with -- ``Keep your breath to cool
your porridge,'' -- and I shall keep mine to swell my song."

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital.
After a song or two, and before she could reply to the
entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was
eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who
having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the
family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was
always impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given
her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and
conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of
excellence than she had reached.  Elizabeth, easy and
unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure,
though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long
concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch
and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,
with some of the Lucases and two or three officers, joined
eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode
of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation,
and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that
Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus
began.

"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!
-- There is nothing like dancing after all. -- I consider it as
one of the first refinements of polished societies."

"Certainly, Sir; -- and it has the advantage also of being in
vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. --
Every savage can dance."

Sir William only smiled.  "Your friend performs delightfully;"
he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;
-- "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science
yourself, Mr. Darcy."

"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir."

"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the
sight.  Do you often dance at St. James's?"

"Never, sir."

"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the
place?"

"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place, if I can
avoid it."

"You have a house in town, I conclude?"

Mr. Darcy bowed.

"I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself -- for I am
fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that
the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas."

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not
disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving
towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very
gallant thing, and called out to her,

"My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? -- Mr. Darcy,
you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very
desirable partner. -- You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure,
when so much beauty is before you."  And taking her hand,
he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely
surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,

"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. -- I
entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to
beg for a partner."

Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the
honour of her hand; but in vain.  Elizabeth was determined; nor
did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at
persuasion.

"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel
to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this
gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no
objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour."

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.

"He is indeed -- but considering the inducement, my dear Miss
Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would
object to such a partner?"

Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away.  Her resistance had
not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her
with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley.

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not."

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many
evenings in this manner -- in such society; and indeed I am
quite of your opinion.  I was never more annoyed!  The
insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the
self-importance of all these people! -- What would I give to
hear your strictures on them!"

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you.  My mind was
more agreeably engaged.  I have been meditating on the very
great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a
pretty woman can bestow."

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and
desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring
such reflections.  Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley.  "I am all
astonishment.  How long has she been such a favourite? -- and
pray when am I to wish you joy?"

"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask.
A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to
love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.  I knew you would be
wishing me joy."

"Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the
matter as absolutely settled.  You will have a charming
mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at
Pemberley with you."

He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose
to entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure
convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.

                              __

<CHAPTER VII (7)>

MR. BENNET'S property consisted almost entirely in an estate of
two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters,
was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation;
and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in
life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his.  Her father
had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand
pounds.

She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a
clerk to their father, and succeeded him in the business, and a
brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually
tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty
to their aunt, and to a milliner's shop just over the way.  The
two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were
particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were
more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better
offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however
bare of news the country in general might be, they always
contrived to learn some from their aunt.  At present, indeed,
they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the
recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it
was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head
quarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence.  Every day added something to their
knowledge of the officers' names and connections.  Their
lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to
know the officers themselves.  Mr. Philips visited them all,
and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown
before.  They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.
Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to
their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the
regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,
Mr. Bennet coolly observed,

"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you
must be two of the silliest girls in the country.  I have
suspected it some time, but I am now convinced."

Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with
perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of
Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the
day, as he was going the next morning to London.

"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should
be so ready to think your own children silly.  If I wished to
think slightingly of any body's children, it should not be of
my own, however."

"If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible
of it."

"Yes -- but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."

"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not
agree.  I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every
particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our
two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish."

"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the
sense of their father and mother. -- When they get to our age,
I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we
do.  I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very
well -- and indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart
young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want
one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir
William's in his regimentals."

"Mama," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and
Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did
when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in
Clarke's library."

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the
footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield,
and the servant waited for an answer.  Mrs. Bennet's eyes
sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while
her daughter read,

"Well, Jane, who is it from?  what is it about?  what does he
say?  Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."

"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.

"My dear Friend,

IF you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa
and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest
of our lives, for a whole day's te^te-a`-te^te between two
women can never end without a quarrel.  Come as soon as you can
on the receipt of this.  My brother and the gentlemen are to
dine with the officers.  Yours ever,

CAROLINE BINGLEY."

"With the officers!" cried Lydia.  "I wonder my aunt did not
tell us of _that_."

"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."

"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.

"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems
likely to rain; and then you must stay all night."

"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were
sure that they would not offer to send her home."

"Oh!  but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to
Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."

"I had much rather go in the coach."

"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.
They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?"

"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."

"But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's
purpose will be answered."

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that
the horses were engaged.  Jane was therefore obliged to go on
horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many
cheerful prognostics of a bad day.  Her hopes were answered;
Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard.  Her sisters
were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted.  The rain
continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane
certainly could not come back.

"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet, more
than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.
Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the
felicity of her contrivance.  Breakfast was scarcely over when
a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for
Elizabeth:

"My dearest Lizzy,

I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is
to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday.  My kind
friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better.
They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones -- therefore do not be
alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me -- and
excepting a sore throat and head-ache, there is not much the
matter with me.

Yours, &c."

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the
note aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of
illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that
it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."

"Oh!  I am not at all afraid of her dying.  People do not die
of little trifling colds.  She will be taken good care of.
As long is she stays there, it is all very well.  I would go
and see her, if I could have the carriage."

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her,
though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no
horse-woman, walking was her only alternative.  She declared
her resolution.

"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of
such a thing, in all this dirt!  You will not be fit to be seen
when you get there."

"I shall be very fit to see Jane -- which is all I want."

"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for
the horses?"

"No, indeed.  I do not wish to avoid the walk.  The distance is
nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles.  I shall be
back by dinner."

"I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary,
"but every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason;
and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to
what is required."

"We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and
Lydia. -- Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young
ladies set off together.

"If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along,
"perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he
goes."

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the
lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued
her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace,
jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient
activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house,
with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the
warmth of exercise.

She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane
were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal
of surprise. -- That she should have walked three miles so
early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was
almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth
was convinced that they held her in contempt for it.  She was
received, however, very politely by them; and in their
brother's manners there was something better than politeness;
there was good humour and kindness. -- Mr. Darcy said very
little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all.  The former was divided
between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given
to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying
her coming so far alone.  The latter was thinking only of his
breakfast.

Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably
answered.  Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very
feverish and not well enough to leave her room.  Elizabeth was
glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only
been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience,
from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a
visit, was delighted at her entrance.  She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
together, could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude
for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with.  Elizabeth
silently attended her.

When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters, and
Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much
affection and solicitude they shewed for Jane.  The apothecary
came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be
supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they
must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return
to bed, and promised her some draughts.  The advice was
followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her
head ached acutely.  Elizabeth did not quit her room for a
moment, nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen
being out, they had in fact nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go;
and very unwillingly said so.  Miss Bingley offered her the
carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it,
when Jane testified such concern in parting with her that Miss
Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise into an
invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.  Elizabeth
most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back
a supply of clothes.

                              __

<CHAPTER VIII (8)>

AT five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half
past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner.  To the civil
enquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the
pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of
Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very favourable answer.
Jane was by no means better.  The sisters, on hearing this,
repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they
disliked being ill themselves, and then thought no more of the
matter; and their indifference towards Jane, when not
immediately before them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of
all her original dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she
could regard with any complacency.  His anxiety for Jane was
evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they
prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she
believed she was considered by the others.  She had very little
notice from any but him.  Miss Bingley was engrossed by
Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst,
by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only
to eat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer
a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss
Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room.
Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of
pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no stile, no
taste, no beauty.  Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,

"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an
excellent walker.  I shall never forget her appearance this
morning.  She really looked almost wild."

"She did indeed, Louisa.  I could hardly keep my countenance.
Very nonsensical to come at all!  Why must _she_ be scampering
about the country, because her sister had a cold?  Her hair so
untidy, so blowsy!"

"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six
inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which
had been let down to hide it not doing its office."

"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley;
"but this was all lost upon me.  I thought Miss Elizabeth
Bennet looked remarkably well, when she came into the room this
morning.  Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice."

"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley,
"and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see
_your_ _sister_ make such an exhibition."

"Certainly not."

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever
it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone!  what
could she mean by it?  It seems to me to shew an abominable
sort of conceited independence, a most country town
indifference to decorum."

"It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,"
said Bingley.

"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley in a half
whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your
admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the
exercise." -- A short pause followed this speech, and
Mrs. Hurst began again.

"I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a
very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well
settled.  But with such a father and mother, and such low
connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it."

"I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney
in Meryton."

"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near
Cheapside."

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed
heartily.

"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried
Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable."

"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying
men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it
their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at
the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her
room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till
summoned to coffee.  She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth
would not quit her at all till late in the evening, when she
had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to
her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs
herself.  On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but
suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making
her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the
short time she could stay below with a book.  Mr. Hurst looked
at her with astonishment.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather
singular."

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards
She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried
Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in
many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said
Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her
quite well."

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a
table where a few books were lying.  He immediately offered to
fetch her others; all that his library afforded.

"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and
my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not
many, I have more than I ever look into."

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly
with those in the room.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should
have left so small a collection of books. -- What a delightful
library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of
many generations."

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always
buying books."

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such
days as these,"

"Neglect!  I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the
beauties of that noble place.  Charles, when you build _your_
house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."

"I wish it may."

"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in
that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model.
There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire."

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will
sell it."

"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."

"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."

Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her
very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly
aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself
between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister to observe the game.

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley;
"will she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will.  She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's
height, or rather taller."

"How I long to see her again!  I never met with anybody who
delighted me so much.  Such a countenance, such manners, and
so extremely accomplished for her age!  Her performance on the
piano-forte is exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have
patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."

"All young ladies accomplished!  My dear Charles, what do you
mean?"

"Yes all of them, I think.  They all paint tables, cover
skreens, and net purses.  I scarcely know any one who cannot
do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken
of for the first time, without being informed that she was
very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said
Darcy, "has too much truth.  The word is applied to many a
woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse,
or covering a skreen.  But I am very far from agreeing with
you in your estimation of ladies in general.  I cannot boast
of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal
in your idea of an accomplished women."

"Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it."

"Oh!  certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be
really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what
is usually met with.  A woman must have a thorough knowledge of
music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to
deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a
certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of
her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but
half deserved."

"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she
must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of
her mind by extensive reading."

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six
accomplished women.  I rather wonder now at your knowing
_any_."

"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the
possibility of all this?"

"_I_ never saw such a woman, _I_ never saw such capacity, and
taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united."

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the
injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that
they knew many women who answered this description, when
Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their
inattention to what was going forward.  As all conversation was
thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.

"Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on
her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend
themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own, and with
many men, I dare say, it succeeds.  But, in my opinion, it is a
paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly
addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies
sometimes condescend to employ for captivation.  Whatever bears
affinity to cunning is despicable."

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as
to continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was
worse, and that she could not leave her.  Bingley urged Mr.
Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters,
convinced that no country advice could be of any service,
recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent
physicians.  This she would not hear of, but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was
settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning
if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better.  Bingley was quite
uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable.
They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after
supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings
than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible
attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

                              __

<CHAPTER IX (9)>

ELIZABETH passed the chief of the night in her sister's
room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to
send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early
received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time
afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters.  In spite of this amendment, however, she requested
to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit
Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation.  The note
was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly
complied with.  Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest
girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would
have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her,
that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her
recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would
probably remove her from Netherfield.  She would not listen
therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home;
neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time,
think it at all advisable.  After sitting a little while with
Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation the mother
and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast
parlour.  Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not
found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

"Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer.  "She is a great deal too
ill to be moved.  Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving
her.  We must trespass a little longer on your kindness."

"Removed!" cried Bingley.  "It must not be thought of.  My
sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal."

"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold
civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible
attention while she remains with us."

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends
I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill
indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest
patience in the world -- which is always the way with her, for
she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met
with.  I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_.
You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming
prospect over that gravel walk.  I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield.  You will not think of
quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short
lease."

"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore
if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be
off in five minutes.  At present, however, I consider myself as
quite fixed here."

"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said
Elizabeth.

"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning
towards her.

"Oh!  yes -- I understand you perfectly.".

"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily
seen through I am afraid is pitiful."

"That is as it happens.  It does not necessarily follow that a
deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a
one as yours."

"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not
run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."

"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately,
"that you were a studier of character.  It must be an amusing
study."

"Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing.  They
have at least that advantage."

"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few
subjects for such a study.  In a country neighbourhood you
move in a very confined and unvarying society."

"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something
new to be observed in them for ever."

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of
mentioning a country neighbourhood.  "I assure you there is
quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town."

Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her
for a moment, turned silently away.  Mrs. Bennet, who fancied
she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her
triumph.

"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the
country for my part, except the shops and public places.  The
country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?"

"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to
leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same.
They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy
in either."

"Aye -- that is because you have the right disposition.  But
that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the
country was nothing at all."

"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for
her mother.  "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy.  He only meant that
there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the
country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true."

"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not
meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there
are few neighbourhoods larger.  I know we dine with four and
twenty families."

Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley
to keep his countenance.  His sister was less delicate, and
directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive
smile.  Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might
turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas
had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.

"Yes, she called yesterday with her father.  What an agreeable
man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley -- is not he?  so much the man
of fashion!  so genteel and so easy! -- He has always something
to say to every body. -- _That_ is my idea of good breeding;
and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never
open their mouths, quite mistake the matter."

"Did Charlotte dine with you?"

"No, she would go home.  I fancy she was wanted about the mince
pies.  For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that
can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up
differently.  But every body is to judge for themselves, and
the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you.  It is a
pity they are not handsome!  Not that _I_ think Charlotte so
_very_ plain -- but then she is our particular friend."

"She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley.

"Oh!  dear, yes; -- but you must own she is very plain.  Lady
Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty.
I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane --
one does not often see any body better looking.  It is what
every body says.  I do not trust my own partiality.  When she
was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother
Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my
sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we
came away.  But however he did not.  Perhaps he thought her too
young.  However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty
they were."

"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently.
"There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way.
I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving
away love!"

"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,"
said Darcy.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may.  Every thing nourishes
what is strong already.  But if it be only a slight, thin sort
of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve
it entirely away."

Darcy only smiled, and the general pause which ensued made
Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself
again.  She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say;
and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her
thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane with an apology
for troubling him also with Lizzy.  Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister
to be civil also, and say what the occasion required.  She
performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but
Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her
carriage.  Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put
herself forward.  The two girls had been whispering to each
other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that
the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his
first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine
complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her
mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early
age.  She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural
self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom
her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended
her, had increased into assurance.  She was very equal,
therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball,
and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would
be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it.
His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their
mother's ear.

"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement,
and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please,
name the very day of the ball.  But you would not wish to be
dancing while she is ill."

Lydia declared herself satisfied.  "Oh!  yes -- it would be
much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most
likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again.  And when you
have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their
giving one also.  I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite
a shame if he does not."

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth
returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations'
behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the
latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in
their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms
on _fine_ _eyes_.

                              __

<CHAPTER X (10)>

THE day passed much as the day before had done.  Mrs. Hurst
and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the
invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the
evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing room.  The
loo table, however, did not appear.  Mr. Darcy was writing, and
Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his
letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to
his sister.  Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.
Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently
amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his
companion.  The perpetual commendations of the lady either
on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on
the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with
which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue,
and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken.  I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course
of the year!  Letters of business too!  How odious I should
think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of
to yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen.  Let me mend it for you.
I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you -- but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement
on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures
with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it
infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's."

"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write
again? -- At present I have not room to do them justice."

"Oh!  it is of no consequence.  I shall see her in January.
But do you always write such charming long letters to her,
Mr. Darcy?"

"They are generally long; but whether always charming,
it is not for me to determine."

"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long
letter, with ease, cannot write ill."

"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried
her brother -- "because he does _not_ write with ease.  He
studies too much for words of four syllables. -- Do not you,
Darcy?"

"My stile of writing is very different from yours."

"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless
way imaginable.  He leaves out half his words, and blots the
rest."

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them
-- by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all
to my correspondents."

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm
reproof."

"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance
of humility.  It is often only carelessness of opinion, and
sometimes an indirect boast."

"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of
modesty?"

"The indirect boast; -- for you are really proud of your
defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding
from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which
if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting.  The
power of doing any thing with quickness is always much
prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the
imperfection of the performance.  When you told Mrs. Bennet
this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort
of panegyric, of compliment to yourself -- and yet what is
there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very
necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage
to yourself or any one else?"

"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night
all the foolish things that were said in the morning.  And yet,
upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true,
and I believe it at this moment.  At least, therefore, I did
not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to
shew off before the ladies."

"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced
that you would be gone with such celerity.  Your conduct would
be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and
if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say,
``Bingley, you had better stay till next week,'' you would
probably do it, you would probably not go -- and, at another
word, might stay a month."

"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr.
Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition.  You have
shewn him off now much more than he did himself."

"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting
what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my
temper.  But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that
gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think
the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a
flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could."

"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original
intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"

"Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must
speak for himself."

"You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call
mine, but which I have never acknowledged.  Allowing the case,
however, to stand according to your representation, you must
remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to
desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has
merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in
favour of its propriety."

"To yield readily -- easily -- to the _persuasion_ of a friend
is no merit with you."

"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the
understanding of either."

"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the
influence of friendship and affection.  A regard for the
requester would often make one readily yield to a request
without waiting for arguments to reason one into it.  I am not
particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about
Mr. Bingley.  We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his
behaviour thereupon.  But in general and ordinary cases between
friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to
change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think
ill of that person for complying with the desire, without
waiting to be argued into it?"

"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject,
to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance
which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of
intimacy subsisting between the parties?"

"By all means," cried Bingley; "Let us hear all the
particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size;
for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet,
than you may be aware of.  I assure you that if Darcy were not
such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should
not pay him half so much deference.  I declare I do not know a
more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday
evening when he has nothing to do."

Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that
he was rather offended; and therefore checked he laugh.  Miss
Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received in an
expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.

"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. -- "You dislike
an argument, and want to silence this."

"Perhaps I do.  Arguments are too much like disputes.  If you
and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I
shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like
of me."

"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side;
and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter,"

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and
Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music.  Miss Bingley moved
with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request
that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely
and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus
employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned
over some music books that lay on the instrument, how
frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her.  She hardly
knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration
to so great man; and yet that he should look at her because he
disliked her was still more strange.  She could only imagine
however, at last, that she drew his notice because there was a
something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to
his ideas of right, than in any other person present.  The
supposition did not pain her.  She liked him too little to care
for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm
by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing
near Elizabeth, said to her --

"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize
such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"

She smiled, but made no answer.  He repeated the question, with
some surprise at her silence.

"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not
immediately determine what to say in reply.  You wanted me,
I know, to say ``Yes,'' that you might have the pleasure of
despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing
those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their
premeditated contempt.  I have therefore made up my mind to
tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all -- and
now despise me if you dare."

"Indeed I do not dare."

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed
at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and
archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to
affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any
woman as he was by her.  He really believed, that were it not
for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some
danger.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her
great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received
some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.

She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by
talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness
in such an alliance.

"I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the
shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a
few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the
advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do
cure the younger girls of running after the officers. -- And,
if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that
little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which
your lady possesses."

"Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?"

"Oh!  yes. -- Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt
Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley.  Put them next
to your great uncle, the judge.  They are in the same
profession, you know; only in different lines.  As for your
Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for
what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"

"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but
their colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine,
might be copied."

At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst
and Elizabeth herself.

"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley,
in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running
away without telling us that you were coming out."  Then taking
the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by
herself.  The path just admitted three.

Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said, --

"This walk is not wide enough for our party.  We had better go
into the avenue."

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with
them, laughingly answered,

"No, no; stay where you are. -- You are charmingly group'd, and
appear to uncommon advantage.  The picturesque would be spoilt
by admitting a fourth.  Good bye."

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the
hope of being at home again in a day or two.  Jane was already
so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of
hours that evening.

                              __

<CHAPTER XI (11)>

WHEN the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
sister, and, seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her
into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two
friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had
never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which
passed before the gentlemen appeared.  Their powers of
conversation were considerable.  They could describe an
entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour,
and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first
object.  Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards
Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had
advanced many steps.  He addressed himself directly to Miss
Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a
slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and
warmth remained for Bingley's salutation.  He was full of joy
and attention.  The first half hour was spent in piling up the
fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she
removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that
she might be farther from the door.  He then sat down by her,
and talked scarcely to any one else.  Elizabeth, at work in the
opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table -- but in vain.  She had obtained private
intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and
Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected.  She
assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of
the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her.
Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do but to stretch himself on
one of the sophas and go to sleep.  Darcy took up a book; Miss
Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in
playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in
her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching
Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own;
and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking
at his page.  She could not win him, however, to any
conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on.
At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her
own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second
volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it
is to spend an evening in this way!  I declare after all there
is no enjoyment like reading!  How much sooner one tires of any
thing than of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall
be miserable if I have not an excellent library."

No one made any reply.  She then yawned again, threw aside
her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some
amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss
Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said,

"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a
dance at Netherfield? -- I would advise you, before you
determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party;
I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a
ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure."

"If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if
he chuses, before it begins -- but as for the ball, it is quite
a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup
enough I shall send round my cards."

"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they
were carried on in a different manner; but there is something
insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting.
It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead
of dancing made the order of the day."

"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would
not be near so much like a ball."

Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and
walked about the room.  Her figure was elegant, and she walked
well; -- but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still
inflexibly studious.  In the desperation of her feelings she
resolved on one effort more; and turning to Elizabeth, said,

"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example,
and take a turn about the room. -- I assure you it is very
refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude."

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately.  Miss
Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility;
Mr. Darcy looked up.  He was as much awake to the novelty of
attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and
unconsciously closed his book.  He was directly invited to join
their party, but he declined it, observing that he could
imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down
the room together, with either of which motives his joining
them would interfere.  "What could he mean?  she was dying to
know what could be his meaning" -- and asked Elizabeth whether
she could at all understand him?

"Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to
be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will
be to ask nothing about it."

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy
in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an
explanation of his two motives.

"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said
he, as soon as she allowed him to speak.  "You either chuse
this method of passing the evening because you are in each
other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or
because you are conscious that your figures appear to the
greatest advantage in walking; -- if the first, I should be
completely in your way; -- and if the second, I can admire you
much better as I sit by the fire."

"Oh!  shocking!" cried Miss Bingley.  "I never heard any thing
so abominable.  How shall we punish him for such a speech?"

"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said
Elizabeth.  "We can all plague and punish one another.  Teaze
him -- laugh at him. -- Intimate as you are, you must know how
it is to be done."

"But upon my honour I do _not_.  I do assure you that my
intimacy has not yet taught me _that_.  Teaze calmness of
temper and presence of mind!  No, no -- I feel he may defy us
there.  And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if
you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject.
Mr. Darcy may hug himself."

"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth.  "That is
an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue,
for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such
acquaintance.  I dearly love a laugh."

"Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than
can be.  The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and
best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person
whose first object in life is a joke."

"Certainly," replied Elizabeth -- "there are such people, but I
hope I am not one of _them_.  I hope I never ridicule what is
wise or good.  Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies
_do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. --
But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without."

"Perhaps that is not possible for any one.  But it has been the
study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a
strong understanding to ridicule."

"Such as vanity and pride."

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed.  But pride -- where there is
a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good
regulation."

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss
Bingley; -- "and pray what is the result?"

"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect.
He owns it himself without disguise."

"No" -- said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension.  I have
faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding.
My temper I dare not vouch for. -- It is I believe too little
yielding -- certainly too little for the convenience of the
world.  I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon
as I ought, nor their offences against myself.  My feelings are
not puffed about with every attempt to move them.  My temper
would perhaps be called resentful. -- My good opinion once lost
is lost for ever."

"_That_ is a failing indeed!" -- cried Elizabeth.  "Implacable
resentment _is_ a shade in a character.  But you have chosen
your fault well. -- I really cannot _laugh_ at it; you are safe
from me."

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some
particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best
education can overcome."

"And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to
misunderstand them."

"Do let us have a little music," -- cried Miss Bingley, tired
of a conversation in which she had no share. -- "Louisa, you
will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst."

Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte
was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was
not sorry for it.  He began to feel the danger of paying
Elizabeth too much attention.

                              __

<CHAPTER XII (12)>

IN consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth
wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage
might be sent for them in the course of the day.  But
Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at
Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly
finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive hem with
pleasure before.  Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get
home.  Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly
have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was
added that, if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay
longer, she could spare them very well. -- Against staying
longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved -- nor did
she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves
needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's
carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their
original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be
mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and
enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the
following day, to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going
was deferred.  Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had
proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister
much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were
to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet
that it would not be safe for her -- that she was not enough
recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be
right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence -- Elizabeth had been
at Netherfield long enough.  She attracted him more than he
liked -- and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more
teazing than usual to himself.  He wisely resolved to be
particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_
escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of
influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had
been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have
material weight in confirming or crushing it.  Steady to his
purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole
of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by
themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to
his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable
to almost all, took place.  Miss Bingley's civility to
Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her
affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the
latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her
either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. -- Elizabeth
took leave of the whole party in the liveliest spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother.
Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very
wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have
caught cold again. -- But their father, though very laconic in
his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he
had felt their importance in the family circle.  The evening
conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of
its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane
and Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass
and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some
new observations of thread-bare morality to listen to.
Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different
sort.  Much had been done and much had been said in the
regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers
had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged,
and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going
to be married.

                              __

<CHAPTER XIII (13)>

"I HOPE my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife as they were at
breakfast the next morning, "that you have ordered a good
dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to
our family party."

"Who do you mean, my dear?  I know of nobody that is coming,
I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and
I hope _my_ dinners are good enough for her.  I do not believe
she often sees such at home."

"The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. -- "A gentleman and a stranger!
It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure.  Why Jane -- you never dropt a
word of this; you sly thing!  Well, I am sure I shall be
extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. -- But -- good lord!  how
unlucky!  there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day.  Lydia,
my love, ring the bell.  I must speak to Hill, this moment."

"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person
whom I never saw in the whole course of my life."

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure
of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at
once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus
explained.  "About a month ago I received this letter, and
about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of
some delicacy, and requiring early attention.  It is from my
cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out
of this house as soon as he pleases."

"Oh!  my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that
mentioned.  Pray do not talk of that odious man.  I do think it
is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be
entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had
been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other
about it."

Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an
entail.  They had often attempted it before, but it was a
subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason;
and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of
settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in
favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet,
"and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting
Longbourn.  But if you will listen to his letter, you may
perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing
himself."

"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very
impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very
hypocritical.  I hate such false friends.  Why could not he
keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?"

"Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples
on that head, as you will hear."

"Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,

15th October.

DEAR SIR,

THE disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late
honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I
have had the misfortune to lose him I have frequently wished to
heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own
doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory
for me to be on good terms with any one with whom it had always
pleased him to be at variance." -- "There, Mrs. Bennet." --
"My mind however is now made up on the subject, for having
received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to
be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty
and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of
this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean
myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever
ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are
instituted by the Church of England.  As a clergyman, moreover,
I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of
peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on
these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of
good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of
my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly
overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered
olive branch.  I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being
the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to
apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to
make them every possible amends, -- but of this hereafter.  If
you should have no objection to receive me into your house,
I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your
family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall
probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday
se'nnight following, which I can do without any inconvenience,
as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional
absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is
engaged to do the duty of the day.  I remain, dear sir, with
respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your
well-wisher and friend,

WILLIAM COLLINS."

"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peacemaking
gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter.
"He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon
my word; and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance,
especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let
him come to us again."

"There is some sense in what he says about the girls however;
and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be
the person to discourage him."

"Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way
he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the
wish is certainly to his credit."

Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference
for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening,
marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were
required.

"He must be an oddity, I think," said she.  "I cannot make him
out. -- There is something very pompous in his stile. -- And
what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?
-- We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. -- Can he
be a sensible man, sir?"

"No, my dear; I think not.  I have great hopes of finding him
quite the reverse.  There is a mixture of servility and
self-importance in his letter, which promises well.  I am
impatient to see him."

"In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem
defective.  The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly
new, yet I think it is well expressed."

To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were
in any degree interesting.  It was next to impossible that
their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some
weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a
man in any other colour.  As for their mother, Mr. Collins's
letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was
preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with
great politeness by the whole family.  Mr. Bennet, indeed, said
little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr.
Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined
to be silent himself.  He was a tall, heavy looking young man
of five and twenty.  His air was grave and stately, and his
manners were very formal.  He had not been long seated before
he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in
this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added,
that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well
disposed of in marriage.  This gallantry was not much to the
taste of some of his hearers, but Mrs. Bennet who quarrelled
with no compliments, answered most readily,

"You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my
heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough.
Things are settled so oddly."

"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate."

"Ah!  sir, I do indeed.  It is a grievous affair to my poor
girls, you must confess.  Not that I mean to find fault with
_you_, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world.
There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to
be entailed."

"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,
-- and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of
appearing forward and precipitate.  But I can assure the young
ladies that I come prepared to admire them.  At present I will
not say more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted -- "

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls
smiled on each other.  They were not the only objects of Mr.
Collins's admiration.  The hall, the dining-room, and all its
furniture were examined and praised; and his commendation of
every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but for the
mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future
property.  The dinner too, in its turn, was highly admired; and
he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence
of its cookery was owing.  But here he was set right by
Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were
very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had
nothing to do in the kitchen.  He begged pardon for having
displeased her.  In a softened tone she declared herself not at
all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter
of an hour.

                              __

<CHAPTER XIV (14)>

DURING dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the
servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some
conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in
which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed
very fortunate in his patroness.  Lady Catherine de Bourgh's
attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort,
appeared very remarkable.  Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
better.  Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise.  The subject
elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a
most important aspect he protested that he had never in his
life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank -- such
affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced
from Lady Catherine.  She had been graciously pleased to
approve of both the discourses which he had already had the
honour of preaching before her.  She had also asked him twice
to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday
before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening.  Lady
Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_
had never seen any thing but affability in her.  She had always
spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not
the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a
week or two, to visit his relations.  She had even condescended
to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose
with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble
parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations
he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some
herself, -- some shelves in the closets up stairs.

"That is all very proper and civil I am sure," said
Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman.  It
is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her.
Does she live near you, sir?"

"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only
by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."

"I think you said she was a widow, sir?  has she any family?"

"She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
extensive property."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better
off than many girls.  And what sort of young lady is she?  is
she handsome?"

"She is a most charming young lady indeed.  Lady Catherine
herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is
far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is
that in her features which marks the young woman of
distinguished birth.  She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in
many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed
of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her
education, and who still resides with them.  But she is
perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble
abode in her little phaeton and ponies."

"Has she been presented?  I do not remember her name among the
ladies at court."

"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being
in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one
day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament.
Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine
that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little
delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies.
I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine that her
charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the
most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be
adorned by her. -- These are the kind of little things which
please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I
conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay."

"You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy
for you that you possess the talent of flattering with
delicacy.  May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed
from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous
study?"

"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and
though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging
such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary
occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as
possible."

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered.  His cousin was
as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the
keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most
resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional
glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.

By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet
was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and
when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the
ladies.  Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced;
but on beholding it (for every thing announced it to be from a
circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,
protested that he never read novels. -- Kitty stared at him,
and Lydia exclaimed. -- Other books were produced, and after
some deliberation he chose Fordyce's _Sermons_.  Lydia gaped as
he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous
solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with,

"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away
Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him.  My
aunt told me so herself on Saturday.  I shall walk to Meryton
to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny
comes back from town."

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue;
but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,

"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested
by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their
benefit.  It amazes me, I confess; -- for certainly, there can
be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction.  But I will
no longer importune my young cousin."

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his
antagonist at backgammon.  Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge,
observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to
their own trifling amusements.  Mrs. Bennet and her daughters
apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised
that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book;
but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young
cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as
any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet,
and prepared for backgammon.

                              __

<CHAPTER XV (15)>

MR. COLLINS was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of
nature had been but little assisted by education or society;
the greatest part of his life having been spent under the
guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he
belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the
necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance.
The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given
him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good
deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and
unexpected prosperity.  A fortunate chance had recommended him
to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was
vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank and his
veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good
opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his
rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and
obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended
to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn
family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the
daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they
were represented by common report.  This was his plan of amends
-- of atonement -- for inheriting their father's estate; and he
thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his
own part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them. -- Miss Bennet's lovely
face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest
notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening
she was his settled choice.  The next morning, however, made an
alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's te^te-a`-te^te with
Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his
parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his
hopes that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn,
produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed
on. -- "As to her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon
her to say -- she could not positively answer -- but she did
not _know_ of any prepossession; -- her _eldest_ daughter, she
must just mention -- she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was
likely to be very soon engaged."

Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth -- and it
was soon done -- done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.
Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded
her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might
soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not
bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good
graces.

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten;
every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins
was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most
anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for
thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast, and there
he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest
folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet,
with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford.
Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly.  In his library
he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though
prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit
in every other room in the house, he was used to be free from
them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in
inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and
Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than
a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book,
and go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of
his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton.  The
attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained
by _him_.  Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the
street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very
smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window,
could recall them.

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man,
whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike
appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the
way.  The officer was the very Mr. Denny, concerning whose
return from London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they
passed.  All were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered
who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to
find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of
wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just
gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
reached the same spot.  Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and
entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who
had returned with him the day before from town, and he was
happy to say, had accepted a commission in their corps.  This
was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only
regimentals to make him completely charming.  His appearance
was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty
-- a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing
address.  The introduction was followed up on his side by a
happy readiness of conversation -- a readiness at the same time
perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were
still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the
sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were
seen riding down the street.  On distinguishing the ladies of
the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities.  Bingley was the principal
spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object.  He was then,
he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after
her.  Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning
to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were
suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth
happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each
other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.  Both
changed colour, one looked white, the other red.  Mr. Wickham,
after a few moments, touched his hat -- a salutation which Mr.
Darcy just deigned to return.  What could be the meaning of it?
-- It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long
to know.

In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have
noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the
door of Mr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite
of Miss Lydia's pressing entreaties that they would come in,
and even in spite of Mrs. Philips' throwing up the parlour
window and loudly seconding the invitation.

Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two
eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome,
and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden
return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them,
she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to
see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had told her that
they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because
the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him.  She
received him with her very best politeness, which he returned
with as much more, apologising for his intrusion without any
previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help
flattering himself, however, might be justified by his
relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her
notice.  Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good
breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an
end to by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew,
that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to
have a lieutenant's commission in the ----shire.  She had been
watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down
the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would
certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one
passed the windows now except a few of the officers, who in
comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid, disagreeable
fellows."  Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the
next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on
Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family
from Longbourn would come in the evening.  This was agreed to,
and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a nice
comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of
hot supper afterwards.  The prospect of such delights was very
cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits.  Mr. Collins
repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had
seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have
defended either or both, had they appeared to be wrong, she
could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.

Mr. Collins, on his return, highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by
admiring Mrs. Philips's manners and politeness.  He protested
that except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen
a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with
the utmost civility, but had even pointedly included him in her
invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to
her before.  Something he supposed might be attributed to his
connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
attention in the whole course of his life.

                              __

<CHAPTER XVI (16)>

As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with
their aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and
Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most
steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins
at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure
of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham
had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in the
house.

When this information was given, and they had all taken their
seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and
admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture
of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have
supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at
Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what
Rosings was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened
to the description of only one of Lady Catherine's
drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost
eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment,
and would hardly have resented a comparison with the
housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her
mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own
humble abode and the improvements it was receiving, he was
happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found
in Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his
consequence increased with what she heard, and who was
resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she
could.  To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and
who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and
examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the
mantlepiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long.  It
was over at last however.  The gentlemen did approach; and when
Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had
neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with
the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.  The officers
of the -----shire were in general a very creditable,
gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present
party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person,
countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the
broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who
followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female
eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he
finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he
immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its
being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season,
made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare
topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the
speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and
the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into
insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing;
but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips,
and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with
coffee and muffin.

When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity
of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist.

"I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall
be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life --"
Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could
not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was
he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia.  At
first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely
for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise
extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much
interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming
after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular.
Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was
therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very
willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she
could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with
Mr. Darcy.  She dared not even mention that gentleman.  Her
curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved.  Mr. Wickham began
the subject himself.  He inquired how far Netherfield was from
Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an
hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

"About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let
the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property
in Derbyshire, I understand."

"Yes," replied Wickham; -- "his estate there is a noble one.
A clear ten thousand per annum.  You could not have met with
a person more capable of giving you certain information on
that head than myself -- for I have been connected with his
family in a particular manner from my infancy."

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,
after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of
our meeting yesterday. -- Are you much acquainted with
Mr. Darcy?"

"As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly, --
"I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I
think him very disagreeable."

"I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to
his being agreeable or otherwise.  I am not qualified to form
one.  I have known him too long and to well to be a fair judge.
It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial.  But I believe your
opinion of him would in general astonish -- and perhaps you
would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. -- Here
you are in your own family."

"Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any
house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield.  He is not at
all liked in Hertfordshire.  Every body is disgusted with his
pride.  You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any
one."

"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short
interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated
beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not
often happen.  The world is blinded by his fortune and
consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners,
and sees him only as he chuses to be seen."

"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man."  Wickham only shook his head.

"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,
"whether he is likely to be in this country much longer."

"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away
when I was at Netherfield.  I hope your plans in favour of the
----shire will not be affected by his being in the
neighbourhood."

"Oh!  no -- it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy.
If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go.  We are not
on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but
I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim
to all the world; a sense of very great ill-usage, and most
painful regrets at his being what he is.  His father, Miss
Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever
breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never
be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to
the soul by a thousand tender recollections.  His behaviour
to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could
forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his
disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his
father."

Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and
listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented
farther inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all
that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially,
with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.

"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he
added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire.
I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my
friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their
present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent
acquaintance Meryton had procured them.  Society, I own, is
necessary to me.  I have been a disappointed man, and my
spirits will not bear solitude.  I _must_ have employment and
society.  A military life is not what I was intended for, but
circumstances have now made it eligible.  The church _ought_
to have been my profession -- I was brought up for the church,
and I should at this time have been in possession of a most
valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking
of just now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes -- the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation
of the best living in his gift.  He was my godfather, and
excessively attached to me.  I cannot do justice to his
kindness.  He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had
done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere."

"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be? --
How could his will be disregarded? -- Why did not you seek
legal redress?"

"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest
as to give me no hope from law.  A man of honour could not have
doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it -- or to
treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert
that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,
imprudence, in short any thing or nothing.  Certain it is, that
the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an
age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having
really done any thing to deserve to lose it.  I have a warm,
unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my
opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely.  I can recall
nothing worse.  But the fact is, that we are very different
sort of men, and that he hates me."

"This is quite shocking! -- He deserves to be publicly
disgraced."

"Some time or other he _will_ be -- but it shall not be by
_me_.  Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose
_him_."

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him
handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

"But what," said she after a pause, "can have been his motive?
-- what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"

"A thorough, determined dislike of me -- a dislike which I
cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy.  Had the late
Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me
better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated
him I believe very early in life.  He had not a temper to bear
the sort of competition in which we stood -- the sort of
preference which was often given me."

"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this -- though I
have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him --
I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in
general, but did not suspect him of descending to such
malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"

After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_
remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the
implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving
temper.  His disposition must be dreadful."

"I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham,
"_I_ can hardly be just to him."

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time
exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend,
the favourite of his father!" -- She could have added, "A young
man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your
being amiable" -- but she contented herself with "And one, too,
who had probably been his own companion from childhood,
connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
manner!"

"We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the
greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the
same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same
parental care.  _My_ father began life in the profession which
your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to -- but
he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and
devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property.  He
was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate,
confidential friend.  Mr. Darcy often acknowledged.  himself to
be under the greatest obligations to my father's active
superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death,
Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I
am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude
to _him_, as of affection to myself."

"How strange!" cried Elizabeth.  "How abominable! -- I wonder
that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to
you! -- If from no better motive, that he should not have been
too proud to be dishonest, -- for dishonesty I must call it."

"It _is_ wonderful," -- replied Wickham, -- "for almost all his
actions may be traced to pride; -- and pride has often been his
best friend.  It has connected him nearer with virtue than any
other feeling.  But we are none of us consistent; and in his
behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride."

"Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?"

"Yes.  It has often led him to be liberal and generous, -- to
give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his
tenants, and relieve the poor.  Family pride, and _filial_
pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done
this.  Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from
the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley
House, is a powerful motive.  He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind
and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him
generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers."

"What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy,?"

He shook his head. -- "I wish I could call her amiable.  It
gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy.  But she is too much
like her brother, -- very, very proud. -- As a child, she was
affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have
devoted hours and hours to her amusement.  But she is nothing
to me now.  She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
and, I understand, highly accomplished.  Since her father's
death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her,
and superintends her education."

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth
could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying,

"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley!  How can
Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really
believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man?  How
can they suit each other? -- Do you know Mr. Bingley?"

"Not at all."

"He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man.  He cannot know
what Mr. Darcy is."

"Probably not; -- but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses.  He
does not want abilities.  He can be a conversible companion if
he thinks it worth his while.  Among those who are at all his
equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he
is to the less prosperous.  His pride never deserts him; but
with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational,
honourable, and perhaps agreeable, -- allowing something for
fortune and figure."

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players
gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his
station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. -- The
usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter.  It
had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when
Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured
her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and
begged she would not make herself uneasy.

"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit
down to a card table, they must take their chance of these
things, -- and happily I am not in such circumstances as to
make five shillings any object.  There are undoubtedly many
who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de
Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters."

Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing
Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low
voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with
the family of de Bourgh.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately
given him a living.  I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first
introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known
her long."

"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady
Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to
the present Mr. Darcy."

"No, indeed, I did not. -- I knew nothing at all of Lady
Catherine's connections.  I never heard of her existence till
the day before yesterday."

"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,
and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two
estates."

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor
Miss Bingley.  Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and
useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,
if he were already self-destined to another.

"Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine
and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related
of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that
in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,
conceited woman."

"I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham;
"I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember
that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial
and insolent.  She has the reputation of being remarkably
sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of
her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her
authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her
nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should
have an understanding of the first class."

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of
it, and they continued talking together with mutual
satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest
of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions.  There
could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper
party, but his manners recommended him to every body.  Whatever
he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully.
Elizabeth went away with her head full of him.  She could think
of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention
his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were
once silent.  Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of
the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr.
Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips,
protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at
whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly
fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he
could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn
House.

                              __

<CHAPTER XVII (17)>

ELIZABETH related to Jane the next day, what had passed between
Mr. Wickham and herself.  Jane listened with astonishment and
concern; -- she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be
so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her
nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable
appearance as Wickham. -- The possibility of his having really
endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender
feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to
think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and
throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could
not be otherwise explained.

"They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say,
in some way or other, of which we can form no idea.
Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the
other.  It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture
the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side."

"Very true, indeed; -- and now, my dear Jane, what have you got
to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably
been concerned in the business? -- Do clear _them_ too, or we
shall be obliged to think ill of somebody."

"Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of
my opinion.  My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a
disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his
father's favourite in such a manner, -- one, whom his father
had promised to provide for. -- It is impossible.  No man of
common humanity, no man who had any value for his character,
could be capable of it.  Can his most intimate friends be so
excessively deceived in him?  oh!  no."

"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on,
than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself
as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned
without ceremony. -- If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict
it.  Besides, there was truth in his looks."

"It is difficult indeed -- it is distressing. -- One does not
know what to think."

"I beg your pardon; -- one knows exactly what to think."

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point, -- that
Mr. Bingley, if he _had_ _been_ imposed on, would have much to
suffer when the affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where
this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very
persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his
sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long
expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following
Tuesday.  The two ladies were delighted to see their dear
friend again, called it an age since they had met, and
repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since
their separation.  To the rest of the family they paid little
attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not
much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others.  They were
soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which
took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to
escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to
every female of the family.  Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it
as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was
particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from
Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card; Jane
pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two
friends, and the attention of their brother; and Elizabeth
thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham,
and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's
looks and behaviour.  The happiness anticipated by Catherine
and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular
person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance
half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only
partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a
ball.  And even Mary could assure her family that she had no
disinclination for it.

"While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is
enough. -- I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in
evening engagements.  Society has claims on us all; and
I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of
recreation and amusement as desirable for every body."

Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion that, though
she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could
not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's
invitation, and, if he did, whether he would think it proper to
join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised
to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head,
and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the
Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.

"I am by no means of opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a
ball of this kind, given by a young man of character to
respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far
from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be
honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of
the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,
Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, -- a
preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the
right cause, and not to any disrespect for her."

Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in.  She had fully
proposed being engaged by Wickham for those very dances: -- and
to have Mr. Collins instead!  her liveliness had been never
worse timed.  There was no help for it however.  Mr. Wickham's
happiness and her own was perforce delayed a little longer, and
Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as good a grace as she
could.  She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from
the idea it suggested of something more. -- It now first struck
her that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of
being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to
form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more
eligible visitors.  The idea soon reached to conviction, as she
observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard
his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity;
and though more astonished than gratified herself by this
effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave
her to understand that the probability of their marriage was
exceedingly agreeable to _her_.  Elizabeth, however, did not
chuse to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute
must be the consequence of any reply.  Mr. Collins might never
make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel
about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and
talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable
state at this time, for from the day of the invitation to the
day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as
prevented their walking to Meryton once.  No aunt, no officers,
no news could be sought after; -- the very shoe-roses for
Netherfield were got by proxy.  Even Elizabeth might have found
some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended
the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and
nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a
Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and
Lydia.

                              __

<CHAPTER XVIII (18)>

TILL Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and
looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats
there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never
occurred to her.  The certainty of meeting him had not been
checked by any of those recollections that might not
unreasonably have alarmed her.  She had dressed with more than
usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the
conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting
that it was not more than might be won in the course of the
evening.  But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his
being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the
Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not
exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly
applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go
to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;
adding, with a significant smile,

"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just
now, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here."

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was
caught by Elizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not
less answerable for Wickham's absence than if her first surmise
had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former
was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could
hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries
which he directly afterwards approached to make. -- Attention,
forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham.  She
was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and
turned away with a degree of ill humour, which she could not
wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind
partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every
prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not
dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to
Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon
able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her
cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice.  The two
first dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were
dances of mortification.  Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong
without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery
which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give.
The moment of her release from him was exstacy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of
talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally
liked.  When those dances were over she returned to Charlotte
Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself
suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so much by
surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing
what she did, she accepted him.  He walked away again
immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of
presence of mind; Charlotte tried to console her.

"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."

"Heaven forbid! -- _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of
all! -- To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!
-- Do not wish me such an evil."

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to
claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a
whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham
to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times
his consequence.  Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place
in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in
being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in
her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it.
They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began
to imagine that their silence was to last through the two
dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till
suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to
her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight
observation on the dance.  He replied, and was again silent.
After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
with:

"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- _I_
talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of
remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say
should be said.

"Very well. -- That reply will do for the present. -- Perhaps
by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter
than public ones. -- But _now_ we may be silent."

"Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"

"Sometimes.  One must speak a little, you know.  It would look
odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet
for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so
arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little
as as possible."

"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,
or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"

"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a
great similarity in the turn of our minds. -- We are each of an
unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we
expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be
handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character,
I am sure," said he.  "How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot
pretend to say. -- _You_ think it a faithful portrait
undoubtedly."

"I must not decide on my own performance."

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had
gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters
did not very often walk to Meryton.  She answered in the
affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, "When
you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new
acquaintance."

The effect was immediate.  A deeper shade of hauteur overspread
his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though
blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on.  At
length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said,

"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure
his _making_ friends -- whether he may be equally capable of
_retaining_ them, is less certain."

"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship," replied
Elizabeth with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to
suffer from all his life."

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the
subject.  At that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to
them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the
room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy he stopt with a bow of
superior courtesy, to compliment him on his dancing and his
partner.

"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear Sir.  Such
very superior dancing is not often seen.  It is evident that
you belong to the first circles.  Allow me to say, however,
that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must
hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a
certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing at her
sister and Bingley), shall take place.  What congratulations
will then flow in!  I appeal to Mr. Darcy: -- but let me not
interrupt you, Sir. -- You will not thank me for detaining you
from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright
eyes are also upbraiding me."

The latter part of this address was scarcely, heard by Darcy;
but Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him
forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious
expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.
Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,
and said,

"Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were
talking of."

"I do not think we were speaking at all.  Sir William could
not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less
to say for themselves. -- We have tried two or three subjects
already without success, and what we are to talk of next I
cannot imagine."

"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.

"Books -- Oh!  no. -- I am sure we never read the same, or not
with the same feelings."

"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at
least be no want of subject. -- We may compare our different
opinions."

"No -- I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is
always full of something else."

"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes -- does it?"
said he, with a look of doubt.

"Yes, always," she replied, without knowing what she
said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject,
as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming,

"I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly
ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
unappeasable.  You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its
_being_ _created_."

"I am," said he, with a firm voice.

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

"I hope not."

"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change
their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first."

"May I ask to what these questions tend?"

"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character," said she,
endeavouring to shake off her gravity.  "I am trying to make it
out."

"And what is your success?"

She shook her head.  "I do not get on at all.  I hear such
different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

"I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that report
may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss
Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present
moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would
reflect no credit on either."

"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have
another opportunity."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he
coldly replied.  She said no more, and they went down the
other dance and parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied,
though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy's breast there was
a tolerable powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured
her pardon, and directed all his anger against another.

They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her,
and with an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her,

"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
Wickham! -- Your sister has been talking to me about him, and
asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man
forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was
the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward.  Let me
recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit
confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's using
him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has
treated Mr. Darcy, in a most infamous manner.  I do not know
the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in
the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham
mentioned, and that though my brother thought he could not well
avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was
excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the
way.  His coming into the country at all, is a most insolent
thing indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it.
I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favorite's
guilt; but really, considering his descent one could not expect
much better."

"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the
same," said Elizabeth angrily; "for I have heard you accuse him
of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward,
and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself."

"I beg your pardon," replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a
sneer.  "Excuse my interference. -- It was kindly meant."

"Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself. -- "You are much
mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack
as this.  I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and
the malice of Mr. Darcy."  She then sought her eldest sister,
who had undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of
Bingley.  Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency,
a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how
well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. --
Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment
solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies and
every thing else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in
the fairest way for happiness.

"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling
than her sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham.
But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of
any third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon."

"No," replied Jane, "I have not forgotten him; but I have
nothing satisfactory to tell you.  Mr. Bingley does not know
the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the
circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he
will vouch for the good conduct, the probity and honour of his
friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has
deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say that by his account as well as
his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young
man.  I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved
to lose Mr. Darcy's regard."

"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"

"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton."

"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy.
I am perfectly satisfied.  But what does he say of the living?"

"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though
he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he
believes that it was left to him _conditionally_ only."

"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth
warmly; "but you must excuse my not being convinced by
assurances only.  Mr. Bingley's defence of his friend was a
very able one I dare say, but since he is unacquainted with
several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that
friend himself, I shall venture still to think of both
gentlemen as I did before."

She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to
each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment.
Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest
hopes which Jane entertained of Bingley's regard, and said all
in her power to heighten her confidence in it.  On their being
joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss
Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up
to them and told her with great exultation that he had just
been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.

"I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that
there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness.  I
happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the
young lady who does the honours of this house the names of his
cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine.  How
wonderfully these sort of things occur!  Who would have thought
of my meeting with -- perhaps -- a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly! -- I am most thankful that the
discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him,
which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not
having done it before.  My total ignorance of the connection
must plead my apology."

"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?"

"Indeed I am.  I shall intreat his pardon for not having done
it earlier.  I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_.  It
will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite
well yesterday se'nnight."

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme;
assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing
him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather
than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least
necessary there should be any notice on either side, and that
if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. -- Mr. Collins listened
to her with the determined air of following his own inclination
and when she ceased speaking, replied thus,

"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the
world of your excellent judgment in all matters within the
scope of your understanding, but permit me to say that there
must be a wide difference between the established forms of
ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the
clergy; for give me leave to observe that I consider the
clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest
rank in the kingdom -- provided that a proper humility of
behaviour is at the same time maintained.  You must therefore
allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this
occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point
of duty.  Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice,
which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though
in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a
young lady like yourself."  And with a low bow he left her to
attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly
watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very
evident.  Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and
though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing
it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words "apology,"
"Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh." -- It vexed her to
see him expose himself to such a man.  Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed
him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility.
Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again,
and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the
length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made
him a slight bow, and moved another way.  Mr. Collins then
returned to Elizabeth.

"I have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied
with my reception.  Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the
attention.  He answered me with the utmost civility, and even
paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced
of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain she could
never bestow a favour unworthily.  It was really a very
handsome thought.  Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him."

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue,
she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and
Mr. Bingley, and the train of agreeable reflections which her
observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as
Jane.  She saw her, in idea, settled in that very house, in all
the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow;
and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring
even to like Bingley's two sisters.  Her mother's thoughts she
plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
venture near her, lest she might hear too much.  When they sat
down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky
perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and
deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to
that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing
else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to
Mr. Bingley. -- It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet
seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of
the match.  His being such a charming young man, and so rich,
and living but three miles from them, were the first points of
self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how
fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they
must desire the connection as much as she could do.  It was,
moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as
Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other
rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to
be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their
sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more
than she liked.  It was necessary to make this circumstance a
matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the
etiquette but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find
comfort in staying at home at any period of her life.  She
concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be
equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing
there was no chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her
mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a
less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she
could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr.
Darcy, who sat opposite to them.  Her mother only scolded her
for being nonsensical.

"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of
him?  I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to
be obliged to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear."

"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. -- What advantage can
it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy? -- You will never recommend
yourself to his friend by so doing."

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence.  Her
mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.
Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation.
She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy,
though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for
though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her.  The
expression of his face changed gradually from indignant
contempt to a composed and steady gravity.

At length however Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady
Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights
which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the
comforts of cold ham and chicken.  Elizabeth now began to
revive.  But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for
when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the
mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company.  By many significant looks and
silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of
complaisance, -- but in vain; Mary would not understand them;
such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and
she began her song.  Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with
most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through
the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill
rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving amongst the
thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be
prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a
minute began another.  Mary's powers were by no means fitted
for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner
affected. -- Elizabeth was in agonies.  She looked at Jane, to
see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
Bingley.  She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making
signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued
however impenetrably grave.  She looked at her father to
entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all
night.  He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second
song, said aloud,

"That will do extremely well, child.  You have delighted us
long enough.  Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."

Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;
and Elizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech,
was afraid her anxiety had done no good. -- Others of the party
were now applied to.

"If I," said Mr. Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to
sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the
company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent
diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a
clergyman. -- I do not mean however to assert that we can be
justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there
are certainly other things to be attended to.  The rector of a
parish has much to do. -- In the first place, he must make such
an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
offensive to his patron.  He must write his own sermons; and
the time that remains will not be too much for his parish
duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he
cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible.  And
I do not think it of light importance that he should have
attentive and conciliatory manners towards every body,
especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment.
I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of
the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect
towards any body connected with the family."  And with a bow to
Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so
loud as to be heard by half the room. -- Many stared. -- Many
smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself,
while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having
spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady
Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.

To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement
to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening,
it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with
more spirit, or finer success; and happy did she think it for
Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped
his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much
distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed.  That his
two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an
opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and she
could not determine whether the silent contempt of the
gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more
intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement.  She was
teazed by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her
side, and though he could not prevail with her to dance with
him again, put it out of her power to dance with others.  In
vain did she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and
offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.  He
assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to
it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to
recommend himself to her, and that he should therefore make a
point of remaining close to her the whole evening.  There was
no arguing upon such a project.  She owed her greatest relief
to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther
notice; though often standing within a very short distance of
her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak.
She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to
Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart;
and by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their
carriages a quarter of an hour after every body else was gone,
which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away
by some of the family.  Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely
opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and were
evidently impatient to have the house to themselves.  They
repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by
so doing, threw a languor over the whole party, which was very
little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was
complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of
their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which
had marked their behaviour to their guests.  Darcy said nothing
at all.  Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached
from the rest, and talked only to each other.  Elizabeth
preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss
Bingley; and even Lydia was to much fatigued to utter more than
the occasional exclamation of "Lord how tired I am!"
accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most
pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at
Longbourn; and addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley,
to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family
dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal
invitation.  Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily
engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,
after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the
next day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house
under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the
necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and
wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter
settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months.
Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal,
pleasure.  Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her
children; and though the man and the match were quite good
enough for _her_, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley
and Netherfield.

                              __

<CHAPTER XIX (19)>

THE next day opened a new scene at Longbourn.  Mr. Collins
made his declaration in form.  Having resolved to do it without
loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the
following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to
make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set
about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances
which he supposed a regular part of the business.  On finding
Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together
soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,

"May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter
Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience
with her in the course of this morning?"

Before Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of
surprise, Mrs. Bennet instantly answered,

"Oh dear! -- Yes -- certainly. -- I am sure Lizzy will be very
happy -- I am sure she can have no objection. -- Come, Kitty,
I want you up stairs."  And gathering her work together, she
was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out,

"Dear Ma'am, do not go. -- I beg you will not go. -- Mr.
Collins must excuse me. -- He can have nothing to say to me
that any body need not hear.  I am going away myself."

"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. -- I desire you will stay where
you are." -- And upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed
and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added, "Lizzy,
I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins."

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction -- and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest
to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down
again, and tried to conceal by incessant employment the
feelings which were divided between distress and diversion.
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone
Mr. Collins began.

"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far
from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other
perfections.  You would have been less amiable in my eyes had
there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to
assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for
this address.  You can hardly doubt the purport of my
discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken.
Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the
companion of my future life.  But before I am run away with by
my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for
me to state my reasons for marrying -- and moreover for coming
into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I
certainly did."

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being
run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing
that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any
attempt to stop him farther, and he continued:

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right
thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself)
to set the example of matrimony in his parish.  Secondly, that
I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and
thirdly -- which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier,
that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very
noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.  Twice
has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on
this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before
I left Hunsford -- between our pools at quadrille, while
Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that
she said, ``Mr. Collins, you must marry.  A clergyman like you
must marry. -- Chuse properly, chuse a gentlewoman for _my_
sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active, useful sort of
person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go
a good way.  This is my advice.  Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.''  Allow
me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not
reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as
among the least of the advantages in my power to offer.  You
will find her manners beyond any thing I can describe; and your
wit and vivacity I think must be acceptable to her, especially
when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will
inevitably excite.  Thus much for my general intention in
favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were
directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
assure you there are many amiable young women.  But the fact
is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death
of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years
longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to chuse
a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be
as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place --
which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several
years.  This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter
myself it will not sink me in your esteem.  And now nothing
remains-for me but to assure you in the most animated language
of the violence of my affection.  To fortune I am perfectly
indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your
father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied
with; and that one thousand pounds in the 4 per cents, which
will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that
you may ever be entitled to.  On that head, therefore, I shall
be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no
ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are
married."

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

"You are too hasty, Sir," she cried.  "You forget that I have
made no answer.  Let me do it without farther loss of time.
Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me, I am
very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is
impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them."

"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal
wave of the hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject
the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept,
when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the
refusal is repeated a second or even a third time.  I am
therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said,
and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."

"Upon my word, Sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather an
extraordinary one after my declaration.  I do assure you that
I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there
are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance
of being asked a second time.  I am perfectly serious in my
refusal. -- You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced
that I am the last woman in the world who would make _you_ so,
-- Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am
persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for
the situation."

"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said
Mr. Collins very gravely -- "but I cannot imagine that her
ladyship would at all disapprove of you.  And you may be
certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again I shall
speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other
amiable qualifications."

"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary.
You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the
compliment of believing what I say.  I wish you very happy and
very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to
prevent your being otherwise.  In making me the offer, you must
have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my
family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it
falls, without any self-reproach.  This matter may be
considered, therefore, as finally settled."  And rising as she
thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr.
Collins thus addressed her,

"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this
subject I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than
you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of
cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established
custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application,
and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit
as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female
character."

"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth,
"you puzzle me exceedingly.  If what I have hitherto said can
appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to
express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of its
being one."

"You must give me leave to flatter myself my dear cousin that
your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course.  My
reasons for believing it are briefly these: -- It does not
appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that
the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly
desirable.  My situation in life, my connections with the
family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, it into
farther consideration that in spite of your manifold
attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of
marriage may ever be made you.  Your portion is unhappily so
small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your
loveliness and amiable qualifications.  As I must therefore
conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
I shall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my
love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant
females."

"I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to
that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a
respectable man.  I would rather be paid the compliment of
being believed sincere.  I thank you again and again for the
honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them
is absolutely impossible.  My feelings in every respect forbid
it.  Can I speak plainer?  Do not consider me now as an elegant
female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature
speaking the truth from her heart."

"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the
express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals
will not fail of being acceptable."

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would
make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;
determined, that if he persisted in considering her repeated
refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father,
whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be
decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken
for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.

                              __

<CHAPTER XX (20)>

MR. COLLINS was not left long to the silent contemplation of
his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in
the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner
saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her
towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast room, and
congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy
prospect of their nearer connection.  Mr. Collins received and
returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with
the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be
satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had stedfastly
given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the
genuine delicacy of her character.

This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; -- she would
have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had
meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but
she dared not to believe it, and could not help saying so.

"But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall
be brought to reason.  I will speak to her about it myself
directly.  She is a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not
know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it."

"Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins;
"but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not
whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man
in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the
marriage state.  If therefore she actually persists in
rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into
accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she
could not contribute much to my felicity."

"Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.
"Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these.  In every
thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived.  I will
go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it
with her, I am sure."

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to
her husband, called out as she entered the library,

"Oh!  Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an
uproar.  You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for
she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he
will change his mind and not have _her_."

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and
fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in
the least altered by her communication.

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he,
when she had finished her speech.  "Of what are you talking?"

"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy.  Lizzy declares she will not have
Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not
have Lizzy."

"And what am I to do on the occasion? -- It seems an hopeless
business."

"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself.  Tell her that you insist
upon her marrying him."

"Let her be called down.  She shall hear my opinion."

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to
the library.

"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared.  "I have
sent for you on an affair of importance.  I understand that Mr.
Collins has made you an offer of marriage.  Is it true?"
Elizabeth replied that it was.  "Very well -- and this offer of
marriage you have refused?"

"I have, Sir."

"Very well.  We now come to the point.  Your mother insists
upon your accepting it.  Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?"

"Yes, or I will never see her again."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth.  From this
day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. -- Your
mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr.
Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_."

Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a
beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her
husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively
disappointed.

"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way?
You promised me to insist upon her marrying him."

"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to
request.  First, that you will allow me the free use of my
understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my
room.  I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as
may be."

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her
husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point.  She talked to
Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns.
She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest but Jane with
all possible mildness declined interfering; -- and Elizabeth,
sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes with playful
gaiety, replied to her attacks.  Though her manner varied,
however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had
passed.  He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what
motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was
hurt, he suffered in no other way.  His regard for her was
quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her
mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came
to spend the day with them.  She was met in the vestibule by
Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad
you are come, for there is such fun here! -- What do you think
has happened this morning? -- Mr. Collins has made an offer to
Lizzy, and she will not have him."

Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by
Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they
entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than
she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for
her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy
to comply with the wishes of all her family.  "Pray do, my dear
Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone, "for nobody is on
my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody
feels for my poor nerves."

Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and
Elizabeth.

"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as
unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we
were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell
you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on
refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never
get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not know who is to
maintain you when your father is dead. -- _I_ shall not be able
to keep you -- and so I warn you. -- I have done with you from
this very day. -- I told you in the library, you know, that
I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good
as my word.  I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful
children, -- Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to
any body.  People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints
can have no great inclination for talking.  Nobody can tell
what I suffer! -- But it is always so.  Those who do not
complain are never pitied."

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible
that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only
increase the irritation.  She talked on, therefore, without
interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr.
Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and
on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,

"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your
tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation
together."

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty
followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all
she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of
Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family
were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied
herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear.
In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected
conversation. -- "Oh!  Mr. Collins!" --

"My dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this
point.  Far be it from me," he presently continued, in a voice
that marked his displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your
daughter.  Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us
all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate
as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned.
Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive
happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I
have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as
when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value
in our estimation.  You will not, I hope, consider me as
shewing any disrespect to your family, my dear Madam, by thus
withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter's favour, without
having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of
requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.  My
conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my
dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own.  But
we are all liable to error.  I have certainly meant well
through the whole affair.  My object has been to secure an
amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the
advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_ has been at
all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise."

                              __

<CHAPTER XXI (21)>

THE discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end,
and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable
feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some
peevish allusion of her mother.  As for the gentleman himself,
his feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or
dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of
manner and resentful silence.  He scarcely ever spoke to her,
and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss
Lucas, whose civility in listening to him, was a seasonable
relief to them all, and especially to her friend.

The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or
ill health.  Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry
pride.  Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten
his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by
it.  He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he
still meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if
Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from
the Netherfield ball.  He joined them on their entering the
town and attended them to their aunt's, where his regret and
vexation, and the concern of every body was well talked
over. -- To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence had been self imposed.

"I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better
not meet Mr. Darcy; -- that to be in the same room, the same
party with him for so many hours together, might be more than
I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more
than myself."

She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a
full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they
civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer
walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he
particularly attended to her.  His accompanying them was a
double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to
herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of
introducing him to her father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;
it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately.  The
envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed
paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it,
and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.
Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away,
tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general
conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject
which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner
had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
invited her to follow her up stairs.  When they had gained
their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,

"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised
me a good deal.  The whole party have left Netherfield by this
time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention
of coming back again.  You shall hear what she says."

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the
information of their having just resolved to follow their
brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day
in Grosvenor street, where Mr. Hurst had a house.  The next was
in these words.  "I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall
leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;
but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many returns
of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean
while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and
most unreserved correspondence.  I depend on you for that."  To
these high flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the
insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their
removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament;
it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield
would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of
their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to
regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

"It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you
should not be able to see your friends before they leave the
country.  But may we not hope that the period of future
happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive
earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse
you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters? -- Mr. Bingley will not be detained
in London by them."

"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return
into Hertfordshire this winter.  I will read it to you -- "

"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the
business which took him to London, might be concluded in three
or four days, but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the
same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be
in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following
him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant
hours in a comfortless hotel.  Many of my acquaintance are
already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my
dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the croud,
but of that I despair.  I sincerely hope your Christmas in
Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season
generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to
prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall
deprive you."

"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no
more this winter."

"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he
_should_."

"Why will you think so?  It must be his own doing. -- He is his
own master.  But you do not know _all_.  I _will_ read you the
passage which particularly hurts me.  I will have no reserves
from _you_."  "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to
confess the truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her
again.  I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for
beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she
inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something
still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of
her being hereafter our sister.  I do not know whether I ever
before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will
not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you
will not esteem them unreasonable.  My brother admires her
greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of
seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish
the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is
not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of
engaging any woman's heart.  With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my
dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will
secure the happiness of so many?"

"What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" -- said
Jane as she finished it.  "Is it not clear enough? -- Does it
not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes
me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her
brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of
my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my
guard?  Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"

"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. -- Will you
hear it?"

"Most willingly."

"You shall have it in few words.  Miss Bingley sees that her
brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.
She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and
tries to persuade you that he does not care about you."

Jane shook her head.

"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. -- No one who has ever
seen you together, can doubt his affection.  Miss Bingley I am
sure cannot.  She is not such a simpleton.  Could she have seen
half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have
ordered her wedding clothes.  But the case is this.  We are not
rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more
anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that
when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less
trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some
ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh
were out of the way.  But, my dearest Jane, you cannot
seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her
brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of
you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him
that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love
with her friend."

"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your
representation of all this, might make me quite easy.  But I
know the foundation is unjust.  Caroline is incapable of
wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this
case is, that she is deceived herself."

"That is right. -- You could not have started a more happy
idea, since you will not take comfort in mine.  Believe her to
be deceived by all means.  You have now done your duty by her,
and must fret no longer."

"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best,
in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing
him to marry elsewhere?"

"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if, upon
mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging
his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of
being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him."

"How can you talk so?" -- said Jane faintly smiling, -- "You
must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their
disapprobation, I could not hesitate."

"I did not think you would; -- and that being the case,
I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."

"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required.  A thousand things may arise in six months!"

The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the
utmost contempt.  It appeared to her merely the suggestion of
Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment
suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken,
could influence a young man so totally independent of every
one.

She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she
felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its
happy effect.  Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was
gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection
sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to
Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure
of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the
gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave
her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly
unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they
were all getting so intimate together.  After lamenting it
however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking
that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at
Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable
declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family
dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.

                              __

<CHAPTER XXII (22)>

THE Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again
during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to
listen to Mr. Collins.  Elizabeth took an opportunity of
thanking her.  "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I
am more obliged to you than I can express."  Charlotte assured
her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it
amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time.  This
was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther
than Elizabeth had any conception of; -- its object was nothing
less than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's
addresses, by engaging them towards herself.  Such was Miss
Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when
they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of
success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the
next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge
to throw himself at her feet.  He was anxious to avoid the
notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him
depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he
was not willing to have the attempt known till its success
could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and
with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he
was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception however was of the most flattering kind.  Miss
Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards
the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in
the lane.  But little had she dared to hope that so much love
and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,
every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of
both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her
to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and
though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the
lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness.  The
stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his
courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the
pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not
how soon that establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their
consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity.
Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible
match for their daughter, to whom they could give little
fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly
fair.  Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many
years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William
gave it as his decided opinion that whenever Mr. Collins should
be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly
expedient that both he and his wife should make their
appearance at St. James's.  The whole family, in short, were
properly overjoyed on the occasion.  The younger girls formed
hopes of _coming_ _out_ a year or two sooner than they might
otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their
apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid.  Charlotte
herself was tolerably composed.  She had gained her point, and
had time to consider of it.  Her reflections were in general
satisfactory.  Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor
agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her
must be imaginary.  But still he would be her husband. --
Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage
had always been her object; it was the only honourable
provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and
however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their
pleasantest preservative from want.  This preservative she had
now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having
ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it.  The
least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise
it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she
valued beyond that of any other person.  Elizabeth would
wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution
was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such
disapprobation.  She resolved to give her the information
herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to
Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before
any of the family.  A promise of secrecy was of course very
dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty;
for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in
such very direct questions on his return, as required some
ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising
great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous
love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see
any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed
when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with
great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be
to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements
might allow him to visit them.

"My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive;
and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as
soon as possible."

They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means
wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,

"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation
here, my good sir? -- You had better neglect your relations,
than run the risk of offending your patroness."

"My dear sir, " replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged
to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my
not taking so material a step without her ladyship's
concurrence."

"You cannot be too much on your guard.  Risk any thing rather
than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by
your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly
probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that we shall
take no offence."

"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by
such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will
speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, as well
as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in
Hertfordshire.  As for my fair cousins, though my absence may
not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the
liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
cousin Elizabeth."

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them
equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return.
Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of
paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary
might have been prevailed on to accept him.  She rated his
abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a
solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though
by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if
encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as
her's, he might become a very agreeable companion.  But on the
following morning, every hope of this kind was done away.  Miss
Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference
with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with
her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day
or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost
as far from possibility as that she could encourage him
herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to
overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help
crying out,

"Engaged to Mr. Collins!  my dear Charlotte, -- impossible!"

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in
telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on
receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than
she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly
replied,

"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? -- Do you think it
incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any
woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed
with you?"

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong
effort for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness
that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to
her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.

"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte, -- "you must
be surprised, very much surprised, -- so lately as Mr. Collins
was wishing to marry you.  But when you have had time to think
it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have
done.  I am not romantic you know.  I never was, I ask only a
comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character,
connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can
boast on entering the marriage state."

Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;" -- and after an
awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family.
Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left
to reflect on what she had heard.  It was a long time before
she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a
match.  The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of
marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his
being now accepted.  She had always felt that Charlotte's
opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she
could not have supposed it possible that, when called into
action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to
worldly advantage.  Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins, was a
most humiliating picture! -- And to the pang of a friend
disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the
distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend
to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.

                              __

<CHAPTER XXIII (23)>

ELIZABETH was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting
on what she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised
to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by
his daughter to announce her engagement to the family.  With
many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the
prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the
matter, -- to an audience not merely wondering, but
incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than
politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia,
always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,

"Good Lord!  Sir William, how can you tell such a story? --
Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have
borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good
breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave
to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened
to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so
unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his
account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte
herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of
her mother and sisters, by the earnestness of her
congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined
by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness
that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from
London.

Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great
deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them
than her feelings found a rapid vent.  In the first place, she
persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly,
she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly,
she trusted that they would never be happy together; and
fourthly, that the match might be broken off.  Two inferences,
however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the
other, that she herself had been barbarously used by them all;
and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest
of the day.  Nothing could console and nothing appease her. --
Nor did that day wear out her resentment.  A week elapsed
before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her, a month
passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas
without being rude, and many months were gone before she could
at all forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion,
and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most
agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that
Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably
sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his
daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she
said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for
their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider
it as improbable.  Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss
Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected
them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at
Meryton.

Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to
retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well
married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual
to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and
ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness
away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which
kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth
felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist
between them again.  Her disappointment in Charlotte made
her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude
and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken,
and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of
his return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was
counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.
The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on
Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the
solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in the
family might have prompted.  After discharging his conscience
on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous
expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that
it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had
been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again
at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday
fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved
his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as
possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument
with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter
of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet.  On the contrary, she was as much
disposed to complain of it as her husband. -- It was very
strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas
Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly
troublesome. -- She hated having visitors in the house while
her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people
the most disagreeable.  Such were the gentle murmurs of
Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of
Mr. Bingley's continued absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject.
Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings
of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of
his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report
which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed
to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear -- not that Bingley was
indifferent -- but that his sisters would be successful in
keeping him away.  Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so
destructive of Jane's happiness, and so dishonourable to the
stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently
recurring.  The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and
of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she
feared, for the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspence was, of course,
more painful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was
desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth,
therefore, the subject was never alluded to.  But as no such
delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which
she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his
arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not
come back, she should think herself very ill used.  It needed
all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight,
but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it
had been on his first introduction.  He was too happy, however,
to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the
business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his
company.  The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas
Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to
make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state.  The very
mention of any thing concerning the match threw her into an
agony of ill humour, and wherever she went she was sure of
hearing it talked of.  The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to
her.  As her successor in that house, she regarded her with
jealous abhorrence.  Whenever Charlotte came to see them she
concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced
that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving
to turn herself and her daughters out of the house as soon as
Mr. Bennet were dead.  She complained bitterly of all this to
her husband.

"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that
Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_
should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her
take my place in it!"

"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts.  Let us hope
for better things.  Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be
the survivor."

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore,
instead of making any answer, she went on as before,

"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate,
If it was not for the entail I should not mind it."

"What should not you mind?"

"I should not mind any thing at all."

"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility."

"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the
entail.  How any one could have the conscience to entail away
an estate from one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all
for the sake of Mr. Collins too! -- Why should _he_ have it
more than anybody else?"

"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.

                              __
<END OF VOL. I>
                              __

<VOLUME II>
<CHAPTER I (24)>

MISS Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt.  The
very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all
settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her
brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to
his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the
rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed
affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort.  Miss
Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it.  Her many attractions
were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their
increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment
of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter.
She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some
plans of the latter with regard to new furniture.  Elizabeth,
to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation.  Her heart was divided between
concern for her sister, and resentment against all the others.
To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss
Darcy she paid no credit.  That he was really fond of Jane, she
doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had
always been disposed to like him, she could not think without
anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper,
that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave of
his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own
happiness to the caprice of their inclinations.  Had his own
happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been
allowed to sport with it in what ever manner he thought best;
but her sister's was involved in it, as, she thought, he must
be sensible himself.  It was a subject, in short, on which
reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing.  She
could think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard
had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends'
interference; whether he had been aware of Jane's attachment,
or whether it had escaped his observation; whichever were the
case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by
the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her
peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her
feelings to Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving
them together, after a longer irritation than usual about
Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying,

"Oh!  that my dear mother had more command over herself; she
can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual
reflections on him.  But I will not repine.  It cannot last
long.  He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were
before."

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but
said nothing.

"You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed you
have no reason.  He may live in my memory as the most amiable
man of my acquaintance, but that is all.  I have nothing either
to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with.  Thank God!
I have not _that_ pain.  A little time therefore. -- I shall
certainly try to get the better."

With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort
immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy
on my side, and that it has done no harm to any one but
myself."

"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good.
Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do
not know what to say to you.  I feel as if I had never done you
justice, or loved you as you deserve."

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and
threw back the praise on her sister's warm affection.

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair.  _You_ wish to think
all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any
body.  _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set
yourself against it.  Do not be afraid of my running into any
excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good
will.  You need not.  There are few people whom I really love,
and still fewer of whom I think well.  The more I see of the
world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day
confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human
characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on
the appearance of either merit or sense.  I have met with two
instances lately; one I will not mention; the other is
Charlotte's marriage.  It is unaccountable!  in every view it
is unaccountable!"

"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these.
They will ruin your happiness.  You do not make allowance
enough for difference of situation and temper.  Consider
Mr. Collins's respectability, and Charlotte's prudent, steady
character.  Remember that she is one of a large family; that as
to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to
believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something
like regard and esteem for our cousin."

"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no
one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were
I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should
only think worse of her understanding, than I now do of her
heart.  My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous,
narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and
you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him,
cannot have a proper way of thinking.  You shall not defend
her, though it is Charlotte Lucas.  You shall not, for the sake
of one individual, change the meaning of principle and
integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me that
selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger, security
for happiness."

"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,"
replied Jane, "and I hope you will be convinced of it, by
seeing them happy together.  But enough of this.  You alluded
to something else.  You mentioned two instances.  I cannot
misunderstand you, but I intreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain
me by thinking _that_ _person_ to blame, and saying your
opinion of him is sunk.  We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured.  We must not expect a lively
young man to be always so guarded and circumspect.  It is very
often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.  Women fancy
admiration means more than it does."

"And men take care that they should."

"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have
no idea of there being so much design in the world as some
persons imagine."

"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to
design," said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or
to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be
misery.  Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people's
feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business,"

"And do you impute it to either of those?"

"Yes; to the last.  But if I go on, I shall displease you by
saying what I think of persons you esteem.  Stop me whilst you
can."

"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him."

"Yes, in conjunction with his friend."

"I cannot believe it.  Why should they try to influence him?
They can only wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me,
no other woman can secure it."

"Your first position is false.  They may wish many things
besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and
consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the
importance of money, great connections, and pride."

"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to chuse Miss Darcy,"
replied Jane; "but this may be from better feelings than you
are supposing.  They have known her much longer than they have
known me; no wonder if they love her better.  But, whatever
may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have
opposed their brother's.  What sister would think herself at
liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable?  If they believed him attached to me, they would
not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed.
By supposing such an affection, you make every body acting
unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy.  Do not distress
me by the idea.  I am not ashamed of having been mistaken --
or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of what
I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters.  Let me
take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be
understood."

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time
Mr. Bingley's name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his
returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which
Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there seemed little
chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity.  Her
daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not
believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when
he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement
was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat
every day.  Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that Mr. Bingley
must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently.  "So, Lizzy,"
said he one day, "your sister is crossed in love I find.
I congratulate her.  Next to being married, a girl likes to
be crossed in love a little now and then.  It is something
to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her
companions.  When is your turn to come?  You will hardly
bear to be long outdone by Jane.  Now is your time.  Here are
officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies
in the country.  Let Wickham be _your_ man.  He is a pleasant
fellow, and would jilt you creditably."

"Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me.
We must not all expect Jane's good fortune."

"True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that,
whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate
mother who will always make the most of it."

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the
gloom, which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many
of the Longbourn family.  They saw him often, and to his other
recommendations was now added that of general unreserve.  The
whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on
Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now
openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was
pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy
before they had known any thing of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might
be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the
society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always
pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes
-- but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst
of men.

                              __

<CHAPTER II (25)>

AFTER a week spent in professions of love and schemes of
felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by
the arrival of Saturday.  The pain of separation, however,
might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the
reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope that shortly
after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day would be
fixed that was to make him the happiest of men.  He took leave
of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before;
wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and
promised their father another letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of
receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend
the Christmas at Longbourn.  Mr. Gardiner was a sensible,
gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by
nature as education.  The Netherfield ladies would have had
difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and
within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well bred
and agreeable.  Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent,
elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn
nieces.  Between the two eldest and herself especially, there
subsisted a very particular regard.  They had frequently been
staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was
to distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions.
When this was done, she had a less active part to play.  It
became her turn to listen.  Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to
relate, and much to complain of.  They had all been very
ill-used since she last saw her sister.  Two of her girls had
been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing
in it.

"I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got
Mr. Bingley, if she could.  But, Lizzy!  Oh, sister!  it is
very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife
by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness.  He
made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him.  The
consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter
married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as
much entailed as ever.  The Lucases are very artful people
indeed, sister.  They are all for what they can get.  I am
sorry to say it of them, but so it is.  It makes me very
nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to
have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else.
However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of
comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long
sleeves."

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given
before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence
with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion
to her nieces, turned the conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the
subject.  "It seems likely to have been a desirable match for
Jane," said she.  "I am sorry it went off.  But these things
happen so often!  A young man, such as you describe
Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a
few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent."

"An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it
will not do for _us_.  We do not suffer by accident.  It does
not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade
a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl,
whom he was violently in love with only a few days before."

"But that expression of ``violently in love'' is so hackneyed,
so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea.
It is as often applied to feelings which arise from an
half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment.
Pray, how _violent_ _was_ Mr. Bingley's love?"

"I never saw a more promising inclination.  He was growing
quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her.
Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable.  At
his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not
asking them to dance, and I spoke to him twice myself without
receiving an answer.  Could there be finer symptoms?  Is not
general incivility the very essence of love?"

"Oh, yes! -- of that kind of love which I suppose him to have
felt.  Poor Jane!  I am sorry for her, because, with her
disposition, she may not get over it immediately.  It had
better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed
yourself out of it sooner.  But do you think she would be
prevailed on to go back with us?  Change of scene might be of
service -- and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as
useful as anything."

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt
persuaded of her sister's ready acquiescence.

"I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with
regard to this young man will influence her.  We live in so
different a part of town, all our connections are so different,
and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very
improbable they should meet at all, unless he really comes to
see her."

"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody
of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call
on Jane in such a part of London -- !  My dear aunt, how could
you think of it?  Mr. Darcy may perhaps have _heard_ of such a
place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a
month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities,
were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never
stirs without him."

"So much the better.  I hope they will not meet at all.  But
does not Jane correspond with the sister?  _She_ will not be
able to help calling."

"She will drop the acquaintance entirely."

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to
place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of
Bingley's being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a
solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination,
that she did not consider it entirely hopeless.  It was
possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his
affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his
friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of
Jane's attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and
the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time,
than as she hoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same
house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning
with her, without any danger of seeing him.

The Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the
Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day
without its engagement.  Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided
for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did
not once sit down to a family dinner.  When the engagement was
for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which
officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these
occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both.  Without
supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in
love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make
her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on
the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her
the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers.  About ten or a dozen
years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable
time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged.
They had, therefore, many acquaintance in common; and, though
Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy's
father, five years before, it was yet in his power to give her
fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had been
in the way of procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy
by character perfectly well.  Here, consequently, was an
inexhaustible subject of discourse.  In comparing her
recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which
Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on
the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
him and herself.  On being made acquainted with the present
Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something
of that gentleman's reputed disposition, when quite a lad,
which might agree with it, and was confident at last that she
recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken
of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.

                              __

<CHAPTER III (26)>

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

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

"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."

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

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

"Elizabeth, you are not serious now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_That_ you certainly shall."

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

"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your's, &c."

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

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and
Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to
her aunt than to herself.  His apparent partiality had
subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some
one else.  Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she
could see it and write of it without material pain.  Her heart
had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had
fortune permitted it.  The sudden acquisition of ten thousand
pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom
he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less
clear-sighted perhaps in his case than in Charlotte's, did not
quarrel with him for his wish of independence.  Nothing, on the
contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that
it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to
allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating
the circumstances, she thus went on: -- "I am now convinced, my
dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I
really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at
present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil.
But my feelings are not only cordial towards _him_; they are
even impartial towards Miss King.  I cannot find out that I
hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think
her a very good sort of girl.  There can be no love in all
this.  My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should
certainly be a more interesting object to all my acquaintance,
were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I
regret my comparative insignificance.  Importance may sometimes
be purchased too dearly.  Kitty and Lydia take his defection
much more to heart than I do.  They are young in the ways of
the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as
the plain."

                              __

<CHAPTER IV (27)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her
grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."

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

"But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards
her, so soon after this event."

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

"_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_.  It only shews
her being deficient in something herself -- sense or feeling."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER V (28)>

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

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

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

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

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two
meadows, but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the
remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William
accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the
house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the
opportunity of shewing it without her husband's help.  It was
rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was
fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit.  When Mr. Collins
could be forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort
throughout, and by Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it,
Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten.  She had already
learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country.  It was
spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins
joining in, observed,

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

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

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

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire
news, and telling again what had been already written; and when
it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to
meditate upon Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand
her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with her
husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well.
She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet
tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions
of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
Rosings.  A lively imagination soon settled it all.  About the
middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole
house in confusion; and after listening a moment, she heard
somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling
loudly after her.  She opened the door, and met Maria in the
landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out,

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!  Charlotte says, she hardly ever does.  It is the greatest
of favours when Miss De Bourgh comes in."

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER VI (29)>

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

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

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

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

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to
Elizabeth,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A little."

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

"One of them does."

"Why did not you all learn? -- You ought all to have learned.
The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an
income as your's. -- Do you draw?"

"No, not at all."

"What, none of you?"

"Not one."

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

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

"Has your governess left you?"

"We never had any governess."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Ma'am, all."

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

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

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

"With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth
smiling, "your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."

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

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

"I am not one and twenty."

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER VII (30)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER VIII (31)>

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

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

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

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

"We are speaking of music, Madam," said he, when no longer able
to avoid a reply.

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

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

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

"I assure you, Madam," he replied, "that she does not need such
advice.  She practises very constantly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER IX (32)>

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

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

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

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

"Perfectly so -- I thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe she did -- and I am sure she could not have bestowed
her kindness on a more grateful object."

"Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife."

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

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

"An easy distance do you call it?  It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road?  Little more than half a
day's journey.  Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."

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

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire.
Any thing beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn,
I suppose, would appear far."

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

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

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

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

"Are you pleased with Kent?"

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on
either side calm and concise -- and soon put an end to by the
entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from their
walk.  The te^te-a`-te^te surprised them.  Mr. Darcy related
the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet,
and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to
any body, went away.

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER X (33)>

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

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

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

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

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

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

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not
many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some
attention to money."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know them a little.  Their brother is a pleasant
gentleman-like man -- he is a great friend of Darcy's."

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

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

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy, of course, would not wish to
be generally known, because if it were to get round to the
lady's family, it would be an unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

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

"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"

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

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

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

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

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

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

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

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it
is lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

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

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were
Colonel Fitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections
probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney,
and another who was in business in London.

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XI (34)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode
to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed,
however unequally they may be returned.  It is natural that
obligation should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude,
I would now thank you.  But I cannot -- I have never desired
your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most
unwillingly.  I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one.
It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will
be of short duration.  The feelings which, you tell me, have
long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have
little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of
Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her
room.

                              __

<CHAPTER XII (35)>

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

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

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

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

Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of
equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge.  The first
mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either,
I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister; -- and the other,
that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of
honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and
blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. -- Wilfully and wantonly
to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up
to expect its exertion, would be a depravity to which the
separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the
growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. -- But
from the severity of that blame which was last night so
liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
to be in future secured, when the following account of my
actions and their motives has been read. -- If, in the
explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the
necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to
your's, I can only say that I am sorry. -- The necessity must
be obeyed -- and farther apology would be absurd. -- I had not
been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other
young woman in the country. -- But it was not till the evening
of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his
feeling a serious attachment. -- I had often seen him in love
before. -- At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with
you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's
accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to your
sister had given rise to a general expectation of their
marriage.  He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time
alone could be undecided.  From that moment I observed my
friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that
his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever
witnessed in him.  Your sister I also watched. -- Her look and
manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without
any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from
the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
sentiment. -- If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must
have been in an error.  Your superior knowledge of your sister
must make the latter probable. -- If it be so, if I have been
misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment
has not been unreasonable.  But I shall not scruple to assert
that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such
as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that,
however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
easily touched. -- That I was desirous of believing her
indifferent is certain, -- but I will venture to say that my
investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my
hopes or fears. -- I did not believe her to be indifferent
because I wished it; -- I believed it on impartial conviction,
as truly as I wished it in reason. -- My objections to the
marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged
to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my
own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil
to my friend as to me. -- But there were other causes of
repugnance; -- causes which, though still existing, and
existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself
endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
me. -- These causes must be stated, though briefly. -- The
situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was
nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so
frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your
three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. --
Pardon me. -- It pains me to offend you.  But amidst your
concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your
displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you
consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as
to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less
generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is
honourable to the sense and disposition of both. -- I will only
say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of
all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened,
which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what
I esteemed a most unhappy connection. -- He left Netherfield
for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain,
remember, with the design of soon returning. --

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

With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having
injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you
the whole of his connection with my family.  Of what he has
_particularly_ accused me, I am ignorant; but of the truth of
what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of
undoubted veracity.  Mr. Wickham is the son of a very
respectable man, who had for many years the management of all
the Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge
of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to
him; and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness
was therefore liberally bestowed.  My father supported him at
school, and afterwards at Cambridge; -- most important
assistance, as his own father, always poor from the
extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a
gentleman's education.  My father was not only fond of this
young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had
also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
his profession, intended to provide for him in it.  As for
myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of
him in a very different manner.  The vicious propensities --
the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the
knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation
of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had
opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which
Mr. Darcy could not have.  Here again I shall give you pain --
to what degree you only can tell.  But whatever may be the
sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their
nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character.
It adds even another motive.  My excellent father died about
five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the
last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as it became
vacant.  There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds.  His
own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year
from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having
finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not
think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate
pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment by which he
could not be benefited.  He had some intention, he added, of
studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one
thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein.
I rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any
rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal.  I knew
that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman.  The business was
therefore soon settled.  He resigned all claim to assistance in
the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a
situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand
pounds.  All connection between us seemed now dissolved.  I
thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
society in town.  In town, I believe, he chiefly lived, but his
studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from
all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease
of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him,
he applied to me again by letter for the presentation.  His
circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in
believing it, were exceedingly bad.  He had found the law a
most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on
being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
question -- of which he trusted there could be little doubt,
as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide
for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's
intentions.  You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply
with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
circumstances -- and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse
of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself.  After this
period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt.  How he
lived I know not.  But last summer he was again most painfully
obtruded on my notice.  I must now mention a circumstance which
I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less
than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being.
Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy.  My
sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the
guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and
myself.  About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an
establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she
went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and
thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for
there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily
deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended
himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a
strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she
was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an
elopement.  She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse;
and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add that I owed
the knowledge of it to herself.  I joined them unexpectedly a
day or two before the intended elopement; and then Georgiana,
unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother
whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the
whole to me.  You may imagine what I felt and how I acted.
Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public
exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her
charge.  Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a
strong inducement.  His revenge would have been complete
indeed.

This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which
we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely
reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of
cruelty towards Mr. Wickham.  I know not in what manner, under
what form of falsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success
is not, perhaps, to be wondered at.  Ignorant as you previously
were of every thing concerning either, detection could not be
in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last
night.  But I was not then master enough of myself to know what
could or ought to be revealed.  For the truth of every thing
here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony
of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and
constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my
father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every
particular of these transactions.  If your abhorrence of _me_
should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there
may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to
find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in
the course of the morning.  I will only add, God bless you.

FITZWILLIAM DARCY."

                              __

<CHAPTER XIII (36)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family
were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying yet merited
reproach, her sense of shame was severe.  The justice of the
charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the
circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having
passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on
his mind than on hers.  The compliment to herself and her
sister was not unfelt.  It soothed, but it could not console
her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the
rest of her family; -- and as she considered that Jane's
disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must
be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed
beyond any thing she had ever known before.

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XIV (37)>

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

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

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party.
-- "I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine;
"I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do.
But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know
them to be so much attached to me! -- They were excessively
sorry to go!  But so they always are.  The dear colonel rallied
his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to
feel it most acutely, more I think than last year.  His
attachment to Rosings, certainly increases."

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

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

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

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

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

"But my father cannot. -- He wrote last week to hurry my
return."

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

"You are all kindness, Madam; but I believe we must abide by
our original plan."

Lady Catherine seemed resigned.

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

"My uncle is to send a servant for us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XV (38)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth privately added, "And how much I shall have to
conceal."

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XVI (39)

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

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

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

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

"Are they indeed?" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest
satisfaction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sure there is not on _his_.  I will answer for it he
never cared three straws about her.  Who _could_ about such a
nasty little freckled thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XVII (40)>

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

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

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

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

"Blame you!  Oh, no."

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham."

"No -- I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you
did."

"But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the
very next day."

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

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

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

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

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

"Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance!  such an openness and gentleness in his manner."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any
more."

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

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

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

"No, nothing at all."

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

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

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

                              __

<CHAPTER XVIII (41)>

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

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

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

"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when
Colonel 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 (42)>

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 (43)>

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

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

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

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all
her 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 (44)>

ELIZABETH had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister
to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was
consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the
whole of that morning.  But her conclusion was false; for on
the very morning after their 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 (45)>

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 (46)>

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

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in;
and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set
off by themselves.  The one missent must 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 (47)>

"I HAVE been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle
as they drove from the town; "and really, upon serious
consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as
your eldest sister does 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 postillions, 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 (48)>

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

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

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

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three
months before, had been almost an angel of light.  He was
declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his
intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been
extended into every tradesman's family.  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 (49)>

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

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

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

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

"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards
the little copse."

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

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

"Oh, Papa, what news?  what news?  Have you heard from my
uncle?"

"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."

"Well, and what news does it bring?  good or bad?"

"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the
letter from his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read
it."  Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand.  Jane now
came up.

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

"Gracechurch-street, Monday, August 2.

MY DEAR BROTHER,

At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and
such as, upon the whole, I hope 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 an 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 (50)>

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

He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage
to 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 a
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 (51)>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her father lifted up his eyes.  Jane was distressed.  Elizabeth
looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
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 (52)>

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

"Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.

MY DEAR NIECE,

I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing
will not comprise what I have to tell you.  I must confess
myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from
_you_.  Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let
you know that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary
on _your_ side.  If you do not choose to understand me, forgive
my impertinence.  Your uncle is as much surprised as I am --
and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
would have allowed him to act as he has done.  But if you are
really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.  On the
very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a
most unexpected visitor.  Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up
with him several hours.  It was all over before I arrived; so
my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _your's_ seems to
have been.  He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out
where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen
and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once.
From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after
ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for
them.  The motive professed was his conviction of its being
owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so
well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of
character to love or confide in him.  He generously imputed the
whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before
thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the
world.  His character was to speak for itself.  He called it,
therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an
evil which had been brought on by himself.  If he _had_
_another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him.  He
had been some days in town, before he was able to discover
them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more
than we had; and the consciousness of this was another reason
for his resolving to follow us.  There is a lady, it seems, a
Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and
was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation,
though he did not say what.  She then took a large house in
Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting
lodgings.  This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted
with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as
soon as he got to town.  But it was two or three days before he
could get from her what he wanted.  She would not betray her
trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she
really did know where her friend was to be found.  Wickham
indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and
had she been able to receive them into her house, they would
have taken up their abode with her.  At length, however, our
kind friend procured the wished-for direction.  They were in
---- street.  He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing
Lydia.  His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to
persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and
return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to
receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go.
But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she
was.  She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of
his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham.  She was sure they
should be married some time or other, and it did not much
signify when.  Since such were her feelings, it only remained,
he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his
very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had
never been his design.  He confessed himself obliged to leave
the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were
very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences
of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone.  He meant to resign
his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he
could conjecture very little about it.  He must go somewhere,
but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing
to live on.  Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your
sister at once.  Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very
rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his
situation must have been benefited by marriage.  But he found,
in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the
hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some
other country.  Under such circumstances, however, he was not
likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.
They met several times, for there was much to be discussed.
Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length
was reduced to be reasonable.  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's_ reserve, can be answerable for the event.  But
in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest
perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if
we had not given him credit for _another_ _interest_ in the
affair.  When all this was resolved on, he returned again to
his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was
agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding
took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last
finish.  I believe I have now told you every thing.  It is a
relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise;
I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure.
Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant admission to the
house.  _He_ was exactly what he had been when I knew him in
Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was
satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I
had not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her
conduct on coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and
therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain.
I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done,
and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family.  If she
heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not
listen.  I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected
my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience
with her.  Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia
informed you, attended the wedding.  He dined with us the next
day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday.
Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this
opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say
before) how much I like him.  His behaviour to us has, in every
respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.  His
understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but
a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_,
his wife may teach him.  I thought him very sly; -- he hardly
ever mentioned your name.  But slyness seems the fashion.  Pray
forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
punish me so far as to exclude me from P.  I shall never be
quite happy till I have been all round the park.  A low
phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very
thing.  But I must write no more.  The children have been
wanting me this half hour.  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 (53)>

MR. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation
that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear
sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by
no means entered into her scheme of their all going to
Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.

"Oh!  my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"

"Oh, lord!  I don't know.  Not these two or three years,
perhaps."

"Write to me very often, my dear."

"As often as I can.  But you know married women have never much
time for writing.  My sisters may write to _me_.  They will
have nothing else to do."

Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his
wife's.  He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty
things.

"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
out of the house, "as ever I saw.  He simpers, and smirks, and
makes love to us all.  I am prodigiously proud of him.  I defy
even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable
son-in-law."

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for
several days.

"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as
parting with one's friends.  One seems so forlorn without
them."

"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying
a daughter," said Elizabeth.  "It must make you better
satisfied that your other four are single."

"It is no such thing.  Lydia does not leave me because she is
married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be
so far off.  If that had been nearer, she would not have gone
so soon."

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into
was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the
agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be
in circulation.  The housekeeper at Netherfield had received
orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming
down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks.
Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets.  She looked at Jane, and
smiled and shook her head by turns.

"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,"
(for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news).  "Well, so
much the better.  Not that I care about it, though.  He is
nothing to us, you know, and I am sure _I_ never want to
see him again.  But, however, he is very welcome to come to
Netherfield, if he likes it.  And who knows what _may_
happen?  But that is nothing to us.  You know, sister, we
agreed long ago never to mention a word about it.  And so,
is it quite certain he is coming?"

"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls
was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out
myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that
it was certain true.  He comes down on Thursday at the latest,
very likely on Wednesday.  She was going to the butcher's, she
told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she
has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without
changing colour.  It was many months since she had mentioned
his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone
together, she said,

"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of
the present report; and I know I appeared distressed.  But
don't imagine it was from any silly cause.  I was only confused
for the moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at.
I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with
pleasure or pain.  I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone;
because we shall see the less of him.  Not that I am afraid of
_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."

Elizabeth did not know what to make of it.  Had she not seen
him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of
coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but
she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to
the greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend's
permission, or being bold enough to come without it.

"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man
cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
raising all this speculation!  I _will_ leave him to himself."

In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could
easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it.  They
were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen
them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward
again.

"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet,
"you will wait on him of course."

"No, no.  You forced me into visiting him last year, and
promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my
daughters.  But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on
a fool's errand again."

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
returning to Netherfield.

"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he.  "If he wants our
society, let him seek it.  He knows where we live.  I will not
spend _my_ hours in running after my neighbours every time they
go away and come back again."

"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do
not wait on him.  But, however, that shan't prevent my asking
him to dine here, I am determined.  We must have Mrs. Long and
the Gouldings soon.  That will make thirteen with ourselves, so
there will be just room at table for him."

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear
her husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know
that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence
of it, before _they_ did.  As the day of his arrival drew near,

"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her
sister.  "It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
talked of.  My mother means well; but she does not know, no one
can know, how much I suffer from what she says.  Happy shall I
be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"

"I wish I could say 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 (54)>

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

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

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

"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and
aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me?  If he fears me,
why come hither?  If he no longer cares for me, why silent?
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 (55)>

A FEW days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and
alone.  His friend had left him that morning for London, but
was to return home in ten days time.  He sat with them above an
hour, and was in remarkably good spirits.  Mrs. Bennet invited
him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern,
he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more
lucky."

He should be particularly happy at any time, &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 (56)>

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

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

"And that I suppose is one of your sisters."

"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to 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 (57)>

THE discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit
threw Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could
she, for many hours, learn to think of it less than
incessantly.  Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken
the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose
of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy.  It was
a rational scheme, to be sure!  but from what the report of
their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to
imagine; till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate
friend of Bingley, and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was
enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made
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 (58)>

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

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

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of
giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be
wounding 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 (59)>

"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a
question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she
entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down
to table.  She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered
about, till she was beyond her own knowledge.  She coloured as
she spoke; but neither that, nor 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 (60)>

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

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

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

"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."

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

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

"Dearest Jane!  who could have done less for her?  But make a
virtue of it by all means.  My good qualities are under your
protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;
and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for 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 eveness 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 (61)>

HAPPY for all her maternal feelings was the day on which
Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters.
With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley,
and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed.  I wish I could say,
for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her
earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children
produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic
felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally
nervous and invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his
affection for her drew him oftener from home than 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.

                              __
<FINIS>
                              __

================================================================

            Chronology of _Pride_and_Prejudice_,
             according to MacKinnon and Chapman

1811

Before Michaelmas (Sept. 29):   Bingley takes possession of
                      Netherfield.
  Tues 15 Oct.   Mr. Collins's letter.

  Tues 12 Nov.   Jane is invited to dine at Netherfield
   Wed 13 Nov.   Her illness.
 Thurs 14 Nov.   Mrs. Bennet at Netherfield.  Elizabeth
                      remains.
   Fri 15 Nov.   Darcy begins to feel his danger.
   Sat 16 Nov.   Darcy adheres to his book.
   Sun 17 Nov.   The sisters leave Netherfield.
   Mon 18 Nov.   Arrival of Mr. Collins
  Tues 19 Nov.   First appearance of Wickham.
   Wed 20 Nov.   Supper with the Philipses.
 Thurs 21 Nov.   The Bingleys visit Longbourn.
   Fri 22 Nov-
   Mon 25 Nov.   A succession of rain.
  Tues 26 Nov.   The ball at Netherfield.
   Wed 27 Nov.   Mr. Collins proposes; Bingley goes to London.
 Thurs 28 Nov.   The Bingleys leave Netherfield.
   Fri 29 Nov.   Mr. Collins at Lucas Lodge.
   Sat 30 Nov.   Mr. Collins returns to Hunsford.
   Tues 3 Dec.   His promised letter of thanks arrives.

   Mon 16 Dec.   His return to Longbourn.
   Sat 21 Dec.   His departure.
   Mon 23 Dec.   The Gardiners come for Christmas.
   Mon 30 Dec.   They leave, taking Jane.

1812

 Early in Jan.   Mr. Collins at Lucas Lodge.
    Mon 6 Jan.   Jane has been a week in town.
   Tues 7 Jan.   She calls in Grosvenor-street.
    Wed 8 Jan.   Charlotte says good-bye.
  Thurs 9 Jan.   The wedding.
  Late in Jan.   Four weeks pass away without Jane's seeing
                      Bingley.

 Early in March  Elizabeth goes to London.
 ?Thurs 5 March  Arrival at Hunsford
   ?Fri 6 March  Miss de Bourgh at the Parsonage.
   ?Sat 7 March  They dine at Rosings.
?Thurs 12 March  Sir William leaves.
?Thurs 19 March  End of Elizabeth's first fortnight.
   Mon 23 March  Darcy and Fitzwilliam arrive.
  Tues 24 March  They call at the Parsonage.
                 Jane has been in town (almost) three months.
   Fri 25 March  It was doubtless on Good Friday that Darcy
                      was `seen at church'.
   Sun 29 March,
     Easter Day  The evening is spent at Rosings.
  Thurs 9 April  Elizabeth's conversation with Colonel
                      Fitzwilliam.  Darcy proposes.
   Fri 10 April  Darcy's letter.  Elizabeth has spent five
                      weeks in Kent.
   Sat 11 April  Fitzwilliam and Darcy leave Kent, after a stay
                      of `nearly three weeks'
   Fri 17 April  The evening spent at Rosings.
   Sat 18 April  Elizabeth goes to town, after a visit of six
                      weeks (and a few days).

 Early in May    Jane, Elizabeth, and Maria Lucas return to
                      Longbourn.
  Late in May    The ----shire regiment, with Lydia, removes to
                      Brighton.
          June   Lydia's sixteenth birthday.
      Mid-June   Northern tour is postponed to mid-July.

    Sat 1 Aug.   Lydia's elopement.
    Sun 2 Aug.   Colonel Forster sends an express to Longbourn.
    Mon 3 Aug.   Colonel Forster comes to Longbourn.  The
                      Gardiners and Elizabeth at Lambton.
   Tues 4 Aug.   Mr. Bennet goes to town.  The Gardiners and
                      Elizabeth tour Pemberley.
    Wed 5 Aug.   Colonel Forster back at Brighton.  Mr. Bennet
                      writes to Jane.  Darcy and his sister
                      visit Elizabeth.  Bingley says it is
                      `above eight months' since 26 Nov.
  Thurs 6 Aug.   The Gardiners and Elizabeth at Pemberley.
    Fri 7 Aug.   Elizabeth hears from Jane.  The dinner at
                      Pemberley is cancelled, and the Gardiners
                      and Elizabeth leave Lambton.
    Sat 8 Aug.   They arrive at Longbourn.  Darcy leaves
                      Derbyshire for London.
    Sat 9 Aug.   Mr. Gardiner leaves Longbourn.
  Tues 11 Aug.   Mrs. Gardiner hears from her husband.
   Fri 14 Aug.   Darcy calls in Gracechurch-street.
   Sat 15 Aug.   Mr. Bennet returns.  Mr. Gardiner goes back to
                      town.  Darcy calls again, having
                      ascertained that Mr. Bennet is gone.
   Sun 16 Aug.   Darcy sees Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.
   Mon 17 Aug.   Mr. Gardiner's express (misdated _August_2_).
                      Matters `all settled' between Gardiner
                      and Darcy.  Lydia goes to Gracechurch-
                      street, where she remains for a
                      fortnight.  Mrs. Bennet comes down stairs
                      for the first time in a Fortnight (since
                      2 Aug.).
   Mon 31 Aug.   Wedding of Lydia and Wickham; they come to
                      Longbourn; Lydia is sure Wickham will
                      `kill more birds on the first of September
                      than any body else in the country'.
   Tues 1 Sept.  Darcy dines with the Gardiners.
    Wed 2 Sept.  Jane writes to Mrs. Gardiner.
   2 or 3 Sept.  Darcy leaves town.
   ?Fri 4 Sept.  Elizabeth asks Mrs. Gardiner for an
                      explanation of Lydia's disclosures.
    Sun 6 Sept.  Mrs. Gardiner replies.
?Thurs 10 Sept.  The Wickhams leave.

 16 or 17 Sept.  Bingley expected at Netherfield.  It is now
                      `about a twelvemonth' since Mr. Bennet's
                      waiting upon him had been first
                      canvassed.
  ?Sat 19 Sept.  Bingley and Darcy call.
  Tues 22 Sept.  They dine at Longbourn.
  ?Wed 23 Sept.  Darcy's confession to Bingley.
?Thurs 24 Sept.  Darcy leaves for town, to return in ten days'
                      time.  Bingley calls alone.
   Fri 25 Sept.  He comes to dine, and stays supper.
   Sat 25 Sept.  Bingley comes to shoot.  He and Jane are
                      engaged.
   ?Sat 3 Oct.   Lady Catherine's visit, about a week after the
                      engagement, and two days after the
                      `report of a most alarming nature' had
                      reached after.
    Sun 4 Oct.   Mr. Bennet hears from Mr. Collins, who,
                      writing no doubt on Friday 2 Oct., says
                      he mentioned the rumour of Elizabeth's
                      engagement to Darcy `to her Ladyship last
                      night'.
  ?Tues 6 Oct.   Bingley brings Darcy.  The proposal.
   ?Wed 7 Oct.   They walk to Oakham Mount.  Parental
                      applications.
 ?Thurs 8 Oct.   Darcy dines at Longbourn.

Before Christmas   The double wedding.  The Gardiners are
                      `to come to Pemberley at Christmas'.

[E-text editor's note: The novel _Shirley_ by Charlotte Bronte"
is set during almost the same time-period.  The double wedding
which is the climax of _Shirley_ takes place in August 1812, the
same month that Lydia causes trouble in _Pride_and_Prejudice_.]

================================================================

                   Index of Characters

Mrs. Annesley, companion to Georgiana Darcy.

Mr. BENNET, of Longbourn-house in Hertfordshire; the estate was
about #2,000 a year, and #5,000 was settled on his wife and
children; _m_. ---- Gardiner, daughter of a Meryton attorney,
#4,000.

   Their children: Jane, 22, _m_. Charles Bingley; Elizabeth,
   20, _m_. Fitzwilliam Darcy; Mary, `obtained nothing higher
   than one of her uncle Philips's clerks' (_Memoir_);
   Catherine, `satisfactorily married to a clergyman near
   Pemberley' (_Memoir_); Lydia, 15-16, _m_. George Wickham.

Charles BINGLEY, 22, #100,000; it is implied that he lived in
London; _m_. Jane Bennet.  His sisters: Louisa, #20,000,
_m_. Mr. Hurst; Caroline, #20,000.

Captain Carter, of the ----shire Militia.

Mr. Chamberlayne, of the ----shire Militia.

The Rev. William COLLINS, Rector of Hunsford in Kent, cousin
and heir to Mr. Bennet; 25; at one of the Universities;
_m_. Charlotte Lucas.

Mr. DARCY the elder, of Pemberley in Derbyshire, _m_. Lady Anne
Fitzwilliam; Fitzwilliam Darcy, his son, of Pemberley (and a
town house not named), 28, #10,000 a year; _m_. Elizabeth
Bennet.  His sister Georgiana, 16, #30,000.

Dawson, Lady Catherine's maid.

Sir Lewis DE BOURGH, of Rosings Park in Kent; his widow, the
Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, daughter of the Earl of ----
and sister of Lady Anne Darcy; their daughter, Anne.

Mr. Denny, of the ----shire Militia.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, younger son of the Earl of ----, nephew of
Lady Catherine de Bourgh and of Lady Anne Darcy.

Colonel Forster, commanding the ----shire Militia; Harriet his
wife.

Edward GARDINER, of Gracechurch-street, brother of Mrs. Bennet;
his wife M----; their four young children.

The Gouldings (William named) of Haye-Park.

Miss Grantley, an acquaintance of Caroline Bingley.

Haggerston, an attorney.

Miss Harriet and Miss Pen Harrington.

Mrs. Hill, housekeeper at Longbourn.

Mr. Hurst, of Grosvenor-street; _m_. Louisa Bingley.

Mrs. Jenkinson, Miss de Bourgh's companion.

John, the Collins's servant.

John, the Gardiners' servant.

Mr. Jones, apothecary at Meryton.

Miss Mary King, heiress of #10,000.

Mrs. Long; her two nieces.

Sir William LUCAS, Knight, and Lady Lucas, of Lucas Lodge;
their children, Charlotte, 27, _m_. Mr. Collins; Maria; younger
Miss Lucases; a boy.

Lady Metcalfe, an acquaintance of Lady Catherine.

Mr. Morris.

Mrs. Nicholls, housekeeper at Netherfield.

Mr. Philips, attorney in Meryton; _m_. Miss ---- Gardiner.

Miss Pope, governess in Lady Metcalfe's family.

Mr. Pratt, of the ----shire Militia.

Mrs. Reynolds, housekeeper at Pemberley.

Mr. Robinson, of Meryton neighborhood.

Sally/Sarah (in chapters 47 and 55, respectively -- may be the
same individual), servant(s).

Mr. Stone, Mr. Gardiner's clerk?

Miss Watson, of Meryton.

The Miss Webbs, acquaintances of Lady Catherine.

Mr. WICKHAM, steward to old Mr. Darcy; his son George;
Lieutenant in the ----shire Militia; Cambridge; _m_. Lydia
Bennet.

Mrs. Younge, former governess to Georgiana Darcy.

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