Chapter 41
The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.
It was the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the
young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The
dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone
were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual
course of their employments. Very frequently were they
reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose
own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.
"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?"
would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can
you be smiling so, Lizzy?"
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered
what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty
years ago.
"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when
Colonel Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have
broken my heart."
"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.
"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.
"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."
"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever."
"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of
good," added Kitty.
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually
through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by
them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew
the justice of Mr. Darcy's objections; and never had she been so
much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his
friend.
But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for
she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the
colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This
invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately
married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had
recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their
_three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.
Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of
Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her
sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy,
calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking
with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued
in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her
accent was peevish.
"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as
Lydia," said she, "Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I
have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too,
for I am two years older."
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane
to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation
was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother
and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all
possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such
a step must make her were it known, she could not help secretly
advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all
the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the little
advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman
as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the
temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her
attentively, and then said:
"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some
public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with
so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the
present circumstances."
"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great
disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice
of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner--nay, which has
already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in
the affair."
"Already arisen?" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she
frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do
not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be
connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come,
let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof
by Lydia's folly."
"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent.
It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now
complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must
be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of
all restraint which mark Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must
speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble
of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her
present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will
soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be
fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that
ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction
beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and
emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of
that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite.
In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever
Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled!
Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not
be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their
sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?"
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane
are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not
appear to less advantage for having a couple of--or I may say,
three--very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn
if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel
Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real
mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey
to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as
a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that
her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any
rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorising
us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her
own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed
and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her
vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having
performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or
augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference
with her father, their indignation would hardly have found
expression in their united volubility. In Lydia's imagination,
a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly
happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets
of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw
herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its
tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded
with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to
complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly
flirting with at least six officers at once.
Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects
and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?
They could have been understood only by her mother, who might
have felt nearly the same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all
that consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband's
never intending to go there himself.
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their
raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of
Lydia's leaving home.
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time.
Having been frequently in company with him since her return,
agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of formal partiality
entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness
which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to
disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to herself,
moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the
inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,
after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern
for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle
and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could
not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however
long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn,
her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured at any
time by their renewal.
On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he
dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little
was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on
his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had
passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and
Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and
asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly
seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very
gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her
answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he
soon afterwards added:
"How long did you say he was at Rosings?"
"Nearly three weeks."
"And you saw him frequently?"
"Yes, almost every day."
"His manners are very different from his cousin's."
"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon
acquaintance."
"Indeed!" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape
her. "And pray, may I ask?--" But checking himself, he added,
in a gayer tone, "Is it in address that he improves? Has he
deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style?--for I
dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more serious tone,
"that he is improved in essentials."
"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very
much what he ever was."
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing
whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning.
There was a something in her countenance which made him listen
with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:
"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean
that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but
that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better
understood."
Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and
agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking
off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the
gentlest of accents:
"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will
readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is
wise enough to assume even the _appearance_ of what is right.
His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself,
to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul
misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of
cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is
merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion
and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has
always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good
deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with
Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart."
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only
by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to
engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in
no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with
the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with
no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at
last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never
meeting again.
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to
Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next
morning. The separation between her and her family was rather
noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but
she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse
in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and
impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice
which there was every reason to believe would be well attended
to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding
farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered
without being heard.
Chapter 42
Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family,
she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal
felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth
and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth
and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak
understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage
put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and
confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic
happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a
disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his
own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which
too often console the unfortunate for their folly of their vice.
He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had
arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little
otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had
contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness
which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but
where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of
her father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with
pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate
treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could
not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual
breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing
his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly
reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the
disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a
marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from
so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,
even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she
found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the
regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and
at home she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at
the dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over
their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her
natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were
removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil
might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her
folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she
found, what has been sometimes been found before, that an
event to which she had been looking with impatient desire did
not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised
herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other
period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have some
other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and
by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for
the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour
to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was
her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the
discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and
could she have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it
would have been perfect.
"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish
for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment
would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless
source of regret in my sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to
have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of
which every part promises delight can never be successful; and
general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of
some little peculiar vexation."
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and
very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were
always long expected, and always very short. Those to her
mother contained little else than that they were just returned
from the library, where such and such officers had attended
them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made
her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave
off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were
going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her
sister, there was still less to be learnt--for her letters to
Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the
words to be made public.
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,
good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.
Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in
town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and
summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her
usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was
so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears;
an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that
by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable
as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some
cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another
regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now
fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when
a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its
commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be
prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in
July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that
left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much
as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and
comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the
Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according
to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than
Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to
occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it
had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had
formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now
to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her
curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on
seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time
enough. But it was her business to be satisfied--and certainly
her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.
It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of
Pemberley and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter
his county without impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars
without his perceiving me."
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to
pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass
away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did
at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six
and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under
the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general
favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly
adapted her for attending to them in every way--teaching them,
playing with them, and loving them.
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off
the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and
amusement. One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness
of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and
temper to bear inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every
pleasure--and affection and intelligence, which might supply
it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of
Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which
their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth,
Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of
Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of
Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and
where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained,
they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders
of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth
found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in
their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner
expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner
declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her
approbation.
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have
heard so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so
many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all
his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing
it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after
going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or
satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine
house richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it
myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the
finest woods in the country."
Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce.
The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,
instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the
very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to
her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were
objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last
resource, if her private inquiries to the absence of the family
were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name
of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family
were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the
last question--and her alarms now being removed, she was at
leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself;
and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was
again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of
indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme.
To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Chapter 43
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance
of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at
length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high
flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.
They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some
time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and
admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They
gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves
at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased,
and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated
on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some
abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building,
standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high
woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance
was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance.
Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth
was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature
had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little
counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm
in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be
mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the
door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all
her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded
lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see
the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as
they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her
being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman,
much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of
finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour.
It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up.
Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy
its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had
descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was
good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees
scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as
she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other
rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from
every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were
lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune
of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste,
that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress!
With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!
Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced
in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle
and aunt. But no,"--recollecting herself--"that could never
be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not
have been allowed to invite them."
This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something
very like regret.
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master
was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length
however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned
away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was,
adding, "But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of
friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey
had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached
and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst
several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked
her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward,
and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of
her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at
his own expense. "He is now gone into the army," she added;
"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth
could not return it.
"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at
the same time as the other--about eight years ago."
"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs.
Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face.
But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not."
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.
"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth coloured, and said: "A little."
"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?"
"Yes, very handsome."
"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery
upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.
This room was my late master's favourite room, and these
miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond
of them."
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,
drawn when she was only eight years old.
"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mrs. Gardiner.
"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and
so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next
room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present
from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him."
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,
encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;
Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently
great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend
half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the
summer months."
"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
"Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not
know who is good enough for him."
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,
"It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think
so."
"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that
knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was
going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment
as the housekeeper added, "I have never known a cross word
from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was
four years old."
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite
to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been
her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she
longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You
are lucky in having such a master."
"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I
could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that
they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured
when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered,
most generous-hearted boy in the world."
Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Darcy?"
thought she.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like
him--just as affable to the poor."
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for
more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She
related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms,
and the price of the furniture, in vain, Mr. Gardiner, highly
amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed
her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to
the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as
they proceeded together up the great staircase.
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that
ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of
nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or
servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him
proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it
is only because he does not rattle away like other young men."
"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought
Elizabeth.
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked,
"is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
"Perhaps we might be deceived."
"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a
very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance
and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that
it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had
taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked
towards one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she
should enter the room. "And this is always the way with him,"
she added. "Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure
to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for
her."
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,
were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many
good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from
such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned
to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy's, in crayons, whose
subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could
have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked
in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.
At last it arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance
to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered
to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood
several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation,
and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.
Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more
gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at
the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed
on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise
is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a
brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's
happiness were in his guardianship!--how much of pleasure or
pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of good or evil
must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward
by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed
his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper
sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she
remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of
expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had
been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the
housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met
them at the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth
turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and
while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,
the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,
which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was
his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their
eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with
the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment
seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself,
advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in
terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to
be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to
the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient
to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the
gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master,
must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while
he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what
answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family.
Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted,
every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment;
and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there
recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued
were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he
seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of
its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the
time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke
the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a
few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected
himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his
figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed
by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was
overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was
the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world!
How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she
had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she
come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected?
Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been
beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that
he was that moment 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 inquire after
her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little
dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this
unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last
address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand!
She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,
and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or
a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but
it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it;
and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals
of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such
objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of
the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of
Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in
his mind--in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in
defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he
had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there
had been _that_ in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he
had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could
not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her
absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of
appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a
while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where
the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many
charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long
range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the
stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole
park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant
smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the
matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought
them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They
crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air
of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet
visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed
room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough
coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its
windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived
their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a
great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning
to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,
obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on
the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but
their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to
indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much
engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in
the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced
but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were
again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to
what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching
them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more
prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear
and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them.
For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike
into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the
walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was
immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost
none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she
began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she
had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise
of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her
colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,
he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him
to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she
was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at
his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very
people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to
herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he
knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion."
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she
named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at
him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation
of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful
companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connection was
evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far
from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be
pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should
know she had some relations for whom there was no need to
blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between
them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her
uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good
manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.
Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often
as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering
at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing
out those parts of the stream where there was usually most
sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with
Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth
said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was
extreme, and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so
altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it
cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My
reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this.
It is impossible that he should still love me."
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front,
the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after
descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of
some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration.
It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of
the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and
consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place
by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,
the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had
been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and
accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very
unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before
we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately
expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all,
and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming
forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he
had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he
continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance
with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were
instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had
been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge
by his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged.
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after
a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you.
Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister
to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too
great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She
immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of
being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,
without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to
know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.
Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was
flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her
was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the
others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared
herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At
such a time much might have been said, and silence was very
awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an
embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had
been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with
great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and
her patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the
tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up
they were all pressed to go into the house and take some
refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each
side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into
the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of
them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they
had expected. "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and
unassuming," said her uncle.
"There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure," replied
her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming.
I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may
call him proud, I have seen nothing of it."
"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was
more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no
necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth
was very trifling."
"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as
Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for
his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me
that he was so disagreeable?"
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had
liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that
she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,"
replied her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I
shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind
another day, and warn me off his grounds."
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character,
but said nothing.
"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I
really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so
cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He
has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something
pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something
of dignity in his countenance that would not give one an
unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady
who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a
liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant
comprehends every virtue."
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in
vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave
them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that
by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions
were capable of a very different construction; and that his
character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable,
as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation
of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually
naming her authority, but stating it to be such as such as might
be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were
now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea
gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much
engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots
in its environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had
been by the morning's walk they had no sooner dined than she
set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the
evening was spent in the satisfactions of a intercourse renewed
after many years' discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave
Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she
could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr.
Darcy's civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be
acquainted with his sister.
Chapter 44
Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister
to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was
consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole
of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very
morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came.
They had been walking about the place with some of their new
friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves
for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage
drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady
in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately
recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no
small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting
them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt
were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as
she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the
circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea
on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they
felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions
from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their
niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads,
the perturbation of Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment
increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but
amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality
of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more
than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that
every power of pleasing would fail her.
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as
she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose
herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and
aunt as made everything worse.
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable
introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see
that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as
herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss
Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few
minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She
found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a
monosyllable.
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth;
and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed,
and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome
than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her
face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle.
Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and
unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was
much relieved by discerning such different feelings.
They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that
Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time
to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when
Bingley's quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he
entered the room. All Elizabeth's anger against him had been
long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have
stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he
expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly,
though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with
the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting
personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him.
The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention.
The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece
directed their observation towards each with an earnest though
guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full
conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love.
Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that
the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to
ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to
compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in
the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most
sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give
pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready,
Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;
and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were
directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he
talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased
herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying
to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary,
she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who
had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either
side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between
them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances
occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation,
denoted a recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness,
and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her,
had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others
were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real
regret, that it "was a very long time since he had had the
pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply, he added,
"It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he
afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by
any of the rest, whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn.
There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding
remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them
meaning.
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy
himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an
expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said
she heard an accent so removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his
companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners
which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its
existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she
saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good
opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago
would have been a disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not
only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly
disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford
Parsonage--the difference, the change was so great, and struck
so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her
astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free
from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no
importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and
when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions
were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of
the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when
they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him
in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and
Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the
country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked
her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how _she_,
whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming
however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary
embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in
her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to
accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the
day after the next was fixed on.
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing
Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many
inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth,
construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister,
was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found
herself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering
the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though while it was
passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone,
and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she
stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable
opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity;
it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident
that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they
had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in
love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify
inquiry.
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,
as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.
They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they
drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant's
report, without any reference to any other account, the circle
in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized
it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in
believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that
the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was
not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in
the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially
lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride;
pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed
by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did
not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal
man, and did much good among the poor.
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was
not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his
concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood,
it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire,
he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards
discharged.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening
more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it
seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings
towards _one_ in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole
hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not
hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had
almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against
him, that could be so called. The respect created by the
conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly
admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her
feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier
nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing
forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday
had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there
was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be
overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having
once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive
all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and
all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who,
she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy,
seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the
acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or
any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were
concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends,
and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change
in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but
gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and
as such its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as
by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined.
She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt
a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far
it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the
power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing
on her the renewal of his addresses.
It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the
niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to
see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she
had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated,
though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness
on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly
expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning.
They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though
when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in
reply.
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme
had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement
made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before
noon.
Chapter 45
Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of
her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how
unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and
was curious to know with how much civility on that lady's side
the acquaintance would now be renewed.
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into
the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for
summer. Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most
refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house,
and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were
scattered over the intermediate lawn.
In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was
sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady
with whom she lived in London. Georgiana's reception of them
was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which,
though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong,
would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the
belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her
niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a
curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such
pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was
first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking
woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse
proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others;
and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked
as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes
did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its
being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss
Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss
Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not
have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they
not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry
to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts
were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the
gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that
the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine.
After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing
Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from
her a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered
with equal indifference and brevity, and the others said no more.
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by
the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of
all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till
after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to
Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was
now employment for the whole party--for though they could not all
talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,
nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding
whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.
Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;
and then, though but a moment before she had believed her
wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came.
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or
three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river,
and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family
intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he
appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and
unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be made, but
perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the
suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and
that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his
behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance
was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's,
in spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she
spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her
desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means
over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself
much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for
his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much
as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger,
took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from
Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family."
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name;
but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in
her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him
gave her a moment's distress; but exerting herself vigorously to
repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question
in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary
glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion,
earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion,
and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly
would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended
to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man
to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility
which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to
remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which
some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a
syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated
elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's
connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it,
from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to
him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly
formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should effect
his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable
that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare
of his friend.
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his
emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared
not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in
time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her
brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her
interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had
been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to
have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to
their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms
on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana
would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough
to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had
spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without
the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable.
When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help
repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his
sister.
"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,"
she cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she
is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa
and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he
contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no
other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous
consequence of travelling in the summer.
"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never
could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her
complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all
handsome. Her nose wants character--there is nothing marked
in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common
way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so
fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They
have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her
air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which
is intolerable."
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth,
this was not the best method of recommending herself; but
angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look
somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was
resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making
him speak, she continued:
"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how
amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I
particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been
dining at Netherfield, '_She_ a beauty!--I should as soon call her
mother a wit.' But afterwards she seemed to improve on you,
and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time."
"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer,
"but _that_ was only when I first saw her, for it is many months
since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of
my acquaintance."
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the
satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any
pain but herself.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during
their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly
interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they
had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly
engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends,
his house, his fruit--of everything but himself; yet Elizabeth
was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs.
Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning
the subject.
Chapter 46
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a
letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this
disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that
had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was
over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters
from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been
missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane
had written the direction remarkably ill.
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in;
and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set
off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to;
it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an
account of all their little parties and engagements, with such
news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was
dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more
important intelligence. It was to this effect:
"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred
of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of
alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to
say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night,
just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to
inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his
officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise.
To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I
am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But
I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been
misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe
him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad
at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know
my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly
grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we
never let them know what has been said against him; we must
forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve,
as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they
must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives
us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for
his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for
I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not
be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written."
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely
knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly
seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read
as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of
the first.
"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor
Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken
place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left
Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express.
Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand
that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped
by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go
there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel
F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to
trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no
further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom.
All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue
the London road. I know not what to think. After making every
possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and
at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success--no
such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest
concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely
grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame
on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father
and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him.
Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be
married privately in town than to pursue their first plan;
and even if _he_ could form such a design against a young woman
of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her
so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however,
that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage;
he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he fear
W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill,
and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better;
but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in
my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having
concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence,
one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but
now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for
your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it,
if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I
have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that
I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as
possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not
afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to
ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do
I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow
him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and
Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow
evening. In such an exigence, my uncle's advice and assistance
would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend
what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."
"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from
her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him,
without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she
reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy
appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start,
and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose
mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily
exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must
find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be
delayed; I have not an instant to lose."
"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling
than politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you
a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself."
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she
felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him,
though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible,
to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support
herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible
for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone
of gentleness and commiseration, "Let me call your maid. Is
there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A
glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill."
"No, I thank you," she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.
"There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am
only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just
received from Longbourn."
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes
could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense,
could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and
observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke
again. "I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful
news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister
has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from
Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has
no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she
is lost for ever."
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added
in a yet more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it!
I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of
it only--some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his
character been known, this could not have happened. But it is
all--all too late now."
"I am grieved indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is
it certain--absolutely certain?"
"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and
were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are
certainly not gone to Scotland."
"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover
her?"
"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my
uncle's immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in
half-an-hour. But nothing can be done--I know very well that
nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How
are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope.
It is every way horrible!"
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I
known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I
was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and
was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his
brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and
instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything
_must_ sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an
assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder
nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her
distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make
her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt
that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.
Lydia--the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,
soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with
her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else;
and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a
sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a
manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint,
said, "I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor
have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though
unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be
either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which
may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate
affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of
seeing you at Pemberley to-day."
"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say
that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the
unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long."
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow
for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was
at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her
relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was
that they should ever see each other again on such terms of
cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire;
and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their
acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed
at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have
promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in
its termination.
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,
Elizabeth's change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor
faulty. But if otherwise--if regard springing from such sources
is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often
described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even
before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in
her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the
latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill
success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less
interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy
must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that
wretched business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter,
had she entertained a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her.
No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an
expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this
development. While the contents of the first letter remained in
her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that Wickham
should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had
appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For
such an attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and
though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in
an elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no
difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her
understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,
that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that
Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody.
Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite,
as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections
had continually been fluctuating but never without an object.
The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a
girl--oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the
spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly
upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother
incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and
though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia,
her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance, and
till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the
servant's account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated
the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and
dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy,
though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia
only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first
exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised
every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no
less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being
actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was
speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But
what is to be done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner.
"John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it
so?"
"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our
engagement. _That_ is all settled."
"What is all settled?" repeated the other, as she ran into her
room to prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to
disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!"
But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her
in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth
been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that
all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself;
but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and
amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their
friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden
departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and
Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn,
nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all
the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of
time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and
on the road to Longbourn.
Chapter 47
"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle,
as they drove from the town; "and really, upon serious
consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as
your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very
unlikely that any young man should form such a design against
a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who
was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly
inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again
by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His
temptation is not adequate to the risk!"
"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a
moment.
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your
uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,
honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think
so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give
him up, as to believe him capable of it?"
"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!
But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland
if that had been the case?"
"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute
proof that they are not gone to Scotland."
"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is
such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be
found on the Barnet road."
"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there,
though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional
purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on
either side; and it might strike them that they could be more
economically, though less expeditiously, married in London
than in Scotland."
"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must
their marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely.
His most particular friend, you see by Jane's account, was
persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will
never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford
it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she beyond
youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her
sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying
well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the
corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am
not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that such a
step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid
it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward;
and he might imagine, from my father's behaviour, from his
indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give
to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would do as
little, and think as little about it, as any father could do,
in such a matter."
"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love
of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than
marriage?"
"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth,
with tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and
virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But, really,
I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice.
But she is very young; she has never been taught to think
on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a
twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the
most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that
came in her way. Since the ----shire were first quartered in
Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been
in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by
thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater--what shall
I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally
lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."
"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so very
ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt."
"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever
might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of
such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane
knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know
that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he
has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and
deceitful as he is insinuating."
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose
curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
"I do indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you, the
other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you
yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he
spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and
liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which
I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to relate; but
his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what
he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself.
He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we
have found her."
"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of
what you and Jane seem so well to understand?"
"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent,
and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel
Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I
returned home, the ----shire was to leave Meryton in a week or
fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom
I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our
knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any
one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of
him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled
that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could
be in any danger from the deception never entered my head.
That such a consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily
believe, was far enough from my thoughts."
"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no
reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?"
"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on
either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you
must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be
thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready
enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or
near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first
two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave
way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more
distinction, again became her favourites."
* * * * *
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be
added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting
subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them
from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's
thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all
anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval of ease or
forgetfulness.
They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one
night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next
day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could
not have been wearied by long expectations.
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were
standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;
and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise
that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole
bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing
earnest of their welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty
kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running
down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled
the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything
had been heard of the fugitives.
"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come,
I hope everything will be well."
"Is my father in town?"
"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word."
"And have you heard from him often?"
"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on
Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me
his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely
added that he should not write again till he had something of
importance to mention."
"And my mother--how is she? How are you all?"
"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are
greatly shaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction
in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room.
Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well."
"But you--how are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale.
How much you must have gone through!"
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well;
and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an
end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle
and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate
smiles and tears.
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which
Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the
others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence
to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the
benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her;
she still expected that it would all end well, and that every
morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her
father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce
their marriage.
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few
minutes' conversation together, received them exactly as might
be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives
against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of
her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the
person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her
daughter must principally be owing.
"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point in going to
Brighton, with all my family, _this_ would not have happened;
but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did
the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there
was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the
kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after.
I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her;
but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And
now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and
what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out
before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,
brother, I do not know what we shall do."
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,
after general assurances of his affection for her and all her
family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,
and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering
Lydia.
"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he; "though it is
right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look
on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton.
In a few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we
know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying,
do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to
town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with
me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as
to what is to be done."
"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly
what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to
town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are
not married already, _make_ them marry. And as for wedding
clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she
shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they
are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out
of my wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all
over me--such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and
such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by
day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about
her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which
are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
know you will contrive it all."
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest
endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation
to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with
her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left
her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended
in the absence of her daughters.
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no
real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not
attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence
enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they
waited at table, and judged it better that _one_ only of the
household, and the one whom they could most trust should
comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty,
who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments
to make their appearance before. One came from her books,
and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however,
were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in either, except
that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had
herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness
than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a
countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated
at table:
"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much
talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into
the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation."
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she
added, "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw
from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is
irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;
that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and
that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the
undeserving of the other sex."
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much
oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to
console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the
evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be
for half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed
herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane
was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general
lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which
Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could
not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the
subject, by saying, "But tell me all and everything about it
which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars.
What did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of
anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen
them together for ever."
"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some
partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any
alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and
kind to the utmost. He _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us
of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to
Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened
his journey."
"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did
he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster
seen Denny himself?"
"Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing
anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion
about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not
marrying--and from _that_, I am inclined to hope, he might
have been misunderstood before."
"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you
entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"
"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains?
I felt a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness
with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been
always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that;
they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then
owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the
rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared her for
such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with
each other, many weeks."
"But not before they went to Brighton?"
"No, I believe not."
"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham
himself? Does he know his real character?"
"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he
formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.
And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he
left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false."
"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew
of him, this could not have happened!"
"Perhaps it would have been better," replied her sister. "But to
expose the former faults of any person without knowing what
their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with
the best intentions."
"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to
his wife?"
"He brought it with him for us to see."
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.
These were the contents:
"MY DEAR HARRIET,
"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot
help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as
soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you
cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there
is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should
never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You
need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do
not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I
write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good
joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make
my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing
with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he
knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball
we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when
I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a
great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up.
Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
drink to our good journey.
"Your affectionate friend,
"LYDIA BENNET."
"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she
had finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such
a moment! But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the
subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards
persuade her to, it was not on her side a _scheme_ of infamy.
My poor father! how he must have felt it!"
"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word
for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately,
and the whole house in such confusion!"
"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it
who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"
"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a
time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though
I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am
afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the
horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me
my faculties."
"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do
not look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had
every care and anxiety upon yourself alone."
"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in
every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either
of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,
that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt
Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went
away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She
was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has
been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her
daughters', if they should be of use to us."
"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps
she _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one
cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is
impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us
at a distance, and be satisfied."
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her
father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery
of his daughter.
"He meant I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place
where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if
anything could be made out from them. His principal object
must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which
took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London;
and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's
removing from one carriage into another might be remarked he
meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover
at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be
impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do
not know of any other designs that he had formed; but he was in
such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed,
that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this."
Chapter 48
The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the
next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line
from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions,
a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time
they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that
he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of _that_ they
would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited
only for the letters before he set off.
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving
constant information of what was going on, and their uncle
promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to
Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his
sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's
not being killed in a duel.
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire
a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be
serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on
Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of
freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and
always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening
them up--though, as she never came without reporting some
fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she
seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than
she found them.
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three
months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was
declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his
intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been
extended into every tradesman's family. Everybody declared
that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody
began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance
of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former
assurance of her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane,
who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more
especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to
Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of,
they must in all probability have gained some news of them.
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife
received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival,
he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to
come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to
Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining
any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined
to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on
their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings.
Mr. Gardiner himself did not expect any success from this
measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist
him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly
disinclined at present to leave London and promised to write
again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:
"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out,
if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the
regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections
who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now
concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply
to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be
of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide
us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power
to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than
any other person."
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this
deference to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her
power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the
compliment deserved. She had never heard of his having had
any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had
been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more
information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting
it, the application was a something to look forward to.
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most
anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The
arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning's
impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to
be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was
expected to bring some news of importance.
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived
for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins;
which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for
him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who
knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her,
and read it likewise. It was as follows:
"MY DEAR SIR,
"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter
from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins
and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable
family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest
kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove.
No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so
severe a misfortune--or that may comfort you, under a circumstance
that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's mind.
The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison
of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is
reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this
licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from
a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time, for the
consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not
be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that
may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not
only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and
her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with
me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be
injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady
Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover
to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been
involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you,
dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off
your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her
to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense.
"I am, dear sir, etc., etc."
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer
from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant
nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single
relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it
was certain that he had no near one living. His former
acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the
militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular
friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who
could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And
in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very
powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery
by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had
left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount.
Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds
would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed
a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these
particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with
horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is wholly unexpected.
I had not an idea of it."
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see
their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday.
Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he
had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return
to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might
suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs.
Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction
as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his
life had been before.
"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?" she cried.
"Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who
is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?"
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled
that she and the children should go to London, at the same time
that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them
the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back
to Longbourn.
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth
and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part
of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned
before them by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which
Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter
from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none
since her return that could come from Pemberley.
The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other
excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing,
therefore, could be fairly conjectured from _that_, though
Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with
her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known
nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia's
infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in
the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had
taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had
courage to speak of it.
It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea,
that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on
her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have
endured, he replied, "Say nothing of that. Who should suffer
but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it."
"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is
so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life
feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being
overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough."
"Do you suppose them to be in London?"
"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
"She is happy then," said her father drily; "and her residence
there will probably be of some duration."
Then after a short silence he continued:
"Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice
to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some
greatness of mind."
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her
mother's tea.
"This is a parade," he cried, "which does one good; it gives such
an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I
will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and
give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till
Kitty runs away."
"I am not going to run away, papa," said Kitty fretfully. "If I
should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
"_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as
Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to
be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever
to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the
village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up
with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors
till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day
in a rational manner."
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you
are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review
at the end of them."
Chapter 49
Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were
walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw
the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she
came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her;
but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached
her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon, madam, for
interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."
"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."
"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't
you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner?
He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter."
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.
They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from
thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they
were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother,
when they were met by the butler, who said:
"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking
towards the little copse."
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall
once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was
deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side
of the paddock.
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running
as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for
breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
"Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my
uncle?"
"Yes I have had a letter from him by express."
"Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?"
"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the
letter from his pocket. "But perhaps you would like to read it."
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what
it is about."
"Gracechurch Street, Monday,
August 2.
"MY DEAR BROTHER,
"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and
such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction.
Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to
find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I
reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered.
I have seen them both--"
"Then it is as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
Elizabeth read on:
"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find
there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to
perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your
side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,
her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your
children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during
your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying
with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall
send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me
your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,
that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they
are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in
that respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little
money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my
niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will
be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name
throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give
directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement.
There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town
again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my
diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can,
and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that
my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again
as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
"EDW. GARDINER."
"Is it possible?" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it
be possible that he will marry her?"
"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him," said
her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
"And have you answered the letter?" cried Elizabeth.
"No; but it must be done soon."
Most earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time
before he wrote.
"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is in such a case."
"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
yourself."
"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards
the house.
"And may I ask--" said Elizabeth; "but the terms, I suppose,
must be complied with."
"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!"
"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done.
But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is,
how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about;
and the other, how am I ever to pay him."
"Money! My uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, sir?"
"I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so
slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and
fifty after I am gone."
"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred
to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still
to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good
man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could
not do all this."
"No," said her father; "Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a
farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to
think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."
"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a
sum to be repaid?"
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,
continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then
went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the
breakfast-room.
"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon
as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for
_this_ we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as
is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character,
we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!"
"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly
would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her.
Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing
him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like
it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may
have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?"
"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,"
said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our
sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for
them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The
kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their
taking her home, and affording her their personal protection
and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years
of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she
is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her
miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a
meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!"
"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,"
said Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His
consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is
come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will
steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,
and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their
past imprudence forgotten."
"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither
you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk
of it."
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all
likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went
to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he
would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing
and, without raising his head, coolly replied:
"Just as you please."
"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"
"Take whatever you like, and get away."
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went
upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:
one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight
preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs.
Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read
Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy
burst forth, and every following sentence added to its
exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from
delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation.
To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She
was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any
remembrance of her misconduct.
"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried. "This is delightful indeed!
She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married
at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I
knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! and
to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes!
I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy,
my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will
give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for
Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia!
How merry we shall be together when we meet!"
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the
violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the
obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a
great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has
pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it
but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and
my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the
first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few
presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have
a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And
she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a
flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you
write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico,
muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very
plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty,
persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be
consulted. One day's delay, she observed, would be of small
importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so
obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and
tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come
back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down
and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of
good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton?
Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good
news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have
a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding."
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received
her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly,
took refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that
it was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so;
and though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor
worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in
looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she
felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
Chapter 50
Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life
that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an
annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his
wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever.
Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been
indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could
now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on
one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her
husband might then have rested in its proper place.
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage
to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his
brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out
the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation
as soon as he could.
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be
perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The
son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should
be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that
means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the
world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many
years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This
event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to
be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
husband's love of independence had alone prevented their
exceeding their income.
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.
Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be
divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents.
This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was
now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in
acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful
acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil
the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before
supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his
daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to
himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be
ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid
them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the
continual presents in money which passed to her through her
mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within
that sum.
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,
too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present
was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When
the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in
seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former
indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory
in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He
begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to
his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message
to her.
The good news spread quickly through the house, and with
proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne
in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would
have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia
Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative,
been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse.
But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded
before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a
little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because
with such an husband her misery was considered certain.
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on
this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table,
and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave
a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had
been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was
now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her
words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine
muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching
through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her
daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their
income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance.
"Haye Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings could quit it--or
the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but
Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles
from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while
the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said
to her: "Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses
for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding.
Into _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have
admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either,
by receiving them at Longbourn."
A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was
firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with
amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a
guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she
should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the
occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his
anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which
her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could
believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her
want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than
to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a
fortnight before they took place.
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the
distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted
with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would
so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they
might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those
who were not immediately on the spot.
She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means.
There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more
confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one
whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her
so much--not, however, from any fear of disadvantage from it
individually to herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf
impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded
on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every
other objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship
of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink.
The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself
of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation
survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved;
she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous
of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it.
She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of
gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been
happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know
that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four
months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully
received! He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most
generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a
triumph.
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man
who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His
understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have
answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been
to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind
might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his
judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must
have received benefit of greater importance.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring
multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a
different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the
other, was soon to be formed in their family.
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable
independence, she could not imagine. But how little of
permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only
brought together because their passions were stronger than
their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
* * * * *
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his
eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and
concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be
mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was
to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the
militia.
"It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as
soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree
with me, in considering the removal from that corps as highly
advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's
intention to go into the regulars; and among his former friends,
there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in
the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s
regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have
it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and
I hope among different people, where they may each have a character
to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to
Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to
request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham
in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which
I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of
carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom
I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has
given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us.
Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week.
They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to
Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is
very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South. She
is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your
mother.--Yours, etc.,
"E. GARDINER."
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's
removal from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do.
But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being
settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and
pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan
of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment;
and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from
a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so
many favourites.
"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite
shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young
men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so
pleasant in General----'s regiment."
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her
parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly,
to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they
were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought,
and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction
of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter
in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the North. When
Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his
permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon
as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn.
Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent
to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own inclination,
any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes.
Chapter 51
Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt
for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage
was sent to meet them at ----, and they were to return in it
by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss
Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings
which would have attended herself, had she been the culprit,
and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to
receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the
carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably
grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown
open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,
embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand,
with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady;
and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt
of their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was
not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;
and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the
young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was
disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia
still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned
from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when
at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took
notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a
laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his
manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his
marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy
address, while he claimed their relationship, would have
delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him
quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving
within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of
an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the
cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no
variation of colour.
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could
neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to
sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in
that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt
very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them
to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the
past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to
subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the
world.
"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I
went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there
have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious!
when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married
till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good
fun if I was."
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth
looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw
anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,
"Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married
to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William
Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know
it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off
my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so
that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like
anything."
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of
the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing
through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them
soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her
mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister,
"Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower,
because I am a married woman."
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that
embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.
Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.
Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to
hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham" by each of them; and in the
mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast
of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the
breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not
he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I
only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to
Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it
is, mamma, we did not all go."
"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear
Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must
it be so?"
"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it
of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down
and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I
dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get
good partners for them all."
"I should like it beyond anything!" said her mother.
"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my
sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for
them before the winter is over."
"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth;
"but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands."
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them.
Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London,
and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so
short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with
her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These
parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was
even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.
Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had
expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had
scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from
the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on
by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would
have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose
to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his
flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances;
and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist
an opportunity of having a companion.
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on
every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him.
He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would
kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else
in the country.
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with
her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe.
You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.
Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?"
"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too
little said on the subject."
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off.
We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's
lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we
should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and
I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the
church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss!
I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put
it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And
there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and
talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I
did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may
suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would
be married in his blue coat."
"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it
would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand,
that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I
was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my
foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one
party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather
thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so
just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away
upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you
know, when once they get together, there is no end of it.
Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my
uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we
could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again
in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However, I
recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going,
the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done
as well."
"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But
gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word
about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham
say? It was to be such a secret!"
"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on
the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;
"we will ask you no questions."
"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly
tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry."
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it
out of her power, by running away.
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at
least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy
had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and
exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and
least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it,
rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied
with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct
in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not
bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote
a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which
had been intended.
"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity
must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and
(comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have
been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and
let me understand it--unless it is, for very cogent reasons,
to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary;
and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance."
"Not that I _shall_, though," she added to herself, as she
finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me
in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks
and stratagems to find it out."
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was
glad of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would
receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
Chapter 52
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her
letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in
possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where
she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of
the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the
letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial.
"Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
"MY DEAR NIECE,
"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing
will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess
myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from
_you_. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let
you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary
on _your_ side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive
my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I 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 inquiry, that your father was
still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not
judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as
your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the
departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next
day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.
"On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,
and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.
"They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all
settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.
Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure
(and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it),
your uncle would most readily have settled the whole.
"They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either
the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your
uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use
to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable
credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really
believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it
required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers,
and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no
farther than yourself, or Jane at most.
"You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young
people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to
considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition
to her own settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason
why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given
above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper
consideration, that Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and
consequently that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps
there was some truth in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or
_anybody's_ reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of
all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured
that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him
credit for _another interest_ in the affair.
"When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who
were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be
in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters
were then to receive the last finish.
"I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you
tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had
constant admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been,
when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little
I was satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had
not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on
coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now
tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in
the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of
what she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her
family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did
not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my
dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.
"Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave
town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me,
my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never
bold enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us
has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.
His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a
little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife
may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your
name. But slyness seems the fashion.
"Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite
happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice
little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.
"But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
hour.
"Yours, very sincerely,
"M. GARDINER."
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter
of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether
pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and
unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what
Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's match,
which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness
too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be
just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their
greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to
town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification
attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been
necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and
where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished
to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to
pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could
neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had
done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other
considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was
insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her
--for a woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome
a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with
Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must
revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much.
She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason
for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of
belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong;
he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,
she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her
might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind
must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly
painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person
who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of
Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily
did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him.
For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud
that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get
the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation
of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased
her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with
regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had
been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between
Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some
one's approach; and before she could strike into another path,
she was overtaken by Wickham.
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?"
said he, as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not
follow that the interruption must be unwelcome."
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good
friends; and now we are better."
"True. Are the others coming out?"
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the
carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from
our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley."
She replied in the affirmative.
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would
be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to
Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor
Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she
did not mention my name to you."
"Yes, she did."
"And what did she say?"
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had
--not turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you
know, things are strangely misrepresented."
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she
had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed
each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing
there."
"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there
at this time of year."
"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton?
I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had."
"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
"And do you like her?"
"Very much."
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within
this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very
promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn
out well."
"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
"I do not recollect that we did."
"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have
had. A most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House!
It would have suited me in every respect."
"How should you have liked making sermons?"
"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my
duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought
not to repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a
thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would
have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be.
Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were
in Kent?"
"I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_,
that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the
present patron."
"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so
from the first, you may remember."
"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making
was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that
you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders,
and that the business had been compromised accordingly."
"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may
remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked
of it."
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she
had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her
sister's sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with
a good-humoured smile:
"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know.
Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we
shall be always of one mind."
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,
though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
Chapter 53
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation
that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear
sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was
pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet
was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by
no means entered into her scheme of their all going to
Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years,
perhaps."
"Write to me very often, my dear."
"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much
time for writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will
have nothing else to do."
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his
wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty
things.
"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were
out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and
makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy
even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable
son-in-law."
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for
several days.
"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as
parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without
them."
"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,"
said Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your
other four are single."
"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is
married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be
so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone
so soon."
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into
was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the
agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be
in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received
orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming
down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks.
Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and
smiled and shook her head by turns.
"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,"
(for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). "Well, so
much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is
nothing to us, you know, and I am sure _I_ never want to
see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come
to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_
happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we
agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so,
is it quite certain he is coming?"
"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls
was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out
myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that
it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest,
very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher's, she
told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she
has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without
changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned
his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone
together, she said:
"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of
the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But
don't imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused
for the moment, because I felt that I _should_ be looked at.
I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with
pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone;
because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."
Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen
him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of
coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but
she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to
the greater probability of his coming there _with_ his friend's
permission, or being bold enough to come without it.
"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man
cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without
raising all this speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself."
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be
her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could
easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They
were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their
parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward
again.
"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet,
"you will wait on him of course."
"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and
promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my
daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on
a fool's errand again."
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an
attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his
returning to Netherfield.
"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our
society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not
spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they
go away and come back again."
"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do
not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking
him to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and
the Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so
there will be just room at table for him."
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear
her husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know
that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence
of it, before _they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near:
"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her
sister. "It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect
indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually
talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one
can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I
be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"
"I wish I could say anything to comfort you," replied Elizabeth;
"but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the
usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied
me, because you have always so much."
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of
servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that
the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as
long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene
before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing
him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in
Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,
enter the paddock and ride towards the house.
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane
resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to
satisfy her mother, went to the window--she looked,--she
saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister.
"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"
"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I
do not know."
"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to
be with him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud
man."
"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well,
any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be
sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him."
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew
but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt
for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him
almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory
letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt
for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother
talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution
to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without
being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of
uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she
had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's letter, or
to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane,
he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and
whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
information, he was the person to whom the whole family were
indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded
herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least
as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her
astonishment at his coming--at his coming to Netherfield, to
Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal
to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour
in Derbyshire.
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for
half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight
added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time
that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she
would not be secure.
"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be
early enough for expectation."
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without
daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them
to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the
door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate
than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her
colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease,
and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom
of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and
sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not
often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He
looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at
Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's presence
be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful,
but not an improbable, conjecture.
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that
short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He
was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which
made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with
the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address
to his friend.
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the
latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from
irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful
degree by a distinction so ill applied.
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a
question which she could not answer without confusion, said
scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that
was the reason of his silence; but it had not been so in
Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends, when he could
not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without
bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable
to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised 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 anyone but himself;
and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said
Mrs. Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.
"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People
_did_ say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;
but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have
happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas
is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose
you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the
papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though
it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being
a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or
anything. It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I
wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did
you see it?"
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.
Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,
therefore, she could not tell.
"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter
well married," continued her mother, "but at the same time,
Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from
me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward,
it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long.
His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his
leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the regulars.
Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
many as he deserves."
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was
in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat.
It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which
nothing else had so effectually done before; and she asked
Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the country at
present. A few weeks, he believed.
"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,"
said her mother, "I beg you will come here, and shoot as
many as you please on Mr. Bennet's manor. I am sure he
will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the
best of the covies for you."
Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such
officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at
present as had flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was
persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion.
At that instant, she felt that years of happiness could not
make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful
confusion.
"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never
more to be in company with either of them. Their society can
afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as
this! Let me never see either one or the other again!"
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from
observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the
admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had
spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be
giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as
she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected,
though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference
should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that
she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was silent.
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of
her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to
dine at Longbourn in a few days time.
"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added,
"for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take
a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not
forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed
that you did not come back and keep your engagement."
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said
something of his concern at having been prevented by business.
They then went away.
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and
dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good
table, she did not think anything less than two courses could
be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs,
or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a
year.
Chapter 54
As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover
her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption
on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's
behaviour astonished and vexed her.
"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,"
said she, "did he come at all?"
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and
aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me,
why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent?
Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him."
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by
the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful
look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors,
than Elizabeth.
"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel
perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be
embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on
Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides,
we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance."
"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly.
"Oh, Jane, take care."
"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger
now?"
"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much
in love with you as ever."
* * * * *
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and
Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the
happy schemes, which the good humour and common politeness
of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived.
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn;
and the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of
their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When
they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to
see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their
former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her
prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite
him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to
smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her.
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his
friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have
imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy,
had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy,
with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as
showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than
formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself,
Jane's happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured.
Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet
received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her
all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as
the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother.
She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to
either, or make either appear to advantage. She was not near
enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how
seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was
their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's
mind; and she would, at times, have given anything to be
privileged to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown
nor unfelt by the whole of the family.
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity
of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would
not pass away without enabling them to enter into something
more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation
attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which
passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was
wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil.
She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all
her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
"If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give
him up for ever."
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would
have answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded
round the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and
Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy
that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit
of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of the
girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:
"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want
none of them; do we?"
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She
followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke,
had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and
then was enraged against herself for being so silly!
"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish
enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the
sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second
proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent
to their feelings!"
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his
coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"
"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."
"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"
"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to
Scarborough, these three weeks."
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to
converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by
her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on
the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed,
the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon
joined by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him
fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and
in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She
now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for
the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope,
but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the
room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen
to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any
of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,
"What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off
uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed
as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn--and
everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was
fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases' last week;
and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were
remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in
greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether
you did not. And what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs.
Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' She did
indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever
lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not
at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen
enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she
would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her
family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that
she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the
next day, to make his proposals.
"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to
Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable
one with the other. I hope we may often meet again."
Elizabeth smiled.
"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It
mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy
his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man,
without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied,
from what his manners now are, that he never had any design
of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of
generally pleasing, than any other man."
"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me
smile, and are provoking me to it every moment."
"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"
"And how impossible in others!"
"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?"
"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all
love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth
knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do
not make me your confidante."
Chapter 55
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and
alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but
was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an
hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited
him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern,
he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more
lucky."
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if
she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of
waiting on them.
"Can you come to-morrow?"
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her
invitation was accepted with alacrity.
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none
of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in
her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr.
Bingley is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste.
Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her
on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair."
"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say
Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs
half an hour ago."
"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick,
be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?"
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to
go down without one of her sisters.
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again
in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library,
as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument.
Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet
sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a
considerable time, without making any impression on them.
Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did,
she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do
you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"
"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat
still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious
occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here,
my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room.
Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her
distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_
would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet
half-opened the door and called out:
"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."
Elizabeth was forced to go.
"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her
mother, as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going
upstairs 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 everybody as happy?"
Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a
warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every
sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane.
But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say
half that remained to be said for the present.
"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on
any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow
her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my
father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate
will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I
bear so much happiness!"
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken
up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity
and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had
given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance!
the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference
with her father had been short and to the purpose.
"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.
"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment,
I dare say."
He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good
wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and
heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their
relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and
then, till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he
had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed
all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded,
because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and
super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity
of feeling and taste between her and himself.
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the
satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet
animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever.
Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon.
Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation
in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked
to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr.
Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly
showed how really happy he was.
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till
their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he
was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.
"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure
in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt
of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means
unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will
ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat
you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income."
"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters
would be unpardonable in me."
"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife,
"what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a
year, and very likely more." Then addressing her daughter,
"Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan't
get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I
always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw
him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought
how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is
the handsomest young man that ever was seen!"
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition
her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her
younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects
of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and
Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at
Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always
remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous
neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him
an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to
accept.
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her
sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to
bestow on anyone else; but she found herself considerably
useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must
sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always attached
himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and
when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means
of relief.
"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling
me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last
spring! I had not believed it possible."
"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he
account for it?"
"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no
friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,
since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many
respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their
brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and
we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we
once were to each other."
"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that
I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed,
to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."
"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last
November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of
_my_ being indifferent would have prevented his coming down
again!"
"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit
of his modesty."
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his
diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good
qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not
betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had
the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew
it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!"
cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family,
and blessed above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy!
If there _were_ but such another man for you!"
"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so
happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness,
I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for
myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet
with another Mr. Collins in time."
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be
long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to
Mrs. Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do
the same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family
in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had
first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out
for misfortune.
Chapter 56
One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with
Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family
were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention
was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage;
and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn.
It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours.
The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery
of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it
was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley
instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of
such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery.
They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was
thrown open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine
de Bourgh.
They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to
them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,
made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight
inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.
Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship's
entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a
guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost
politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said
very stiffly to Elizabeth,
"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose,
is your mother."
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters."
"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to 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 anything; and then, rising up,
said to Elizabeth,
"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little
wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take
a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company."
"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and show her ladyship about
the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the
hermitage."
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her
parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed
through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the
dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after
a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on.
Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the
gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to
make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more
than usually insolent and disagreeable.
"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she
looked in her face.
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the
following manner:--
"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason
of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience,
must tell you why I come."
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able
to account for the honour of seeing you here."
"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you
ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however
insincere _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so.
My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and
frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall
certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming
nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your
sister was on the point of being most advantageously married,
but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all
likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own
nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scandalous
falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off
for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you."
"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth,
colouring with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the
trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by
it?"
"At once to insist upon having such a report universally
contradicted."
"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said
Elizabeth coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if,
indeed, such a report is in existence."
"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not
been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know
that such a report is spread abroad?"
"I never heard that it was."
"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation
for it?"
"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.
You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer."
"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being
satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of
marriage?"
"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."
"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of
his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment
of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself
and to all his family. You may have drawn him in."
"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."
"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed
to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has
in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."
"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour
as this, ever induce me to be explicit."
"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have
the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never.
Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?"
"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose
he will make an offer to me."
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the
favourite wish of _his_ mother, as well as of 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 everyone connected with him. Your alliance will
be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any
of us."
"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the
wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of
happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she
could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine."
"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this
your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is
nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to
understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined
resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded
from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims.
I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."
"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more
pitiable; but it will have no effect on me."
"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter
and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended,
on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the
father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient--though
untitled--families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid.
They are destined for each other by the voice of every member
of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?
The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family,
connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it
must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own
good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you
have been brought up."
"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's
daughter; so far we are equal."
"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your
mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me
ignorant of their condition."
"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your
nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."
"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging
Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but
say, after a moment's deliberation:
"I am not."
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"
"I will make no promise of the kind."
"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a
more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into
a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you
have given me the assurance I require."
"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated
into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants
Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the
wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable?
Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept
his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to
say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous
as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my
character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions
as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference
in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right
to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be
importuned no farther on the subject."
"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done.
To all the objections I have already urged, I have still
another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your
youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that
the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the
expence of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to be
my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late
father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of
what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be
thus polluted?"
"You can now have nothing further to say," she resentfully
answered. "You have insulted me in every possible method.
I must beg to return to the house."
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they
turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my
nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that
a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of
everybody?"
"Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my
sentiments."
"You are then resolved to have him?"
"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that
manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected
with me."
"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to
obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are
determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends,
and make him the contempt of the world."
"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth,
"have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No
principle of either would be violated by my marriage with
Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or
the indignation of the world, if the former _were_ excited by his
marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern--and
the world in general would have too much sense to join in the
scorn."
"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve!
Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss
Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to
try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it,
I will carry my point."
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the
door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added,
"I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to
your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most
seriously displeased."
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade
her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it
herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded
up stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the
dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in
again and rest herself.
"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."
"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was
prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us
the Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare
say, and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well
call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to
you, Lizzy?"
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here;
for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was
impossible.
Chapter 57
The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit
threw Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor
could she, for many hours, learn to think of it less than
incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken
the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose
of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was
a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of
their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to
imagine; till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate
friend of Bingley, and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was
enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made
everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not
herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must
bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at
Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with
the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached lady
Catherine), had only set that down as almost certain and
immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at
some future time.
In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could
not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence
of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said
of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to
Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew;
and how _he_ might take a similar representation of the evils
attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce.
She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or
his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could
do; and it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a
marriage with _one_, whose immediate connections were so unequal
to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side.
With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the
arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous,
contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which
had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a
relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to
be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that
case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in
her way through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming
again to Netherfield must give way.
"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should
come to his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall
know how to understand it. I shall then give over every
expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied
with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my
affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all."
* * * * *
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their
visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied
it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased
Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much
teasing on the subject.
The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by
her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his
hand.
"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my
room."
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he
had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being
in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly
struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she
anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations.
She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat
down. He then said,
"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought
to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two
daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you
on a very important conquest."
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the
aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that
he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not
rather addressed to herself; when her father continued:
"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in
such matters as these; but I think I may defy even _your_
sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter
is from Mr. Collins."
"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?"
"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter,
of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured,
gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by
reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is
as follows: 'Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations
of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add
a short hint on the subject of another; of which we have been
advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is
presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder
sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be
reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages
in this land.'
"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" 'This
young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing
the heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property,
noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all
these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and
yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure
with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of.'
"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it
comes out:
"'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to
imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look
on the match with a friendly eye.'
"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I
_have_ surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched
on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name
would have given the lie more effectually to what they related?
Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish,
and who probably never looked at you in his life! It is
admirable!"
Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could
only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been
directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
"Are you not diverted?"
"Oh! yes. Pray read on."
"'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship
last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension,
expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it 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 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 gentlemanlike
manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was
some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow
their justice."
"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong
an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever
felt in such a way."
"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of
every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your
countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could
not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce
you to accept me."
"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections
will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most
heartily ashamed of it."
Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soon
make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any
credit to its contents?"
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually
all her former prejudices had been removed.
"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain,
but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.
There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I
should dread your having the power of reading again. I can
remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me."
"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it
essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have
both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they
are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies."
"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself
perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was
written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit."
"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end
so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the
letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person
who received it, are now so widely different from what they
were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it
ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy.
Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."
"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind.
Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that
the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but,
what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not
so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which
ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my
life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was
taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my
temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them
in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many
years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though
good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was
benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me
to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own
family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world;
to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth
compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and
twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest,
loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a
lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,
I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my
reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my
pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."
"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"
"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed
you to be wishing, expecting my addresses."
"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally,
I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits
might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after
_that_ evening?"
"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon
began to take a proper direction."
"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we
met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"
"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."
"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being
noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no
extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect
to receive _more_ than my due."
"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to show you, by every
civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the
past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your
ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been
attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves
I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after
I had seen you."
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance,
and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which
naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon
learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in
quest of her sister had been formed before he quitted the inn,
and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from
no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a
subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy
to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining
their watches, that it was time to be at home.
"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder
which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy
was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given
him the earliest information of it.
"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.
"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon
happen."
"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as
much." And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it
had been pretty much the case.
"On the evening before my going to London," said he, "I made a
confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long
ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former
interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His
surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion.
I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in
supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to
him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her
was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of
directing his friend.
"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when
you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my
information last spring?"
"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two
visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her
affection."
"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate
conviction to him."
"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence
had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious
a case, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I
was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not
unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal
that your sister had been in town three months last winter,
that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than
he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has
heartily forgiven me now."
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most
delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was
invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he
had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early
to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of
course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they
parted.
Chapter 59
"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a
question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she
entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down
to table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered
about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as
she spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a
suspicion of the truth.
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary.
The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged
were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness
overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather
_knew_ that she was happy than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides
the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her.
She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her
situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him but
Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a dislike
which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was
very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely
incredulous here.
"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy!
No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."
"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was
on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do
not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the
truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged."
Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be.
I know how much you dislike him."
"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot.
Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in
such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is
the last time I shall ever remember it myself."
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and
more seriously assured her of its truth.
"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe
you," cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do
congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question
--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?"
"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us
already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world.
But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a
brother?"
"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or
myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as
impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough?
Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection.
Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?"
"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to
do, when I tell you all."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley.
I am afraid you will be angry."
"My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very
seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without
delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?"
"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it
began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his
beautiful grounds at Pemberley."
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced
the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn
assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss
Bennet had nothing further to wish.
"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as
myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but
his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as
Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley
and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very
sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what
passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it
to another, not to you."
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been
unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her
own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend.
But now she would no longer conceal from her his share in
Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night
spent in conversation.
* * * * *
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window
the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming
here again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so
tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he
would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us
with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must
walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way."
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a
proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be
always giving him such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,
and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good
information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet,
have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her
way again to-day?"
"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet,
"to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk,
and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view."
"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but
I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?"
Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed
a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth
silently consented. As she went up stairs to get ready,
Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have
that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not
mind it: it is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no
occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do
not put yourself to inconvenience."
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent
should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth
reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She
could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes
doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough
to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were
violently set against the match, or violently delighted with
it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted
to do credit to her sense; and she could no more bear that
Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the
first vehemence of her disapprobation.
* * * * *
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,
she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation
on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's
opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it
should be through her means--that _she_, his favourite child,
should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him
with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared
again, when, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his
smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was
sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending to admire her work
said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he wants you in the
library." She was gone directly.
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and
anxious. "Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out
of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always
hated him?"
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had
been more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would
have spared her from explanations and professions which it was
exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and
she assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to
Mr. Darcy.
"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is
rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine
carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?"
"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your
belief of my indifference?"
"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort
of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him."
"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes,
"I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly
amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not
pain me by speaking of him in such terms."
"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent.
He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare
refuse anything, which he condescended to ask. I now give it
to _you_, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise
you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy.
I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless
you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him
as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely
escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the
grief of seeing _you_ unable to respect your partner in life.
You know not what you are about."
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her
reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was
really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual
change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her
absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a
day, but had stood the test of many months' suspense, and
enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer
her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no
more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could
not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy."
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what
Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with
astonishment.
"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did
every thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the
fellow's debts, and got him his commission! So much the
better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy.
Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have paid
him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their
own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant
and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end
of the matter."
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his
reading Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some
time, allowed her at last to go--saying, as she quitted the
room, "If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in,
for I am quite at leisure."
Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight;
and, after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room,
she was able to join the others with tolerable composure.
Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed
tranquilly away; there was no longer anything material to
be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would
come in time.
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she
followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect
was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet
sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it
under many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she
heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for
the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to
fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder,
and bless herself.
"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me!
Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it! And is it really true?
Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be!
What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have!
Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so pleased--so
happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much
before. I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house
in town! Every thing that is charming! Three daughters
married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What will become of
me. I shall go distracted."
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be
doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was
heard only by herself, soon went away. But before she had
been three minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.
"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else!
Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a
Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall be married
by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish
Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow."
This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the
gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in
the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of
her relations' consent, there was still something to be wished
for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected;
for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended
son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was
in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference
for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking
pains to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured
her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.
"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham,
perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband
quite as well as Jane's."
Chapter 60
Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she
wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love
with her. "How could you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend
your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning;
but what could set you off in the first place?"
"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the
words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was
in the middle before I knew that I _had_ begun."
"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my
behaviour to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil,
and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain
than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"
"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."
"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very
little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of
deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with
the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking
for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and interested you,
because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the
pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always
noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the
persons who so assiduously courted you. There--I have saved
you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things
considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be
sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks of
_that_ when they fall in love."
"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while
she was ill at Netherfield?"
"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a
virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your
protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;
and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing
and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin
directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to
the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you
called, did you look as if you did not care about me?"
"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."
"But I was embarrassed."
"And so was I."
"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."
"A man who had felt less, might."
"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,
and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I
wonder how long you _would_ have gone on, if you had been left
to yourself. I wonder when you _would_ have spoken, if I
had not asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your
kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too much_, I am
afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs
from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned
the subject. This will never do."
"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly
fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us
were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted
for my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing
your gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening
of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I was
determined at once to know every thing."
"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make
her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did
you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to
Longbourn and be embarrassed? or had you intended any more
serious consequence?"
"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could,
whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one,
or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were
still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the
confession to him which I have since made."
"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine
what is to befall her?"
"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth.
But it ought to done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper,
it shall be done directly."
"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you
and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady
once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer
neglected."
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with
Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet
answered Mrs. Gardiner's long letter; but now, having _that_
to communicate which she knew would be most welcome, she was
almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost
three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought
to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of
particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write.
You supposed more than really existed. But _now_ suppose as
much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your
imagination in every possible flight which the subject will
afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot
greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again
and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly
as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will
go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the
world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one
with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only
smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world
that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at
Christmas. Yours, etc."
Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;
and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to
Mr. Collins, in reply to his last.
"DEAR SIR,
"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth
will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine
as well as you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the
nephew. He has more to give.
"Yours sincerely, etc."
Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She
wrote even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and
repeat all her former professions of regard. Jane was not
deceived, but she was affected; and though feeling no reliance
on her, could not help writing her a much kinder answer than
she knew was deserved.
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar
information, was as sincere as her brother's in sending it.
Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her
delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her
sister.
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any
congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn
family heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas
Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident.
Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly angry by
the contents of her nephew's letter, that Charlotte, really
rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the
storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of
her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in
the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the
pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all
the parading and obsequious civility of her husband. He bore
it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even listen to
Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of
their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent
composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir
William was out of sight.
Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater,
tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as
her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the
familiarity which Bingley's good humour encouraged, yet,
whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her
respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely
to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to
shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever
anxious to keep him to herself, and to those of her family with
whom he might converse without mortification; and though the
uncomfortable feelings arising from all this took from the
season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the hope
of the future; and she looked forward with delight to the time
when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to
either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party
at Pemberley.
Chapter 61
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which
Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters.
With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley,
and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say,
for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her
earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children
produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic
felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally
nervous and invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his
affection for her drew him oftener from home than anything
else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially
when he was least expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.
So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not
desirable even to _his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart.
The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought
an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and
Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were
within thirty miles of each other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her
time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to
what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She
was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from
the influence of Lydia's example, she became, by proper
attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and
less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's society
she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the
promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent
to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was
necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by
Mrs. Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was
obliged to mix more with the world, but she could still
moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no longer
mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her
own, it was suspected by her father that she submitted to
the change without much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no
revolution from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with
philosophy the conviction that Elizabeth must now become
acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood
had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every thing,
was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed
on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which
Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, explained to
her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a
hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
"MY DEAR LIZZY,
"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my
dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to
have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope
you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at
court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money
enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of
about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak
to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
"Yours, etc."
As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she
endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty
and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it
was in her power to afford, by the practice of what might be
called economy in her own private expences, she frequently
sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so
extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, must
be very insufficient to their support; and whenever they
changed their quarters, either Jane or herself were sure of
being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging
their bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration
of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest
of a cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought.
His affection for her soon sunk into indifference; 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 further in his profession.
Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was
gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys
they both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley's
good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk
of giving them a hint to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but
as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at
Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever
of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and
paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the
sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able
to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had
the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first
she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at
her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who
had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame
her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her
mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way.
By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman
may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her
nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her
character in her reply to the letter which announced its
arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially
of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end.
But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on
to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after
a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her
curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she
condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that
pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the
presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and
aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate
terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and
they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards
the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the
means of uniting them.
The End