 35 Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened. It was impossible to think of anything else, and totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favorite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane which led farther from the Turnpike Road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the grounds. After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verger of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park. He was moving that way, and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness pronounced her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading that letter? And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still-increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows. Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. And the effort which the formation and perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been sped, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must therefore pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. Your feelings I know will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in deviance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Willfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not long been in Hertfordshire, before I saw in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively, and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister, I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard. And I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny that, though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain, but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it. I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case. The want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance—causes which, though still existing and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavored to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that. To have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say, father, that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London on the day following, as you I am certain remember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sister's uneasiness had been equally excited with my own. Our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went, and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and enforced them earnestly. But however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has a great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him therefore that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hartfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair in which I do not reflect with satisfaction. It is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable, but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done, and though the motives which governed me made to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them. With respect to that other, more weighty accusation of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me, I am ignorant, but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct and the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him. And on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school and afterwards at Cambridge. Most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging, he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain, to what degree you only can tell. About whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago, and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desire that a valuable family living might be his, as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me, that finally, having resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added a studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished then believed him to be sincere. But, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church—were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it—and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence. And, being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him, but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained if I would present him to the living in question, of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London. And last summer she went with the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate, and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design, for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Young, in whose character we most unhappily deceived. And by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affection at heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse, and after stating her imprudence I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then, Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt, and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Young was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds. But I cannot help supposing that the hope of avenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete, indeed. This madam is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together, and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you, but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night, but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executives of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin, and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. Fitzwilliam Darcy. End of CHAPTER XXXV. If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings, as she read, were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power, and stead fastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her. His style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Stonishment, apprehension, and even horror oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "'This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!' And when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could not rest on anything, she walked on. But it would not do. In half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself, and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other. But when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other. And for a few moments she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretenses to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality, deliberated on the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on, but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any condrivence could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge exceedingly shocked her. The more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the blankshire militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hartfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some undistinguished trait of integrity or benevolence that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy, or at least by the predominance of virtue, a tone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But alas, the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before, and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy, that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground. Yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself, and that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed—that he had then no reserves, no scruples in syncing Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned? His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of view solely and hatefully mercenary, and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive. He had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which he believed she had most unconsciously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter, and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair. That proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never in the whole course of their acquaintance, an acquaintance which had laterally brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits—that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued, that even Wickham had allowed him mare at his brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister, as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling—that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world, and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham, could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. "'How despicably have I acted,' she cried. "'I who prided myself on my discernment, I who have valued myself on my abilities, who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were till this moment I never knew myself.' From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection the Mr. Darcy's explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance which she had been obliged to give it in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment, and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her errant manner not often united with great sensibility. When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly eluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed but could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family, and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before. After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought, to reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue and a recollection of her long absence made her at length return home, and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence. Mr. Darcy only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him. She really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter. The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected after the melancholy seemed so lately gone through at Rosings. Two Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter, and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece, nor could she think without a smile of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. What would she have said? How would she have behaved? Were questions with which she amused herself? Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings' party. I assure you, I feel it exceedingly, said Lady Catherine. I believe no one feels the loss of friend so much as I do, but I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me. They were excessively sorry to go, but so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last, but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases. Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter. Lady Catherine observed after dinner that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added, "'But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.' "'I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,' replied Elizabeth. "'But it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.' "'Why, at that rage, will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.' "'But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.' "'Oh, your father, of course, may spare you if your mother can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there in early June, for a week, and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you. And indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.' "'You are all kindness, madam, but I believe we must abide by our original plan.' Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "'Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation and life. When my niece Georgiada went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two cement servants to go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young lady's Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it, for it would really be discreditable to you to let them go alone." "'My uncle is to send a servant for us.' "'No! Your uncle? He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things.' "'Where shall you change horses?' "'No, Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended too.' Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her, or with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours, whenever she was alone she gave way to it as the greatest relief, and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections. Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence, and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation, but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself, and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character, respect, but she could not approve him, nor could she for a moment repent her refusal or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behavior there was a constant source of vexation and regret, and in the unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters, and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavor to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia, but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice, and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Maritain they would flirt with him, and while Maritain was within a walk of long-born they would be going there for ever. Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern, and Mr. Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived by the folly and in decorum of her own family. When, to these recollections, was added the development of Wickham's character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Her engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there, and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way that Mariah thought herself obliged on her return to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and was invited them to come to Huntsford again next year, and Mr. Berg exerted herself so far as to curtsy and hold out her hand to both. CHAPTER XXXVIII On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared, and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. "'I know not, Miss Elizabeth,' said he, "'whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Huntsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself, but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly.'" Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment, and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attention she had received, must make her feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied, "'It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time, not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best, and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Huntsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In truth, I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think any one abiding in it an object of compassion while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings. Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings, and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences. You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hartfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of, and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend is drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be silent—only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other." Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society. But she had chosen it with her eyes open, and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms. At length the sheds arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respect to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Mariah followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings. "'But,' he added, "'you will, of course, wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.' Elizabeth made no objection. The door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off. "'Good gracious,' cried Mariah, after a few minutes' silence, "'it seems but a day or two since we first came, and yet how many things have happened.' "'A great many indeed,' said her companion with a sigh. "'We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice. How much I shall have to tell?' Elizabeth added privately, and how much I shall have to conceal. Their journey was performed without much conversation or any alarm, and within four hours of their leaving Huntsford they reached Mr. Gardner's house, where they were to remain a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must at the same time so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered the state of indecision which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate, and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further. End of CHAPTER XXXVIII. It was the second week in May in which the three young ladies set out together from Grace Church Street for the town of Blank in Hartfordshire, and as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber. After welcoming their sisters they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an in-larder usually affords, exclaiming, "'Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?' "'And we mean to treat you all,' added Lydia, "'but you must lend us the money, for you've just spent hours at the shop out there.' Then showing her purchases, "'Look here, I've bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty, but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better.' And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added with perfect unconcern, "'Oh, but there are two or three much uglier in the shop, and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it would be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the blank sure of Left Meriton, and they are going in a fortnight.' "'Are they indeed?' cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. "'They are going to be encamped near Brighton, and I do so want Papa to take us all there for the summer. It would be such a delicious scheme, and I daresay it would cost hardly anything at all. Mama would like to go to of all things. Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!' "'Yes,' thought Elizabeth, that would be a delightful scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton! and a cold campful of soldiers to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meriton. "'Now I have got some news for you,' said Lydia, as they sat down at table. "'What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about a certain person we all like.' Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said, "'Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared. I daresay he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow. I am glad he's gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. "'Well, but now for my news. It is about dear Wickham. Too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you. She has gone down to her uncle at Liverpool, gone to stay. Wickham is safe.' "'And Mary King is safe,' added Elizabeth, "'safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune. She is a great fool for going away if she liked him.' "'But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,' said Elizabeth. "'I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it. He never cared three straws about her. Who could about such a nasty freckled little thing?' Elizabeth was shocked to think that however incapable of such coarseness of expression herself, the coarseness of the sentiment was little other than her own breast at Harbert and Fancy Liberal. As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered, and after some contrivance, the whole party with all their boxes, work bags, and parcels, and the welcome edition of Kitty and Lydia's purchases, were seated in it. "'How nicely we are all crammed in,' cried Lydia. "'I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band-box. Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you'd have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, to declare. She's almost three-and-twenty." "'Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty. My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands you can't think. She says Lizzie had better have taken Mr. Collins. But I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord, how I should like to be married before any of you, and then I would chaperone you about to all the balls. Dear me, we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening. By the by, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends. And so she asked the two Harrington's to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Penn was forced to come by herself. And then what do you think we did? We dressed up shambalane in women's clothes on purpose to pass for a lady. Only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for you were forced to borrow one of her gowns, and you cannot imagine how well he looked. When Denny and Wickham and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least! Lord! how I laughed! And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And that made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter. With such kinds of histories and their parties and good jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty, and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth, I am glad you are come back, Lizzie. Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Mariah and hear the news, and various were the subjects that occupied them. Lady Lucas was inquiring of Mariah after the welfare and paltry of her eldest daughter. Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on the one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other retailing them all to the younger Lucases. And Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other persons, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. Oh, Mary! said she! I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach, and I should have gone so all the way if Kitty had not been sick, and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then we came away, it was such fun! I thought we never should have gotten to the coach, I was ready to die of laughter! And then we were so merry all the way home, we talked and laughed so loud that anybody might have heard us ten miles off. To this, Mary very gravely replied, Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds, but I confess they would have no charms for me. I should infinitely prefer a book." But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Maritain, and to see how everybody went on, but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to her of the regiments approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding, but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet disbared of succeeding at last. CHAPTER 40 Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome, and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself. Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural, and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them, but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him. His being so sure of succeeding was wrong, said she, and certainly ought not to have appeared, but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.—Indeed," replied Elizabeth,—I am heartily sorry for him, but he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him. Blame you? Oh, no! But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham. No! I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did. But you will know it when I tell you what happened the very next day. She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! Who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual? Nor was Darcy's vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one without involving the other. This will not do, said Elizabeth. You will never be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them, just enough to make one good sort of man. And of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's. But you shall do as you choose." It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. I do not know when I have been more shocked, said she. Wickham, so very bad! It is almost past belief! And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered! Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too, and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing! I am sure you must feel it so. Oh, no! My regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice that I am going every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving, and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather. Poor Wickham! There is such an expression of goodness in his countenance, such an openness and gentleness in his manner. There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it. I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do. And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just, but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty. Lizzie, when you first read that letter I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now. Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I may say unhappy, and with no one to speak to about what I felt. No Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had. Oh! how I wanted you. How unfortunate that you should have used so very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear so wholly undeserved. Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is the most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham's character. Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion? That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself, and if I endeavour to undercede people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me, the general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent that it would be the death of half the good people in Meriton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone, and therefore it will not signify to any one here what he really is. Some time hence it will all be found out, and then may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it. You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish character. We must not make him desperate. The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explained to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake, and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. And then, said she, if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mined till it has lost all its value. She was now, unbeing settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regarded all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast. And so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquility. Well, Lizzie, said Mrs. Bennet one day, what is your opinion now of this sad business of Jane's? For my part I am determined never to speak of it again to any body. I told my sister Philip so the other day, but I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man, and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of him coming to Netherfield again in the summer, and I have inquired of every body, too, who is likely to know. I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more. Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill, and if I was her I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done. But Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, and she made no answer. Well, Lizzie—continue to her mother soon afterwards—so the Collins's live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. In what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I daresay. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping, I daresay. No, nothing at all. A great deal of good management depend upon it. Yes, yes, they will take care not to outrun their income. They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them. And so, I suppose, they often talk of having long-born when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I daresay, whenever that happens. It was a subject which they could not mention before me. No, it would have been strange if they had, but I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy within a state that is not lawfully their own so much the better, I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me. CHAPTER 41 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 so smiling, Lizzie? 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 for ever! And my aunt Phillips assured 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, too. 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. Holy 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 parlor 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 a 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 worth 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 this affair. Already arisen, repeated Mr. Bennet, what, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzie, 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 marks 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 to 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 long-born if Lydia's 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 flood than she has been here. The officers will find women better with her 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. If 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 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 the 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 only understood by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all the consolter 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 raptors 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 regiments remaining at Maritain, he dined with the other officers at Longbourn, and so little was Elizabeth disposed, apart 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 Fitzwilliams 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 gentleman-like 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 man is very different from his cousins? —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 an address that he improves? —Has he deigned to add ought of civility to his ordinary style? —For I dare not hope. —He continued in a lower and more serious tone, that he is improved in essentials. —Oh, no! said Elizabeth. —In essentials I believe he is very much what he ever was. While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added, —When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that 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 eluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together, and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Mr. Berg, 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 clamourous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieu's of her sisters were uttered without being heard. Elizabeth's opinion being 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 forever, 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 consoled the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books, and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, then 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 judge to 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 disturbors of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been looking forward with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity, to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts. It was the 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 realized—a scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful, and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation. When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often, and very minutely, to her mother and Kitty. But her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild—that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going 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 word 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 more 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 quarelless serenity, and by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Maritain 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 to not mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the war-office another regiment should be quartered in Maritain. 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 for Mrs. Gardner, which had once delayed its commencement, and curtailed its extent, Mr. Gardner 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 seed with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the lakes, and substituted more contracted tour, and according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Darbyshire. In that country there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks, and to Mrs. Gardner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formally 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, Dovdale, 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 Darbyshire 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 spas 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. Gardner, 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 Gardner 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 in conveniences, 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, Kennelworth, Birmingham, et cetera—are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardner's former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance that 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. Gardner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardner 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. We can pass 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. Gardner 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 unfavorably 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. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation, and when at last 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 a half-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 near 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-parlor. 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 handsom, and their furniture suitable to the fortunes of its proprietor. But Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine, with less of splendor and more real elegance than the furniture of Rosings. And of this place, thought she, I might have been mistress. With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my aunt and uncle. But no, recollecting herself. That could never be. My aunt and uncle 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, Steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. He has now gone into the army, she added, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild. Mrs. Gardner 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. Gardner, looking at the picture. It is a handsome face, but Lizzie, 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 curled and said, a little. And do you not think I am 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. Gardner. 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. Gardner, 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. Gardner 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 crossword 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 the 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. Gardner. Yes, Mom, that he was indeed, and his son will be just like him, just as affable to the poor. Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture in vain. Mr. Gardner, 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 are 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 aunt and uncle 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 stared, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise, but shortly recovering himself, advanced toward 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, being insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise and 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 away 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! And 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 manner 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 Rosing's 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 aunt and uncle, 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'd 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, a long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardner 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. Gardner, who was not a great walker, could go no further, 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. Gardner, 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 passed, 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. Gardner 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 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 to 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. Gardner. 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 most usually sport. Mrs. Gardner, 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, and cannot be for my sake that his manners had thus softened. My reproofs at Huntsford 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, their chance to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardner, 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 tomorrow, 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 a sum 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 mention 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. Gardner 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 Dovdale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly, and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tet-a-tet was over. Aunt Mr. and Mrs. Gardner'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 he 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 I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day and warn me off his ground. Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing. From what we have seen of him, continued Mrs. Gardner, I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he is 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 Hartfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardner 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 knew sooner dined that she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance. The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends, and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.