 Chapter 24 Miss Bingley's letter arrived and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Hope was over. Entirely over. And when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little except the professed affection of the writer that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with rapture some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy, she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done, and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her sisters was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject in short on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else, and yet, whether Biggnie's regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friend's interference, whether he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation, whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded. A day or two passed before Jane had the courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth, but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying, Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him, but I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before." Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing. You doubt me! cried Jane, slightly colouring. Indeed, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not that pain. A little time, therefore, I shall certainly try to get the better. With a stronger voice, she soon added, I have this comfort immediately—that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to any one but myself. My dear Jane, exclaimed Elizabeth, you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic. I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve. Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister's warm affection. Jane, said Elizabeth, this is not fair. You wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want to think you perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal goodwill. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it. And every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately—one I will not mention—the other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable. In every view it is unaccountable. My dear Lizzie, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability in Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a large family, that as to fortune it is a most eligible match, and be ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin. To oblige you I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this. For were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I do now of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man. You know he is, as well as I do, and you must feel as well as I do that the woman who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavor to persuade yourself or me that selfishness is prudence and insensibility of danger, security for happiness. I must think your language too strong in speaking of both, replied Jane, and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned two instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzie, not to pain me by thinking that person to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded in circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does. And men take care that they should. If it is designately done, they cannot be justified, but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine. I fear I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design, said Elizabeth, but without scheming to do wrong or to make others unhappy there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness—want of attention to other people's feelings and want of resolution will do the business. And do you impute it to either of those? Yes, to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can. You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him? Yes, in conjunction with his friend. I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it. Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness. They may wish his increase of wealth and consequence. They may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride. Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy, replied Jane. But this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me. No wonder if they love her better. But whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brothers. What sister would think herself had liberty to do it, unless there was something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us. If he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken, or at least—it is light. It is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood. Elizabeth could not oppose utter wish, and from this time Mr. Bingley's name was scarcely ever mentioned between them. Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavored to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more. But though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. So, Lizzie, said he one day, your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jolt you credibly. Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane's good fortune. True, said Mr. Bennet, but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it. Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of a long-born family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed, and everybody was pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known anything of the matter. Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire. Her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes. But by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before, wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks. On the following Monday Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardner was a sensible gentleman-like man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade and within view of his own warehouses could have been so well bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her long-born nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town. The first part of Mrs. Gardner's business on her arrival was to distribute her presence and describe the newest fashions. When this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it. I do not blame Jane, she continued, for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzie—oh, sister!—it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins' wife by this time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the long-born estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucas' are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am very sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of long sleeves. Mrs. Gardner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and in compassion to her nieces turned the conversation. When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane, said she. I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often. A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when an accident separates them so easily forgets her, that these sorts of inconsistencies are very frequent. An excellent consolation in its way, said Elizabeth, but it will not do for us. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before. But that expression of violently in love is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance as to a real strong attachment. Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley's love? I never saw him a promising inclination. He was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance, and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general insubility the very essence of love? Oh, yes! Of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzie. You would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be of service, and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything. Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with his proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister's ready acquiescence. I hope, added Mrs. Gardner, that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and as you well know we go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her. And that is quite impossible, for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of London. My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have heard of such a place as Grace Church Street, but he would hardly think amongst ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, where he wants to enter it, and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him. So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond with his sister? She will not be able to help calling. She will drop the acquaintance entirely. But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friend successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's attractions. Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure, and the Bingleys were no other wise than her thoughts at the same time, than as she hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her without any danger of seeing him. The gardener stayed a week at Longbourne, and what with the Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one, and on these occasions Mrs. Gardner rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them from what she saw to be very seriously enough, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy, and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment. To Mrs. Gardner Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Darbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common, and though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring. Mrs. Gardner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with a minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad, which might agree with it, and was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formally spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy. Mrs. Gardner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone. After honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on— You are too sensible a girl, Lizzie, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it, and therefore I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against him. He is a most interesting young man, and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on your resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father. My dear aunt, this is being serious, indeed. Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise. Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself and of Mr. Wickham, too. He shall not be in love with me if I can prevent it. Elizabeth, you are not serious now. I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham. No, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw. And if he becomes really attached to me, I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! that abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy. But since we see every day that, where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted? Or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best. Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not remind your mother of inviting him. As I did the other day, said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile, very true. It will be wise in me to refrain from that. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest. And now I hope you are satisfied. Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth, having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted. A wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point without being resented. Mr. Collins returned to Hartfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the gardeners and Jane. But as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-nated tone that she wished they might be happy. Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit, and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said, I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza. That you certainly shall. And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me? We shall often meet, I hope, in Hartfordshire. I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford." Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. My father and Mariah coming to me in March, added Charlotte, and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them. The wedding took place, the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been, that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness. There could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be. Though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, the furniture, neighbourhood, and roads were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Huntsford and Rosings rationally softened, and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London, and when she wrote again Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingley's. Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost. My aunt, she continued, is going to Morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grovener Street. She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. I did not think Caroline and Spirits were her words, but she was very glad to see me and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I daresay I shall see them soon here. Elizabeth took her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town. Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it, but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear, but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt. My dearest Lizzy Will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday, and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it. She made a slight formal apology for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did. I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on her side, but I pity her because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause for it. I need not explain myself, father, though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me, and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had a door cared about me, we must have met long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself, and yet it would seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this, but I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them with Sir William and Mariah. I am sure you will be very comfortable there. Yours, etc. This letter gave Elizabeth some pain, but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped—by the sister, at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She could not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it, and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped that he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardner, about this time, reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information, and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of someone else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that she, would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable, but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural, and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy. All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardner, and after relating the circumstances she thus went on. I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love, for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards him, they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual, and though I certainly should be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances where I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain. And otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Huntsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going fiver, but Charlotte she soon found was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure, as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme, and as with such a mother and such uncompagnionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane, and in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as perfect as plan could be. The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter. The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly, on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired, and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Berg, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a solicitude and interest, which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard, and she parted from him convinced that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her fellow travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas and his daughter Mariah—a good, humid girl, but as empty-headed as himself—had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the shears. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood, and his civilities were worn out, like his information. It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Grace Church Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardner's door Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival. When they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it helpful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a trouble of little boys and girls whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelve-month, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness, the day passed most pleasantly away, the morning and bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her sister, and she was more grieved and astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Grace Church Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. But my dear Elizabeth, she added, what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary. Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me because it would be imprudent, and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary. If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think. She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her. But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune. No. What should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain my affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor? But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions toward her so soon after this event. A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we? Her not objecting to it does not justify him. It only shows her being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling. Well, crowd Elizabeth, have it as you choose. He shall be mercenary and she shall be foolish. No, Lizzie, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire. Oh, if that is all! I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire, and their intimate friends who live in Hartfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing after all. Take care, Lizzie. That speech savers strongly of disappointment. Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. We have not determined how far it shall carry us, said Mrs. Gardner, but perhaps to the lakes. No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. Oh, my dear, dear aunt! she rapturously cried. What delight! what felicity! you give me fresh life and vigor! her dear to disappointment and spleen! what our young men to rocks and mountains! oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where we have gone. We will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains and rivers shall not be dumbled together in our imaginations, nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers. Elizabeth's day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth, and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment, for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. When they left the high road for the lane to Huntsford, every eye was in search of the parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. At length the parsonage was discernible. The gardens sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pails and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the shades, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage. His formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house. And as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory, and she could not help fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful in air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unsettled him, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush, but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures, and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and own she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and crosswalk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden or which the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of rosings afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground. From his garden Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows, but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back, and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased probably to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient, and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten. She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in observed. Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Berg on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not, but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Mariah in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several. Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed, added Charlotte, and a most attentive neighbour. Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference. The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written, and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She also had to anticipate how her visit would pass—the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gayities of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion, and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door, and met Mariah in the landing-place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out, "'Oh, my dear Eliza, pray make haste, and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is! Bake haste, and come down this moment!' Elizabeth asked questions in vain. Mariah would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder. It was two ladies stopping in a low-fayton in the garden-gate. "'And is this all?' cried Elizabeth. "'I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter.' "'Larm, my dear!' said Mariah, quite shocked at the mistake. It is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The other is Mr. Berg. Only look at her! She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?' She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors and all this wind. Why does she not come in? "'Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Mr. Berg comes in.' "'I like her appearance,' said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.' Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies, and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Mr. Berg looked that way. At length there was nothing more to be said. The ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls, and he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte exclaimed by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at first. Charlotte dined at Rosings the next day. And that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough. "'I confess,' said he, that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyships asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there, an invitation moreover including the whole party, so immediately after your arrival?" "'I am the less surprised at what has happened,' replied Sir William, from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon." Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. When the ladies were separating for the toilet, he said to Elizabeth, "'Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest. There is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved." While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship and her manner of living quite frightened Mariah Lucas, who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done to his presentation at St. James. As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects, and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Louis de Berg. When they ascended the steps to the hall, Mariah's alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation. From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapture of Sir, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them, and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband, that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary. In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow and take his seat without saying a word, and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her compositely. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence, but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind, and from the observation of the day altogether she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented. When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Mariah's astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Mr. Berg was pale and sickly, her features, though not plain, were insignificant, and she spoke very little, except in a low voice to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes. After sitting a few minutes they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer. The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised, and as he had likewise foretold, he took a seat at the bottom of the table by her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity, and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Mr. Berg, the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Mr. Berg ate, pressing her to try some other dish and fearing she was indisposed. Mariah thought speaking out of the question, and the gentleman did nothing but eat and admire. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgment controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly, and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all, told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Mariah and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very gentile, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother's maiden name. Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions, but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed, Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think, for your sake, turning to Charlotte, I am glad of it, but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Louis de Berg's family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet? A little. Then some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to—you shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing? One of them does. Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webb's all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw? No, not at all. What, none of you? Not one. That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters. My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London. Has your governess left you? We never had a governess. No governess? How is that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess. I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education. Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been the case. Then who taught you? Who attended to you? Without a governess you must have been neglected. Compared with some families I believe we were. But such a versus wish to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idols certainly might. I, no doubt. But that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means, and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. Lady Catherine said she, you have given me a treasure. Are any of your youngest sisters out, Miss Bennet? Yes, ma'am, all. All? But all five out at once? Very odd. And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married. Your youngest sisters must be very young. Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is four young to be much in company, but really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder have not the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as the first, and to be kept back on such a motive, I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind. Upon my word, said her ladyship, you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age? With three younger sisters grown up, replied Elizabeth, smiling, your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it. Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer, and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertence. You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age. I am not one and twenty. When the gentlemen had joined them, and he was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadril, and as Mr. Berg chose to play at Casino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Mr. Berg's being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking, stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. So William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names. When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir Williams, they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise into his own hands. CHAPTER XXVIII Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour, as were not often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mourning to driving him out in his gig and showing him the country, but when he went away the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading and writing and looking out of the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which the lady sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlor for common use. It was a better-sized room, and had a more pleasant aspect, but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment had they sat in one equally lively, and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement. From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Mr. Berg drove by in her faten, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not infrequently stopped at the parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out. Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise, and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently, found fault with the arrangement of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence, and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family. Elizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was not in commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins, and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty. The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week, and allowing for the loss of Sir William and their being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough. There were half hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice, sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity. In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in a course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at the parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord, and to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentleman accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from our husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding, I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me. Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the doorbell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and addressed most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments with his usual reserve to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtsied to him without saying a word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly, but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause added, My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there? She was perfectly sensible that he never had, but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away. Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation dither, for while they were visitors in the house they could not be necessary, and it was not till Easter Day, almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen only at church. The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get to nobody else, and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than any other person in the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them. Anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings, and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had, moreover, caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and Hartfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before, and they conversed with so much spirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity, and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruble to call out, What is it that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it that you are talking of? What are you telling, Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is. We are speaking of music, madam, said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. Of music? Then pray, speak aloud. It is, of all subjects, my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learned, I should have been a great proficient, and so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on Darcy? Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency. I am very glad to hear such a good account of her, said Lady Catherine, and pray tell her from me that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal. I assure you, madam," he replied, that she does not need such advice. She practices very constantly. So much the better. It cannot be done too much, and when I next write to her, I shall chart her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times that she will never play really well, unless she practices more. And though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day and play on the piano forte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house. Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made no answer. When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him, and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew, till the latter walked away from her, and, making with his usual deliberation towards the piano forte, stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performance countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause turned to him with an arch-smile, and said, You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state, to hear me? I will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that can never bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me." I shall not say you are mistaken," he replied, because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you, and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, are not your own. Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire, and give me leave to say, very impolitic, too, for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear. I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly. Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of, cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. I should like to know how he behaves among strangers. You shall hear, then, but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball. And at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce, and to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in one of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact. I had not, at that time, the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party. True, and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders. Perhaps," said Darcy, I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction. But I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers. Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this, said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam? Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education and who has lived in the world is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers? I can answer your question, said Fitzwilliam, without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble. I certainly have not for talent which some people possess, said Darcy, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation or appear interested in their concerns as I often see done. My fingers, said Elizabeth, do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see many women do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault, because I will not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution." Darcy smiled and said, You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We, neither of us, performed to strangers. Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy, Miss Bennet would not play at all a miss, if she practiced more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn. Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his cousin's praise. But neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love, and from the whole of his behaviour to Mr. Berg she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry her had she been his relation. Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing them with many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and at the request of the gentleman, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was ready to take them all home. CHAPTER XXXI Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning and writing to Jane, while Mrs. Collins and Mariah were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her half-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room. He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were to be within. They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting when she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed, How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon, for if I recollect right, you went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London? Perfectly so, I thank you. She found that she was to receive no other answer, and after a short pause added, I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again. I have heard him say so, but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing. If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle. I should not be surprised," said Darcy, if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers. Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend, and having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him. He took the hint, and soon began with,—this seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Huntsford. I believe she did, and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object. Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife. Yes, indeed. His friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding, though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her. It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easier distance of her own family and friends. An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles. And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance. I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match, cried Elizabeth. I should never have said Mrs. Collins were settled near her family. It is a proof of your own attachment to Hartfordshire. Anything beyond the neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far. As he spoke, there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she understood. He must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered. I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys. And I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family, under less than half the present distance. Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn. Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling. He drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it said in a colder voice, Are you pleased with Kent? A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and concise, and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister just returned from her walk. The data-tet surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away. What can be the meaning of this? said Charlotte as soon as he was gone. My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this familiar way. But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case, and after various conjectures they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors, and in the nearness of the parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society—a persuasion which, of course, recommended him still more—and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her—of her former favourite, George Wickham. And though, in comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners, she believed he might have the best-informed mind. But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips, and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice, a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her, and as she would like to have believed this changed the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Huntsford, but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind. She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea, and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment, for in her opinion it admitted not over doubt that all her friends' dislike would vanish if she could suppose him to be in her power. In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man. He certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible. But, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at all. CHAPTER XXXIII More than once did Elizabeth, in her rambles within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd. Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like willful ill nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause, and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much, but it struck her in the course of their third rank entree that he was asking some odd, unconnected questions about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness, and that, in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that, whenever she came into Kent again, she would be staying there, too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pails opposite the passage. She was engaged one day as she walked, and perusing Jane's last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said, I did not know before that you ever walked this way. I have been making the tour of the park, he replied, as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the passage. Are you going much farther? No, I should have turned in a moment. And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the passage together. Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday, said she? Yes, if Darcy does not put it off again, but I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases. And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy. He likes to have his own way very well, replied Colonel Fitzwilliam, but so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be enured to self-denial independence. In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial independence, when have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for? These are home questions, and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature, but in matters of greater weight I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like—unless they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do. Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money. Is this, thought Elizabeth, meant for me? And she coloured at the idea, but recovering herself said in a lively tone, and pray, what is the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds? He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards said, I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind, but perhaps his sister does as well for the present, and as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her. No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, that is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy. Are you indeed? And pray, what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way. As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the man-room which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She replied directly, You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her, and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them. I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like man. He is a great friend of Darcy's. Oh, yes," said Elizabeth Dryley, Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him. Care of him? Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most once care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him, but I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture. What is it you mean? It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family it would be an unpleasant thing. You may depend upon my not mentioning it. And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this—that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer. Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference? I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady. And what arts did he use to separate them? He did not talk to me of his own arts, said Fitzwilliam, smiling. He only told me what I have now told you. Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. I am thinking of what you have been telling me, said she. Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge? You are rather disposed to call his interference officious? I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But—she continued recollecting herself. As we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case. That is not an unnatural surmise, said Fitzwilliam, but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly. This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent matters until they reached the passage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted. But she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design in arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause. His pride and caprice were the cause of all that Jane had suffered and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world, and no one could say how lasting and evil he might have inflicted. There were some very strong objections against the lady, were Conofford's Williams words, and those strong objections probably were her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London. To Jane herself, she exclaimed, there could be no possibility of objection. All loveliness and goodness as she is, her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach. When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little, but she would not allow that any objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend's connections than from their want of sense, and she was quite decided at last that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister. The agitation and tears which the subject occasion brought on a headache, and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her. But Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home. CHAPTER XXXIV When they were gone Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keenest sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was just to end on the day after the next, and are still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enable to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could do. She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him. While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner, he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then, getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came toward her in an agitated manner, and thus began, In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her immediately followed. Elizabeth spoke well. But there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her deeply rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive. Till, roused resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion and anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer, and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate father, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said, In cases such as these it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments of out, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgement of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation. Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said, And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting. I might perhaps wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance. I might as well inquire, replied she. Why, with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister? As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour. But the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued. I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principle if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the centre of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind. She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. Can you deny that you have done it? she repeated. With assumed tranquillity he then replied, I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself. Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. It is not merely this affair, she continued, on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself, or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others? You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns, said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him. His misfortunes—repeated Darcy contemptuously—yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed. And of your inflection, quite Elizabeth, with energy, you have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his dessert. You have done all this, and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule. And this, cried Darcy, as you walked with quick steps across the room, is your opinion of me. This is the estimation in which you hold me. I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed. But perhaps, added he, stopping in his walk and turning towards her, these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination. By reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own? Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment. Yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said, You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared the concern which I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued, You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. Again, his astonishment was obvious, and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on, From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, was such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike. And I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry. You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own had been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness." And with these words, he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it, that she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy, that he should have been in love with her for so many months, so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friends marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost incredible. It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal of what he had done with respected Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room. CHAPTER XXXV 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 favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes-coming verse stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane which led farther from the Turnpike Road. The park-pailing was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground. After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park. He was moving that way, and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness pronounced her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had, by that time, reached it also, and, holding out a letter which she instinctively took, said, with the look of haughty composure, I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter? And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows. Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetitions of those sentiments or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. And the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must therefore pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. Your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demanded of your justice. Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you laid last night to my charge. The first mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Whitham. 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 expected 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 been long 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 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 as 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 and 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 with this representation of them, let to 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 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 to Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction. It is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable, but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done, and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learned to condemn them. With respect to that other more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me, I am ignorant, but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him. And on George Wickham, who was his 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. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago, and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and if he took orders, 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, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage in lieu of the preferment by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention he added of studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere, but at any rate was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accept it in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too will 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 pretense, 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 a letter for the presentation. His circumstances he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question, of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was 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 were 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 defending 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 revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together. And if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he 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 executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your apporance 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