 Chapter 55 A Few Days After This Visit Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days' time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them, but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "'Next time you call,' said she, "'I hope we shall be more lucky.' He should be particularly happy at any time, etc., etc., and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. Can you come to-morrow?' Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow, and her invitation was accepted with a lacquery. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room in her dressing-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "'My dear Jane! Make haste, and hurry down! He has come! Mr. Bingley has come! He is indeed! Make haste! Make haste! Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzie's hair.' "'We will be down as soon as we can,' said Jane, but I dare say Kitty is forerder than either of us, for she went upstairs half an hour ago.' "'Oh, hang, Kitty! What has she to do with it? Come, be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?' But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went upstairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her, and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "'What is the matter, Mama? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?' "'Nothing, child, nothing! I did not wink at you.' She then sat still five minutes longer, but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up and, saying to Kitty, "'Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,' took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such pre-meditation, and her entreaty that she would not give into it. In a few minutes Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and called out, "'Lizzie, my dear, I want to speak with you.'" Elizabeth was forced to go. "'We may as well leave them by themselves, you know,' said her mother, as soon as she was in the hall. "'Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room.' Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was everything that was charming except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party, and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and had all her silly remarks with the forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay to supper, and before he went away an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley, but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment, and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule or disgust him into silence, and he was more communicative and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley, of course, returned with him to dinner, and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get everybody away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea, for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the half, as if engaged in earnest conversation, and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough, but hers, she thought, was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either, and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure, and instantly embracing her acknowledged with the liveliest emotion that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much,' she added, "'by far too much, I do not deserve it. Oh, why is not everybody as happy?' Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present. "'I must go instantly to my mother,' she cried. I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude, or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He has gone to my father already. Oh, Lizzie, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family. How shall I bear so much happiness?' She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card-party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "'And this,' said she, is the end of all his friends' anxious circumspection, of all his sisters' falsehood and contrivance—the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end. In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been shortened to the purpose. "'Where is your sister?' he said hastily, as he opened the door. With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I daresay.' He then shut the door, and coming up to her claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality, and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own happiness and of Jane's perfections. And in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all. The satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her term was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour. And when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips an illusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night. But as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman. Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. You are a good girl," he replied, and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying that nothing will ever be resolved on, so easy that every servant will cheat you, and so generous that you will always exceed your income. I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me. Exceed their income. My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more. Then addressing her daughter, oh, my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy. I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing. I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh, he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen. With them Lydia were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment she cared for no other. Her younger sister soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield, and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn, coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper, unless when some barbarous neighbour who could not be enough detested had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept. Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister. For while he was present Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else, but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane he always attached himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking of her, and when Bingley was gone Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. He has made me so happy, said she, one evening, by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring. I had not believed it possible. I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth, but how did he account for it? It must have been his sisters doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again, though we can never be what we once were to each other. That is the most unforgiving speech, said Elizabeth, that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me indeed to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard. Would you believe it, Lizzie, that when he went to town last November he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of my being indifferent would have prevented his coming down again? He made a little mistake, to be sure, but it is to the credit of his modesty. This, naturally, introduced a panagiric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend. For though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him. I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed, cried Jane. Oh, Lizzie, why am I thus singled from my family and blessed above them all? If I could but see you as happy, if there were but such another man for you. If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself, and perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time. The situation of affairs in the long-born family could not long be a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Merriton. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. CHAPTER 56 One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the sound of a carriage, and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the aquapart did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post, and neither the carriage nor the livery of the servant who preceded it were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Berg. They were, of course, all intending to be surprised, but their astonishment was beyond their expectation, and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt. She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduction had been made. Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very swiftly to Elizabeth, I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your mother. Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. And that, I suppose, is one of your sisters. Yes, madam, said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family. You have a very small park here, returned Lady Catherine after a short silence. It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say, but I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's. This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in summer. The windows are full west. Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then added, May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins well? Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last. Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled. Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment, but Lady Catherine, very resolutely and not very politely, declined eating anything, and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company. Go, my dear! cried her mother, and show her ladyship about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with her marriage. Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlor and drawing-room, and, pronouncing them after a short survey to be decent-looking rooms, walked on. Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the cops. Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with the woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable. How could I ever think her like her nephew? said she, as she looked her in her face. As soon as they entered the cops, Lady Catherine began in the following manner. You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come. Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. Indeed, you are mistaken, madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here. Miss Bennet, replied her ladyship in an angry tone, you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place that I might make my sentiments known to you. If you believed it impossible to be true, said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it? At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted. You're coming to Longbourn to see me and my family, said Elizabeth Cooley, will be rather a confirmation of it, if indeed such a report is in existence. If—do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad? I never heard that it was. And can you likewise declare that there is no foundation for it? I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer. This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he—has my nephew—made you an offer of marriage? Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible. It ought to be so. It must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in. If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it. Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns. But you are not entitled to know mine, nor will such behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit. Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say? Only this—that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me." Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied, The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles we planned the union. And now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family, do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends, to his tacit engagement with Mr. Berg? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin? Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Mr. Berg. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him? Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest. For do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends if you willfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be at disgrace. Your name will never even be mentioned by any of us. These are heavy misfortunes, replied Elizabeth. But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine. Obstinate! Headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you. Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose, nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment. That will make your ladyship situation at present more pitiable, but it will have no effect on me. I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal side from the same noble line, and on the fathers, from respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses, and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune? Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up. In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman. I am a gentleman's daughter. So far we are equal. True. You are a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition. Whatever my connections may be, said Elizabeth, if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you. Tell me once and for all, are you engaged to him? Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation, I am not. Lady Catherine seemed pleased. And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement? I will make no promise of the kind. Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will never recede. I shall not go away until you have given me the assurance I require. And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter. But would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell. But you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be impotuned no farther on the subject. Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know at all that the young man's marrying her was a patched up business at the expense of your father and uncles, and is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth! Of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? You can now have nothing further to say," she resentfully answered. You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg you to return to the house." And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed. You have no regard, then, for the honor and credit of my nephew—unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody? Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments. You are then resolved to have him. I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to add to that manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness without reference to you or to any person so wholly unconnected with me. It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honor, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends and make him the contempt of the world. Neither duty nor honor nor gratitude, replied Elizabeth, have any possible claim on me in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family or the indignation of the world, if the former were excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern, and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn. And this is your real opinion. This is your final resolve. Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable, but depend upon it I will carry my point." In this manner Lady Catherine talked on till they were at the door of the carriage, when, turning hastily around, she added, I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased. Elizabeth made no answer, and without attempting to persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded upstairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. She did not choose it, said her daughter. She would go. She is a very fine-looking woman, and her calling here was prodigiously civil, for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collins's were well. She is on her road somewhere, I daresay, and so passing through Merriton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzie. Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here, for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible. CHAPTER 57 The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into could not be easily overcome, nor could she for many hours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings with a sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure, but from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine, till she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and her being the sister of Jane, was enough at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together, and her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore, for through their communication with the Collinces the report she concluded had reached Lady Catherine, had only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some future time. In revolving Lady Catherine's expectations, however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew, and how he might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher of her ladyship than she could do, and it was certain that in enumerating the miseries of the marriage with one whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity he would probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning. If he had been wavering before us to what he should do, which had often seemed lightly, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town, and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his friend within a few days, she added, I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all. The surprise of the rest of the family on hearing who their visitor had been was very great, but they obligingly satisfied it with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity, and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject. The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with the letter in his hand. I was going to look for you. Come into my room." She followed him thither, and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations. She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He then said, I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest. The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew instead of the aunt, and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he had explained himself at all or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself when her father continued. You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these, but I think I may defy even your sagacity to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins. From Mr. Collins? And what can he have to say? Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptals of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not support with your impatience by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself is as follows. Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet after her elder sister has resided, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land. Can you possibly guess, Lizzie, who was meant by this? This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with everything the heart of mortal can most desire. Splendid property, noble kindred and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth and yourself of what evils you may incur by a precipitated closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of. Have you any idea, Lizzie, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out. My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Berg, does not look on the match with a friendly eye. Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man. Now, Lizzie, I think I have surprised you. Could he or the Lucases have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life, it is admirable. Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. Are you not diverted? Oh, yes! Pray read on. After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion. When it became apparent that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned. Mr. Collins, moreover, adds, I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice, and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing. That is his notion of Christian forgiveness. The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzie, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be Missish, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours and laugh at them in our turn? Oh! cried Elizabeth. I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange. Yes, that is what makes it amusing. If fixed on any other man, it would have been nothing. But his perfect indifference, in your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd. Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay. When I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzie, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent? To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh, and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much. CHAPTER XVIII Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early, and before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of there having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking. Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them, while Elizabeth, Kitty and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either. Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk, Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution, and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Mariah, and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and while her courage was high, she immediately said, Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express. I am sorry—exceedingly sorry—replied Darcy in a tone of surprise and emotion, that you have ever been informed what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardner was so little to be trusted. You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter, and of course I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them. If you will thank me," he replied, let it be for yourself alone, that the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you." Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause her companion added, You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever. Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of a situation, now forced herself to speak, and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never felt before, and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him. But though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings which, improving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought and felt and said for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there related her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrarious. It taught me to hope, said he, as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly. Elizabeth coloured and laughed, as she replied. Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations. What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence. We will not quarrel for the greatest share of blame and extra that evening, said Elizabeth. The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. But since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility. I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been, many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget. Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner? Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me, though it was some time I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice. I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way. I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me. Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it. Darcy mentioned his letter. Did it—said he—did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents? She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. I knew, said he, that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me. The letter shall certainly be burned if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard, but, though we have both reason to think my opinion is not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies. When I wrote that letter, replied Darcy, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The idea is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure. I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach that the contentment arising from them is not a philosophy, but what is much better, of innocence. But with me it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, for many years an only child, I was spoiled by my parents, who though good themselves, my father particularly all that was benevolent and amiable, allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was from eight to eight and twenty, and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. What do I not owe you? You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. Had you then persuaded yourself that I should? Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting, my addresses. My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening. Hate you? I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction. I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming? No, indeed. I felt nothing but surprise. Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confessed that I did not expect to receive more than my due. My object then, replied Darcy, was to show you by every civility in my power that I was not so mean as to resent the past, and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you. He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption, which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to reach to be dwelt on, father. After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home. What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane? was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement. His friend had given him the earliest information of it. I must ask whether you were surprised, said Elizabeth. Not at all. When I went away I felt that it would soon happen. That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much. And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case. On the evening before my going to London, said he, I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him moreover that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him, and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together. Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend. Did you speak from your own observation, said she, when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring? From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here, and I was convinced of her affection. And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him? It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now. Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend, so easily guided that his worth was invaluable. But she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which, of course, was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted. CHAPTER 59 My dear Lizzie, where can you have been walking to? was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she spoke, but neither that nor anything else awakened a suspicion of the truth. The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers, talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy than felt herself to be so. For besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known. She was aware that no one liked him but Jane, and even feared that with the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. Not joking, Lizzie, this cannot be. Engaged to Mr. Darcy? No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible. This is a wretched beginning indeed. My sole dependence was on you, and I am sure nobody else will believe me if you do not. Yet indeed I am an earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. Oh, Lizzie, it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him. You know nothing of the matter. That is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now, but in such cases as these a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself. Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously, a shorter of its truth. Good heaven! Can it really be so? Yet now I must believe you, cried Jane. My dear, dear Lizzie, I would—I do congratulate you, but are you certain? Forgive the question. Are you quite certain that you can be happy with him? There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother? Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it. We talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzie, do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do? Oh, yes. You will only think I feel more than I ought to do when I tell you all. What do you mean? Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry. My dearest sister, now be serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know everything that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him? It has been coming on so gradually that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must state it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley. Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect, and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing further to wish. Now I am quite happy," said she, for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him. But now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzie, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley in Lampton. I owe all that I know of it to another, not to you." Elizabeth told of the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley, and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her a Sharon Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversation. Good gracious! cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next morning. If that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with our dear Bingley, what can he mean by being so tiresome as to always be coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzie, you must walk out with him again that he may not be in Bingley's way. Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal, yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet. As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information, and he soon afterwards said aloud, Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzie may lose her way again today? I advise Mr. Darcy and Lizzie and Kitty, said Mrs. Bennet, to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view. It may do very well for the others, replied Mr. Bingley, but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty? Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying, I am quite sorry, Lizzie, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself, but I hope you will not mind it. It is all for Jane's sake, you know. There is no occasion for talking to him except just now and then, so do not put yourself to inconvenience. During their walk it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it, sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill-adapted to do credit to her sense, and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy than the first vehemence of her disapprobation. In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means that she, his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again. When looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty, and while pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, Go to your father, he wants you in the library. She was gone directly. Her father was walking about the room looking grave and anxious. Lizzie, said he, what are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be accepting this man? Have you not always hated him? How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more reasonable, her expressions more moderate? It would have spared her from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give, but they were now necessary, and she assured him with some confusion of her attachment to Mr. Darcy. Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane, but will they make you happy? Have you any other objection, said Elizabeth, than your belief in my indifference? None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but this would be nothing if you really liked him. I do. I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes. I love him. Indeed, he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is. Then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms. Lizzie, said her father, I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man indeed to whom I should never dare refuse anything which he condescended to ask. I now give it to you, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzie. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about. Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply, and at length, by repeated assurances, that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match. Well, my dear, said he, when she ceased speaking, I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzie, to any one less worthy. To complete the favourable impression, she then told what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He hurt her with astonishment. This is an evening of wonders indeed, and so Darcy did everything, made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him his commission. So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and would have paid him. But these violent young lovers carry everything their own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow. He will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter." He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading Mr. Collins's letter, and after laughing at her some time, allowed her at last to go, saying, as she quitted the room, if any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure. Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight, and after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join the others with tolerable composure. Everything was too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away. There was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time. When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary. For I'm first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard, though not in general backward to credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wander and bless herself. Good gracious! Lord bless me, only think! Dear me, Mr. Darcy, who would have thought it? And is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzie, how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane's is nothing to it, nothing at all. I am so pleased, so happy, such a charming man, so handsome, so tall! Oh, my dear Lizzie, pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope you will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzie, a house in town, everything that is charming, three daughters married, ten thousand a year. Oh, Lord, what will become of me! I shall go distracted." This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted, and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, her mother followed her. My dearest child, she cried, I can think of nothing else, ten thousand a year and very lightly more. It is as good as a Lord, and a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow. This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman himself might be, and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain possession of his warmest affection and secure of her relations' consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected, for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention or mark her deference for his opinion. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get acquainted with him, and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem. I admire all my three sons-in-law highly, said he. Wickham, perhaps, is my favourite, but I think I shall like your husband quite as well as Jane's. Rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his ever having fallen in love with her. How could you begin, said she? I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when once you had made a beginning, but what could set you off in the first place? I cannot fix the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle of it, before I knew that I had begun. My beauty you had early withstood. And as for my manners, my behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be sincere. Did you admire me for my impertinence? For the liveliness of your mind I did. You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. The fact is that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking and looking and thinking for your approbation alone. I roused and interested you, because I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable, you would have hated me for it. But in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just, and in your heart you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There! I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it, and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me, but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love. Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was ill at Netherfield? Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible, and in return it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarreling with you as often as may be, and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last? What made you so shy of me when you first called and afterwards dined here? Why, especially when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me? Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement. But I was embarrassed, and so was I. You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner. A man who had felt less might. How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it. But I wonder how long you would have gone on if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you would have spoken if I had not asked you. My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. Too much, I am afraid, for what becomes of the moral if our comfort springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the subject—this will never do. You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I was determined at once to know everything. Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to write a long-born and be embarrassed, or had you intended any more serious consequence? My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one—or what I avowed to myself—was to see whether your sister was still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made. Shall you ever have the courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to befall her? I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth, but it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly. And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have an aunt too, who must not be longer neglected. From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy had been overrated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardner's long letter. But now, having that to communicate, which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows. I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory detail of particulars. But to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But now, suppose as much as you choose. Give a loose reign to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you again and again for not going to the lakes. How could I be so silliest to wish it? Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane. She only smiles. I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You were all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours, etc. Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style, and still different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins in reply to his last. Dear sir, I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Consol, Lady Catherine, as well as you can. But if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give. Your sincerely, etc. Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother on his approaching marriage, for all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to Jane on the occasion to express her delight and repeat all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected, and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved. The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister. Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the long-born family heard that the Collinces were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a moment the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious ability of her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir William Lucas when he complimented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight. Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another and perhaps greater tax on his reverence, and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good humour encouraged, yet whenever she did speak she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse without mortification. And though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future, and she looked forward with delight, to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley. One of the maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life. So perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she was still occasionally nervous and invariably silly. Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly. His affection for her drew him offner from home than anything else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelve-month. So nearer vicinity to her mother in merit and relations was not desirable even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified. He bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Darbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other. Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia, and removed from the influence of Lydia's example she became, by proper attention in management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's society she was, of course, carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wilkham frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going. Mary was the only daughter who remained at home, and she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she could still moralise over every morning visit, and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sister's beauty and her own, it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance. As for Wilkham and Lydia, their character suffered no revolution from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown to her, and in spite of everything, was not wholly without hope, that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect. My dear Lizzy, I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do, my dear Wilkham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wilkham would like a place at court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite enough money to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year, but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it if you had rather not. Yours, et cetera. As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she endeavored in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford by the practice of what might be called economy in her own private expenses, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support, and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into indifference, hers lasted a little longer, and in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage had given her. Though Darcy could never receive him at Pemberley, yet for Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath, and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage, but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropped all her resentment, was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as here too for, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's home, and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth, though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband, which her brother will not always allow in a system more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew, and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation, and after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself, and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. With the gardeners they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy as well as Elizabeth really loved them, and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.