 CHAPTER 31 Colonel Fitzwilliams 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 thither. For while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary. And it was not till Easter day, almost a week after the gentleman's arrival, that they were honored 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 nobody else. And she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them. Anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings, and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had more overcaught 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 scruple 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, madame," said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. Of music? Then pray, speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy? Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency. I am very glad to hear such a good account of her, said Lady Catherine. And pray, tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal. I assure you, madame," 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 charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times that she will never play really well unless she 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 to 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 performer's countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arched 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 never can 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 impolite 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 at 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 want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact. I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party. True, and nobody can ever be introduced in a 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 the talent which some people possess, said Darcy, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done. My fingers, said Elizabeth, do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women 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 ascended 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 behavior 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 with them 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. Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door. The certain signal of a visitor. 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 apologized 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 Hartfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed. How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy. It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon. For, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London. Perfectly so, I thank you. She found that she was to receive no other answer, and after a short pause added, I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again. I have never heard him say so, but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in 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 you 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 could 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 easy a distance of her own family and friends. An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles. And what is fifty miles of Good Road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance. I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match, cried Elizabeth. I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family. It is a proof of your own attachment to Hartfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighborhood 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 a frequent journey. 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 tete-a-tete 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 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 personage, 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 favorite 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 personage, 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 Hunsford, but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there was 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 disappointments. For in her opinion it admitted not of a 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. Linda Lee Paquette Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Chapter 33 More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the park unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favorite hot of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd. Yet it did, and even a third. It seems like willful ill nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause in then a way, 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 rancontra that he was asking some odd, unconnected questions about her pleasure in being at Hansford, 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 Fitz William 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 pales opposite the parsonage. She was engaged one day as she walked in 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 Fitz William was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said, I did not know before that you ever walked this way. I have been making the tour of the park, he replied, as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the parsonage. Are you going much farther? No, I should have turned in a moment. And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the parsonage together. Do you certainly leave Canton 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 Fitz William. 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 a nearer to self-denial and dependence. In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring 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 where 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 the 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 manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied, You need not to be frightened. I never hurt any harm of her, and I daresay she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favorite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hearst 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 wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him, but I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture. What is it you mean? It is a circumstance which Darcy 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 beat 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 honor 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 in different matters until they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence, that he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted, but she had always attributed to Ms. Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause. His pride and caprice were the cause of all that Jane had suffered, and still continue 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 blasting and evil he might have inflicted. There were some very strong objections against the lady, or Colonel Fitz 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 occasioned brought on a headache, and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much as possible, prevented her husband from pressing her. But Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home. Chapter 34 of Pride and Prejudice This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Paquette Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Chapter 34 When they were gone, Elizabeth, as even tending 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 everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness with an intention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and is still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could do. She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him. But Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him. While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the 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 a 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 towards 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, colored, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avow of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her deeply rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive. Till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion 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 detachment which, in spite of all his endeavors, 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 favorable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the color rose into her cheeks, and she said, In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation. Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the 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 honor of expecting. I might perhaps wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor 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 favorable, 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 color, but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued. I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not. You cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, 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 tranquility 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 disdains the appearance of noticing the civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. But it is not merely this affair, she continued, on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you hear defend yourself, or under what misinterpretation can you hear impose upon others? You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns, said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone and with a heightened color. 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, cried Elizabeth with energy. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his 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 he walked with quick steps across the room, is your opinion of me. This is the estimation in which you hold me. I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed. But perhaps, added he, stopping in his walk and turning towards her, these offenses 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 gentleman-like 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, were such as to form the groundwork of this approbation on which succeeding events have built so immovable of 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, madame. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness. And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it, that she could 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 respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very 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 35 OF PRIDE AND PREJUDICE This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Pickettes. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE by Jane Austen CHAPTER 35 Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened. It was impossible to think of anything else, and totally indisposed for employment. She resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favorite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the termpike 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 verter of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park. He was moving that way, and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness pronounced her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading that letter? And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows. Be not alarmed, madame, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of painting you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten. And the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. Your feelings I know will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honor and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Willfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favorite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not 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 honor of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted by Sir William Lucas' 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 behavior 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 in error 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 an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance, causes which, though still existing and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavored to forget because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you, but admits your concern for the defects of your nearest relations and your displeasure at this representation of them. Let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, his praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister. Then it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what past 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 unlike 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 Bing Lee has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction. It is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bing Lee, 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 manner 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 can only tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago, and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last, so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow. And if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage in low 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, which 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 ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he chiefly lived. But his studying the law was a mere 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 letter for the presentation. His circumstances he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question. Of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London, and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate, and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design. For there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Young, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived, and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse, and after stating her imprudence I am happy to add that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. 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, madame, 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 you're abhorrent 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 endeavor to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. Fitzwilliam Darcy End of Chapter 35 Recording by Linda Lee Piquette Chapter 36 of Pride and Prejudice This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Linda Lee Piquette Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Chapter 36 If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrarity of emotion they excited. Her feelings, as she read, were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power, and steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her. His style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood! And when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again. In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on. But it would not do. In half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself. And the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other. But when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other. And for a few moments she flattered herself that her wishes did not air. But when she read and reread with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in Lou so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with which she meant to be impartiality, deliberated on the probability of each statement. But with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on, but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. The extravagance and general proflixy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge exceedingly shocked her. The more so as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the blankshire militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known at Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy. Or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address. But she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighborhood and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while she once more continued to read. But alas, the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before. And at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy, that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground. Yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself, but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed, that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned? His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary, and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behavior to herself could now have had no tolerable motive. He had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most unconsciously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favor grew fainter and fainter, and in further justification of Mr. Darcy she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair. That proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance, an acquaintance which had laterally brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust, anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was esteemed and valued, that even Wickham had allowed him mirrored as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister, as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling. That had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world, and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. How despicably I have acted, she cried. I, who have prided myself on my discernment, I, who have valued myself on my abilities, who have often disdained the generous candor of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blamable mistrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself. From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment, and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great sensibility. When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball and as confirming all his first disapprobation could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family, and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be heard by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before. After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue and a recollection of her long absence made her at length return home, and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence. Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him. She really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter. Chapter 37 of Pride and Prejudice This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Paquettes Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Chapter 37 The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins, having been in waiting near the lodges to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very good health and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter, and on his return brought back with great satisfaction a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece, nor could she think without a smile of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. What would she have said? How would she have behaved? Were questions with which she amused herself. Their first subject was the demunation of the Rosings party. I assure you I feel it exceedingly, said Lady Catherine. I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do, but I am particularly attached to these young men and know them to be so much attached to me. They were excessively sorry to go, but so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last, but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more I think than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases. Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter. Lady Catherine observed after dinner that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits and immediately accounting for it by herself by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon. She added, But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure. I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation, replied Elizabeth. But it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday. Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight. But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return. Oh, your father, of course, may spare you if your mother can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week. And as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you, and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large. You are all kindness, madame, but I believe we must abide by our original plan. Lady Catherine seemed resigned. Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made of point of her having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it, for it would really be discreditable to you to let them go alone. My uncle is to send a servant for us. Oh, your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh, promptly, of course. If you mention my name at the bell, you will be attended to. Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her. Or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours. Whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief, and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections. Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence, and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation. But when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and abraded him, her anger was turned against herself. And his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character, respect. But she could not approve him, nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behavior, there was a constant source of vexation and regret. And in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters. And her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavor to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia. But while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice. And Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Maritain, they would flirt with him. And while Maritain was within a walk of long-born, they would be going there for ever. Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern. And Mr. Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct clear of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friends. How grievous, then, was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived by the folly and in decorum of her own family. When, too, these recollections was added to the development of Wickham's character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there, and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged on her return to undo all the work of the morning and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Huntsford again next year, and Mr. Berg exerted herself so far as to curtsy and hold out her hand to both. Chapter 38 of Pride and Prejudice This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Lee Paquette Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Chapter 38 On Saturday morning, Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared, and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. I know not, Ms. Elizabeth, said he, whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us. But I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Huntsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself. But I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly. Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment, and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make her feel be obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied, It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best, and most fortunately, having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene. I think we may flatter ourselves that your Huntsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation, with regard to Lady Catherine's family, is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In truth, I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble personage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are shares of our intimacy at Rosings. Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings, and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences. You may, in fact, carry a very favorable report of us into Hartfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of, and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate. But on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other. Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! It was melancholy to leave her to such society, but she had chosen it with her eyes open, and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns had not yet lost their charms. At length the shays arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, the one known. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings. But, he added, you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here. Elizabeth made no objection. The door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off. Good gracious! cried Maria after a few minutes' silence. It seems but a day or two since we first came, and yet how many things have happened! A great many indeed set her companion with a sigh. We have dined nine times at Rosings besides drinking tea there twice. How much I shall have to tell! Elizabeth added privately, and how much I shall have to conceal. Their journey was performed without much conversation or any alarm, and within four hours of their leaving Huntsford they reached Mr. Gardner's house, where they were to remain a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate. And her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further. 39. It was the second week in May in which the three young ladies set out together from Grace Church Street for the town of Blank in Hartfordshire. And as they drew near they appointed in where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the Sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber. After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an in-larder usually affords, exclaiming, It's not this nice, it's not this an agreeable surprise. And we mean to treat you all, adds its Lydia, but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there. Then showing her purchases. Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty, but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better. And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern. Oh, but there were two or three much uglier in the shop. And when I have bought some prettier colored satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the blank shard have left Marathon, and they are going in a fortnight. Are they indeed? cried Elizabeth with the greatest satisfaction. They are going to be in camps near Brighton, and I do so want Papad to take us all there for the summer. It would be such a delicious scheme, and I daresay would hardly cost anything at all. Mama would like to go too, of all things. Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have. Yes, thought Elizabeth. That would be a delightful scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Marathon. I have got some news for you, said Lydia, as they sat down at table. What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about a certain person we all like. Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed and said, Hi, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared. I daresay he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow. I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news. It is about dear Wickham. Too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you. She has gone down to her uncle at Liverpool. Gone to stay. Wickham is safe. And Mary King is safe, added Elizabeth, safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune. She is a grateful for going away if she liked him. But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side, said Jane. I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it. He never cared three straws about her. Who could about such a nasty little freckled thing? Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of expression herself, the coarseness of the sentiment was little other than her own breast had harbored and fancy deliberate. As soon as all had ate and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered, and after some contrivance the whole party with all their boxes, work bags and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and Lydia's purchases were seated in it. How nicely we are all crammed in, cried Lydia. I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band box. Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three and twenty. Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three and twenty. My Aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands you can't think. She says Lizzie had better have taken Mr. Collins, but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord, how I should like to be married before any of you, and then I would chaperone you about to all the balls. Dear me, we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening. By the by, Mrs. Forster and me are such good friends. And so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Penn was forced to come by herself. And then what do you think we did? We dressed up chamberlain in women's clothes on purpose to pass for a lady. Only think what fun! Not so new of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster and Kitty and me, except my Aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns. And you cannot imagine how well he looked. When Denny and Wickham and Pratt and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord, how I laughed! And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And that made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter. With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavored to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty, and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth. I am glad you are come back, Lizzie. Their party in the dining room was large, for almost all the Lucas' came to meet Maria and hear the news, and various were the subjects that occupied them. Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter. Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucas'. And Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other persons, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. Oh, Mary, said she, I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun. As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach, and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick. And when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world. And if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away, it was such fun. I thought we never should have gotten to the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home, we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off. To this Mary very gravely replied, Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms from me. I should infinitely prefer a book. But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Maritain, and to see how everybody went on. But Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to her of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go. And once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home before she found that the brightened scheme of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding. But his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet disbared of succeeding at last.