blinkthethings
/
NaNoGenMo


								      It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in

								      possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.


								      However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be

								      on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well

								      fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is

								      considered the rightful property of some one or other of their

								      daughters.


								      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you

								      heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”


								      Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.


								      “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and

								      she told me all about it.”


								      Mr. Bennet made no answer.


								      “Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife

								      impatiently.


								      “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”


								      This was invitation enough.


								      “Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is

								      taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England;

								      that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the

								      place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr.

								      Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before

								      Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by

								      the end of next week.”


								      “What is his name?”


								      “Bingley.”


								      “Is he married or single?”


								      “Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune;

								      four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”


								      “How so? How can it affect them?”


								      “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so

								      tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of

								      them.”


								      “Is that his design in settling here?”


								      “Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely

								      that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you

								      must visit him as soon as he comes.”


								      “I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may

								      send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for

								      as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you

								      the best of the party.”


								      “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of

								      beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.

								      When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over

								      thinking of her own beauty.”


								      “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”


								      “But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he

								      comes into the neighbourhood.”


								      “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”


								      “But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it

								      would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are

								      determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you

								      know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be

								      impossible for us to visit him if you do not.”


								      “You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be

								      very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to

								      assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he

								      chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my

								      little Lizzy.”


								      “I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better

								      than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as

								      Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always

								      giving her the preference.”


								      “They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;

								      “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has

								      something more of quickness than her sisters.”


								      “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?

								      You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor

								      nerves.”


								      “You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves.

								      They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with

								      consideration these last twenty years at least.”


								      “Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”


								      “But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men

								      of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”


								      “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you

								      will not visit them.”


								      “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will

								      visit them all.”


								      Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,

								      reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty

								      years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his

								      character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a

								      woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain

								      temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.

								      The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its

								      solace was visiting and news.


								      Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.

								      Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last

								      always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the

								      evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It

								      was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second

								      daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her

								      with:


								      “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”


								      “We are not in a way to know what Mr. Bingley likes,” said her

								      mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”


								      “But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him

								      at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”


								      “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two

								      nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I

								      have no opinion of her.”


								      “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that

								      you do not depend on her serving you.”


								      Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain

								      herself, began scolding one of her daughters.


								      “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! Have a little

								      compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”


								      “Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she

								      times them ill.”


								      “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.

								      “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”


								      “To-morrow fortnight.”


								      “Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come

								      back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to

								      introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”


								      “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and

								      introduce Mr. Bingley to her.”


								      “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted

								      with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”


								      “I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is

								      certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by

								      the end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture somebody else

								      will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their

								      chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,

								      if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”


								      The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,

								      “Nonsense, nonsense!”


								      “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.

								      “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that

								      is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you

								      there. What say you, Mary? For you are a young lady of deep

								      reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”


								      Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.


								      “While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return

								      to Mr. Bingley.”


								      “I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.


								      “I am sorry to hear that; but why did not you tell me that

								      before? If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not

								      have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually

								      paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”


								      The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of

								      Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first

								      tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she

								      had expected all the while.


								      “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should

								      persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to

								      neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is

								      such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and

								      never said a word about it till now.”


								      “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.

								      Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the

								      raptures of his wife.


								      “What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the

								      door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends

								      for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At our time of

								      life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new

								      acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do

								      anything. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare

								      say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”


								      “Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I am the

								      youngest, I’m the tallest.”


								      The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he

								      would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should

								      ask him to dinner.


								      Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her

								      five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw

								      from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.

								      They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions,

								      ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the

								      skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the

								      second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her

								      report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with

								      him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely

								      agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next

								      assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To

								      be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;

								      and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.


								      “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at

								      Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the

								      others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”


								      In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat

								      about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained

								      hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose

								      beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies

								      were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of

								      ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, and

								      rode a black horse.


								      An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and

								      already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do

								      credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred

								      it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,

								      and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their

								      invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could

								      not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his

								      arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be

								      always flying about from one place to another, and never settled

								      at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a

								      little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to

								      get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that

								      Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with

								      him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of

								      ladies, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,

								      that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from

								      London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered

								      the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether—Mr.

								      Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another

								      young man.


								      Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant

								      countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine

								      women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr.

								      Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon

								      drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome

								      features, noble mien, and the report which was in general

								      circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having

								      ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine

								      figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than

								      Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about

								      half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned

								      the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to

								      be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his

								      large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most

								      forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be

								      compared with his friend.


								      Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the

								      principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,

								      danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and

								      talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable

								      qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him

								      and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and

								      once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other

								      lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the

								      room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His

								      character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man

								      in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there

								      again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet,

								      whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into

								      particular resentment by his having slighted one of her

								      daughters.


								      Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen,

								      to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr.

								      Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a

								      conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance

								      for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.


								      “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you

								      standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much

								      better dance.”


								      “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am

								      particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as

								      this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and

								      there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a

								      punishment to me to stand up with.”


								      “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley,

								      “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant

								      girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of

								      them you see uncommonly pretty.”


								      “You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said

								      Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.


								      “Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there

								      is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very

								      pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner

								      to introduce you.”


								      “Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at

								      Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly

								      said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I

								      am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies

								      who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your

								      partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with

								      me.”


								      Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and

								      Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She

								      told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for

								      she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in

								      anything ridiculous.


								      The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.

								      Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the

								      Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she

								      had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified

								      by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.

								      Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned

								      to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the

								      neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough

								      never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet

								      learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good

								      spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which

								      they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still

								      up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present

								      occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an

								      evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had

								      rather hoped that his wife’s views on the stranger would be

								      disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story

								      to hear.


								      “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a

								      most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had

								      been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it.

								      Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her

								      quite beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only think of that,

								      my dear; he actually danced with her twice! and she was the only

								      creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all,

								      he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her!

								      But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,

								      you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going

								      down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced,

								      and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with

								      Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth

								      with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the

								      Boulanger—”


								      “If he had had any compassion for me,” cried her husband

								      impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s

								      sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his

								      ankle in the first dance!”


								      “Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively

								      handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life

								      saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace

								      upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”


								      Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any

								      description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another

								      branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of

								      spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.


								      “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much

								      by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid

								      man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that

								      there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,

								      fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance

								      with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one

								      of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”


								      When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been

								      cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her

								      sister just how very much she admired him.


								      “He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,

								      good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so

								      much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”


								      “He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man

								      ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is

								      thereby complete.”


								      “I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second

								      time. I did not expect such a compliment.”


								      “Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference

								      between us. Compliments always take you by surprise, and me

								      never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He

								      could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as

								      every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for

								      that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave

								      to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”


								      “Dear Lizzy!”


								      “Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in

								      general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good

								      and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a

								      human being in your life.”


								      “I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always

								      speak what I think.”


								      “I know you do; and it is that which makes the wonder. With

								      your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and

								      nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough—one

								      meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or

								      design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it

								      still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.

								      And so you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners

								      are not equal to his.”


								      “Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing women when

								      you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,

								      and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a

								      very charming neighbour in her.”


								      Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their

								      behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in

								      general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy

								      of temper than her sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by

								      any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve

								      them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good

								      humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making

								      themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited.

								      They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first

								      private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand

								      pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and

								      of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every

								      respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of

								      others. They were of a respectable family in the north of

								      England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories

								      than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired

								      by trade.


								      Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred

								      thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an

								      estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it

								      likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was

								      now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was

								      doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his

								      temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at

								      Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.


								      His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own;

								      but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley

								      was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—nor was Mrs.

								      Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less

								      disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.

								      Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by

								      an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did

								      look at it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the

								      situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner

								      said in its praise, and took it immediately.


								      Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in

								      spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to

								      Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,

								      though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,

								      and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the

								      strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and

								      of his judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was

								      the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was

								      clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and

								      fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.

								      In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was

								      sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually

								      giving offense.


								      The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was

								      sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more

								      pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been

								      most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no

								      stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as

								      to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.

								      Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom

								      there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had

								      felt the smallest interest, and from none received either

								      attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,

								      but she smiled too much.


								      Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they

								      admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,

								      and one whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet

								      was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt

								      authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.


								      Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the

								      Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been

								      formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable

								      fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to

								      the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been

								      felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business,

								      and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting

								      them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile

								      from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he

								      could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled

								      by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the

								      world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him

								      supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.

								      By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation

								      at St. James’s had made him courteous.


								      Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a

								      valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The

								      eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about

								      twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.


								      That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk

								      over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the

								      assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to

								      communicate.


								      “You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with

								      civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first

								      choice.”


								      “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”


								      “Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.

								      To be sure that did seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather

								      believe he did—I heard something about it—but I hardly know

								      what—something about Mr. Robinson.”


								      “Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson;

								      did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he

								      liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there

								      were a great many pretty women in the room, and which he

								      thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last

								      question: ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there

								      cannot be two opinions on that point.’”


								      “Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem

								      as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”


								      “My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,”

								      said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as

								      his friend, is he?—poor Eliza!—to be only just tolerable.”


								      “I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his

								      ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would

								      be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last

								      night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once

								      opening his lips.”


								      “Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said

								      Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”


								      “Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and

								      he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite

								      angry at being spoke to.”


								      “Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,

								      unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is

								      remarkably agreeable.”


								      “I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very

								      agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how

								      it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare

								      say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage,

								      and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”


								      “I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas,

								      “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”


								      “Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with

								      him, if I were you.”


								      “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with

								      him.”


								      “His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as

								      pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot

								      wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune,

								      everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I

								      may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”


								      “That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily

								      forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.”


								      “Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of

								      her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all

								      that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common

								      indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that

								      there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of

								      self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or

								      imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the

								      words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without

								      being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves,

								      vanity to what we would have others think of us.”


								      “If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came

								      with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would

								      keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”


								      “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said

								      Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away

								      your bottle directly.”


								      The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare

								      that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.


								      The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The

								      visit was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing

								      manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and

								      though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger

								      sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted

								      with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane, this

								      attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth

								      still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody,

								      hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though

								      their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in

								      all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration.

								      It was generally evident whenever they met, that he did admire

								      her and to her it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to

								      the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the

								      first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she

								      considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered

								      by the world in general, since Jane united, with great strength

								      of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of

								      manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the

								      impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.


								      “It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to

								      impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a

								      disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her

								      affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose

								      the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor

								      consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so

								      much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it

								      is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely—a

								      slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us

								      who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.

								      In nine cases out of ten a woman had better show more affection

								      than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may

								      never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”


								      “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If

								      I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton,

								      indeed, not to discover it too.”


								      “Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you

								      do.”


								      “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to

								      conceal it, he must find it out.”


								      “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley

								      and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours

								      together; and, as they always see each other in large mixed

								      parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in

								      conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every

								      half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is

								      secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as

								      much as she chooses.”


								      “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is

								      in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were

								      determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I

								      should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not

								      acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the

								      degree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known

								      him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton;

								      she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined

								      with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make

								      her understand his character.”


								      “Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him, she

								      might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but

								      you must remember that four evenings have also been spent

								      together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”


								      “Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that

								      they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to

								      any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has

								      been unfolded.”


								      “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart;

								      and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had

								      as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his

								      character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a

								      matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so

								      well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does

								      not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to

								      grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of

								      vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the

								      defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”


								      “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it

								      is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”


								      Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister,

								      Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming

								      an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy

								      had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at

								      her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he

								      looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it

								      clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good

								      feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered

								      uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark

								      eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying.

								      Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure

								      of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her

								      figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting

								      that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was

								      caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly

								      unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable

								      nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance

								      with.


								      He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards

								      conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with

								      others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William

								      Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.


								      “What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening

								      to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”


								      “That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”


								      “But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I

								      see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do

								      not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid

								      of him.”


								      On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming

								      to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend

								      to mention such a subject to him; which immediately provoking

								      Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said:


								      “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly

								      well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a

								      ball at Meryton?”


								      “With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady

								      energetic.”


								      “You are severe on us.”


								      “It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am

								      going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”


								      “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always

								      wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my

								      vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable;

								      but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who

								      must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On

								      Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well, if it

								      must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There

								      is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar

								      with: ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep

								      mine to swell my song.”


								      Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a

								      song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of

								      several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at

								      the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of

								      being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge

								      and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.


								      Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given

								      her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and

								      conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of

								      excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected,

								      had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing

								      half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad

								      to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the

								      request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases,

								      and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end

								      of the room.


								      Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of

								      passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and

								      was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir

								      William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:


								      “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!

								      There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of

								      the first refinements of polished society.”


								      “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue

								      amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage

								      can dance.”


								      Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he

								      continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I

								      doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr.

								      Darcy.”


								      “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”


								      “Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the

								      sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”


								      “Never, sir.”


								      “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”


								      “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid

								      it.”


								      “You have a house in town, I conclude?”


								      Mr. Darcy bowed.


								      “I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—for I am

								      fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that

								      the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”


								      He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not

								      disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving

								      towards them, he was struck with the action of doing a very

								      gallant thing, and called out to her:


								      “My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must

								      allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable

								      partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much

								      beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given

								      it to Mr. Darcy who, though extremely surprised, was not

								      unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said

								      with some discomposure to Sir William:


								      “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I

								      entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg

								      for a partner.”


								      Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the

								      honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor

								      did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at

								      persuasion.


								      “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to

								      deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman

								      dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am

								      sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”


								      “Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.


								      “He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss

								      Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object

								      to such a partner?”


								      Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not

								      injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with

								      some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:


								      “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”


								      “I should imagine not.”


								      “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many

								      evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of

								      your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet

								      the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all

								      those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”


								      “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more

								      agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great

								      pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman

								      can bestow.”


								      Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired

								      he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such

								      reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:


								      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”


								      “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all

								      astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray,

								      when am I to wish you joy?”


								      “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A

								      lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to

								      love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be

								      wishing me joy.”


								      “Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is

								      absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law,

								      indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with

								      you.”


								      He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to

								      entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced

								      her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.


								      Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of

								      two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was

								      entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and

								      their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life,

								      could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been

								      an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.


								      She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk

								      to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother

								      settled in London in a respectable line of trade.


								      The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most

								      convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually

								      tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to

								      their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two

								      youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly

								      frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than

								      their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to

								      Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish

								      conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the

								      country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some

								      from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both

								      with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia

								      regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter,

								      and Meryton was the headquarters.


								      Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most

								      interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their

								      knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings

								      were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the

								      officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this

								      opened to his nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They

								      could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large

								      fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was

								      worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an

								      ensign.


								      After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,

								      Mr. Bennet coolly observed:


								      “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must

								      be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it

								      some time, but I am now convinced.”


								      Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with

								      perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of

								      Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the

								      day, as he was going the next morning to London.


								      “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be

								      so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think

								      slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,

								      however.”


								      “If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of

								      it.”


								      “Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”


								      “This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not

								      agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every

								      particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two

								      youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”


								      “My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the

								      sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I

								      dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do.

								      I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and,

								      indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel,

								      with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls I

								      shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked

								      very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his

								      regimentals.”


								      “Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and

								      Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did

								      when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in

								      Clarke’s library.”


								      Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman

								      with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the

								      servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with

								      pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter

								      read,


								      “Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say?

								      Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”


								      “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.


								      “MY DEAR FRIEND,—

								      “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa

								      and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest

								      of our lives, for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women

								      can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on

								      receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with

								      the officers.—Yours ever,


								      “CAROLINE BINGLEY”


								      “With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell

								      us of that.”


								      “Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”


								      “Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.


								      “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems

								      likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”


								      “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure

								      that they would not offer to send her home.”


								      “Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to

								      Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”


								      “I had much rather go in the coach.”


								      “But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure.

								      They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”


								      “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”


								      “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s

								      purpose will be answered.”


								      She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the

								      horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on

								      horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many

								      cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane

								      had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were

								      uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued

								      the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not

								      come back.


								      “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more

								      than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own.

								      Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the

								      felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a

								      servant from Netherfield brought the following note for

								      Elizabeth:


								      “MY DEAREST LIZZY,—

								      “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to

								      be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends

								      will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also

								      on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should

								      hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and

								      headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, etc.”


								      “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the

								      note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of

								      illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it

								      was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”


								      “Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little

								      trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she

								      stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I

								      could have the carriage.”


								      Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her,

								      though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no

								      horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her

								      resolution.


								      “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such

								      a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when

								      you get there.”


								      “I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”


								      “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the

								      horses?”


								      “No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is

								      nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back

								      by dinner.”


								      “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but

								      every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my

								      opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is

								      required.”


								      “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and

								      Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young

								      ladies set off together.


								      “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we

								      may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”


								      In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings

								      of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk

								      alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over

								      stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and

								      finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary

								      ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of

								      exercise.


								      She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were

								      assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of

								      surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the

								      day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible

								      to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that

								      they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very

								      politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was

								      something better than politeness; there was good humour and

								      kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at

								      all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy

								      which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the

								      occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was

								      thinking only of his breakfast.


								      Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered.

								      Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and

								      not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken

								      to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the

								      fear of giving alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note

								      how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her

								      entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and

								      when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little

								      besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness

								      she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.


								      When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and

								      Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much

								      affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary

								      came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be

								      supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must

								      endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed,

								      and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily,

								      for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.

								      Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were the other

								      ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in fact,

								      nothing to do elsewhere.


								      When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and

								      very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage,

								      and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane

								      testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was

								      obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to

								      remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully

								      consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint

								      the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes.


								      At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past

								      six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries

								      which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of

								      distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley’s, she

								      could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means

								      better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four

								      times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a

								      bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves;

								      and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference

								      towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth

								      to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.


								      Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she

								      could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was

								      evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they

								      prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed

								      she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from

								      any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister

								      scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he

								      was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at

								      cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout,

								      had nothing to say to her.


								      When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss

								      Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her

								      manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride

								      and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty.

								      Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added:


								      “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an

								      excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this

								      morning. She really looked almost wild.”


								      “She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance.

								      Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must she be scampering

								      about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so

								      untidy, so blowsy!”


								      “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches

								      deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been

								      let down to hide it not doing its office.”


								      “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this

								      was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked

								      remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her

								      dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”


								      “You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley;

								      “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your

								      sister make such an exhibition.”


								      “Certainly not.”


								      “To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever

								      it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What

								      could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort

								      of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to

								      decorum.”


								      “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,”

								      said Bingley.


								      “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half

								      whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration

								      of her fine eyes.”


								      “Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.”

								      A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:


								      “I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a

								      very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well

								      settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low

								      connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”


								      “I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in

								      Meryton.”


								      “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”


								      “That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed

								      heartily.


								      “If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried

								      Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”


								      “But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men

								      of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.


								      To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it

								      their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at

								      the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.


								      With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room

								      on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to

								      coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit

								      her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of

								      seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than

								      pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the

								      drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was

								      immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be

								      playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse,

								      said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay

								      below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.


								      “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather

								      singular.”


								      “Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a

								      great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”


								      “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried

								      Elizabeth; “I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in

								      many things.”


								      “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said

								      Bingley; “and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her

								      quite well.”


								      Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the

								      table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to

								      fetch her others—all that his library afforded.


								      “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own

								      credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I

								      have more than I ever looked into.”


								      Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with

								      those in the room.


								      “I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have

								      left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library

								      you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”


								      “It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many

								      generations.”


								      “And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always

								      buying books.”


								      “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days

								      as these.”


								      “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the

								      beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build your

								      house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”


								      “I wish it may.”


								      “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that

								      neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is

								      not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”


								      “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will

								      sell it.”


								      “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”


								      “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get

								      Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”


								      Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her

								      very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly

								      aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself

								      between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game.


								      “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley;

								      “will she be as tall as I am?”


								      “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s

								      height, or rather taller.”


								      “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who

								      delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so

								      extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the

								      pianoforte is exquisite.”


								      “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have

								      patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”


								      “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you

								      mean?”


								      “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens,

								      and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this,

								      and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first

								      time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”


								      “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy,

								      “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who

								      deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a

								      screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your

								      estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more

								      than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that

								      are really accomplished.”


								      “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.


								      “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in

								      your idea of an accomplished woman.”


								      “Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”


								      “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be

								      really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is

								      usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of

								      music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to

								      deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a

								      certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of

								      her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but

								      half-deserved.”


								      “All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she

								      must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of

								      her mind by extensive reading.”


								      “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished

								      women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”


								      “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility

								      of all this?”


								      “I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and

								      taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united.”


								      Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice

								      of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew

								      many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called

								      them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to

								      what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an

								      end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.


								      “Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed

								      on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend

								      themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with

								      many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a

								      paltry device, a very mean art.”


								      “Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly

								      addressed, “there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies

								      sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears

								      affinity to cunning is despicable.”


								      Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to

								      continue the subject.


								      Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was

								      worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones

								      being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no

								      country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to

								      town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not

								      hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their

								      brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be

								      sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly

								      better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared

								      that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,

								      however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better

								      relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions

								      that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her

								      sister.


								      Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and

								      in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable

								      answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr.

								      Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two

								      elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this

								      amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to

								      Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own

								      judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched,

								      and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet,

								      accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon

								      after the family breakfast.


								      Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have

								      been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her

								      illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering

								      immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove

								      her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her

								      daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the

								      apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all

								      advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss

								      Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three

								      daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley

								      met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet

								      worse than she expected.


								      “Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too

								      ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her.

								      We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”


								      “Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister,

								      I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”


								      “You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold

								      civility, “that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention

								      while she remains with us.”


								      Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.


								      “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do

								      not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed,

								      and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the

								      world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without

								      exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met with. I often tell

								      my other girls they are nothing to her. You have a sweet room

								      here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over the gravel walk.

								      I do not know a place in the country that is equal to

								      Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I

								      hope, though you have but a short lease.”


								      “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if

								      I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in

								      five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite

								      fixed here.”


								      “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said

								      Elizabeth.


								      “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards

								      her.


								      “Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly.”


								      “I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily

								      seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”


								      “That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate

								      character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”


								      “Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not

								      run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”


								      “I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you

								      were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”


								      “Yes, but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have

								      at least that advantage.”


								      “The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few

								      subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in

								      a very confined and unvarying society.”


								      “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new

								      to be observed in them for ever.”


								      “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of

								      mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite

								      as much of that going on in the country as in town.”


								      Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a

								      moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had

								      gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.


								      “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the

								      country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The

								      country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”


								      “When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave

								      it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have

								      each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”


								      “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that

								      gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was

								      nothing at all.”


								      “Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for

								      her mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that

								      there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the

								      country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”


								      “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not

								      meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there

								      are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with

								      four-and-twenty families.”


								      Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep

								      his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her

								      eyes towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth,

								      for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s

								      thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn

								      since her coming away.


								      “Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man

								      Sir William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of

								      fashion! So genteel and easy! He has always something to say to

								      everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons

								      who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths,

								      quite mistake the matter.”


								      “Did Charlotte dine with you?”


								      “No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the

								      mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants

								      that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up very

								      differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the

								      Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity

								      they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very

								      plain—but then she is our particular friend.”


								      “She seems a very pleasant young woman.”


								      “Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas

								      herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not

								      like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not

								      often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do

								      not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was

								      a man at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her

								      that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before

								      we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her

								      too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty

								      they were.”


								      “And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There

								      has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder

								      who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away

								      love!”


								      “I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” said

								      Darcy.


								      “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what

								      is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of

								      inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it

								      entirely away.”


								      Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made

								      Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself

								      again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say;

								      and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks

								      to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for

								      troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil

								      in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also,

								      and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed

								      without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and

								      soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the

								      youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had

								      been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the

								      result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with

								      having promised on his first coming into the country to give a

								      ball at Netherfield.


								      Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine

								      complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her

								      mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early

								      age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural

								      self-consequence, which the attention of the officers, to whom

								      her uncle’s good dinners, and her own easy manners recommended

								      her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore,

								      to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly

								      reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most

								      shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to

								      this sudden attack was delightful to their mother’s ear:


								      “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and

								      when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the

								      very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when

								      she is ill.”


								      Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes—it would be much

								      better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely

								      Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given

								      your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one

								      also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he

								      does not.”


								      Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth

								      returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’

								      behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the

								      latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in

								      their censure of her, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms

								      on fine eyes.


								      The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and

								      Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the

								      invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the

								      evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The

								      loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and

								      Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his

								      letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to

								      his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs.

								      Hurst was observing their game.


								      Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in

								      attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The

								      perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting,

								      or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter,

								      with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received,

								      formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her

								      opinion of each.


								      “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”


								      He made no answer.


								      “You write uncommonly fast.”


								      “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”


								      “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course

								      of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think

								      them!”


								      “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of

								      yours.”


								      “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”


								      “I have already told her so once, by your desire.”


								      “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I

								      mend pens remarkably well.”


								      “Thank you—but I always mend my own.”


								      “How can you contrive to write so even?”


								      He was silent.


								      “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on

								      the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with

								      her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it

								      infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”


								      “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write

								      again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”


								      “Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do

								      you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”


								      “They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not

								      for me to determine.”


								      “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter

								      with ease, cannot write ill.”


								      “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her

								      brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too

								      much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”


								      “My style of writing is very different from yours.”


								      “Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless

								      way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the

								      rest.”


								      “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by

								      which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my

								      correspondents.”


								      “Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm

								      reproof.”


								      “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of

								      humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes

								      an indirect boast.”


								      “And which of the two do you call my little recent piece of

								      modesty?”


								      “The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in

								      writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity

								      of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not

								      estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of

								      doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the

								      possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of

								      the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if

								      you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in

								      five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of

								      compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in

								      a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone,

								      and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”


								      “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all

								      the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon

								      my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I

								      believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume

								      the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before

								      the ladies.”


								      “I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that

								      you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite

								      as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you

								      were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had

								      better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would

								      probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month.”


								      “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr.

								      Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown

								      him off now much more than he did himself.”


								      “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting

								      what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my

								      temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that

								      gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think

								      better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat

								      denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”


								      “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original

								      intentions as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”


								      “Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must

								      speak for himself.”


								      “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call

								      mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case,

								      however, to stand according to your representation, you must

								      remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire

								      his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely

								      desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of

								      its propriety.”


								      “To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no

								      merit with you.”


								      “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the

								      understanding of either.”


								      “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence

								      of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would

								      often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for

								      arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking

								      of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as

								      well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we

								      discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general

								      and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them

								      is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great

								      moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with

								      the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”


								      “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to

								      arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which

								      is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of

								      intimacy subsisting between the parties?”


								      “By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars,

								      not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will

								      have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be

								      aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall

								      fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so

								      much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than

								      Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his

								      own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has

								      nothing to do.”


								      Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that

								      he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss

								      Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an

								      expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.


								      “I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an

								      argument, and want to silence this.”


								      “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and

								      Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall

								      be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”


								      “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and

								      Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”


								      Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.


								      When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and

								      Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved

								      with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request

								      that Elizabeth would lead the way which the other as politely and

								      more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.


								      Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus

								      employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over

								      some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr.

								      Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose

								      that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and

								      yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still

								      more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she

								      drew his notice because there was something more wrong and

								      reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other

								      person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him

								      too little to care for his approbation.


								      After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm

								      by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing

								      near Elizabeth, said to her:


								      “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such

								      an opportunity of dancing a reel?”


								      She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with

								      some surprise at her silence.


								      “Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately

								      determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say

								      ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste;

								      but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and

								      cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have,

								      therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to

								      dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”


								      “Indeed I do not dare.”


								      Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at

								      his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness

								      in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody;

								      and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by

								      her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of

								      her connections, he should be in some danger.


								      Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her

								      great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received

								      some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.


								      She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by

								      talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in

								      such an alliance.


								      “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the

								      shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few

								      hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage

								      of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the

								      younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so

								      delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something,

								      bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady

								      possesses.”


								      “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”


								      “Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be

								      placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your

								      great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know,

								      only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you

								      must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to

								      those beautiful eyes?”


								      “It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but

								      their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine,

								      might be copied.”


								      At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and

								      Elizabeth herself.


								      “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in

								      some confusion, lest they had been overheard.


								      “You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away

								      without telling us that you were coming out.”


								      Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth

								      to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt

								      their rudeness, and immediately said:


								      “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go

								      into the avenue.”


								      But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with

								      them, laughingly answered:


								      “No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and

								      appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by

								      admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”


								      She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the

								      hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so

								      much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of

								      hours that evening.


								      When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her

								      sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into

								      the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with

								      many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them

								      so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the

								      gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were

								      considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy,

								      relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance

								      with spirit.


								      But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first

								      object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy,

								      and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many

								      steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite

								      congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he

								      was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for

								      Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first

								      half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer

								      from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the

								      other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the

								      door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone

								      else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with

								      great delight.


								      When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the

								      card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence

								      that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found

								      even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one

								      intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the

								      subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to

								      do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep.

								      Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst,

								      principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings,

								      joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss

								      Bennet.


								      Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching

								      Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own;

								      and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at

								      his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he

								      merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite

								      exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which

								      she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she

								      gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an

								      evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment

								      like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a

								      book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I

								      have not an excellent library.”


								      No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her

								      book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some

								      amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss

								      Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:


								      “By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a

								      dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on

								      it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much

								      mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be

								      rather a punishment than a pleasure.”


								      “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he

								      chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a

								      settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup

								      enough, I shall send round my cards.”


								      “I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they

								      were carried on in a different manner; but there is something

								      insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It

								      would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of

								      dancing were made the order of the day.”


								      “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would

								      not be near so much like a ball.”


								      Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and

								      walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked

								      well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly

								      studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one

								      effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:


								      “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and

								      take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing

								      after sitting so long in one attitude.”


								      Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss

								      Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr.

								      Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention

								      in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously

								      closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but

								      he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives

								      for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with

								      either of which motives his joining them would interfere. “What

								      could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his

								      meaning?”—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand

								      him?


								      “Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be

								      severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to

								      ask nothing about it.”


								      Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy

								      in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation

								      of his two motives.


								      “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he,

								      as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this

								      method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s

								      confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you

								      are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage

								      in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and

								      if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the

								      fire.”


								      “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so

								      abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”


								      “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said

								      Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease

								      him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to

								      be done.”


								      “But upon my honour, I do not. I do assure you that my intimacy

								      has not yet taught me that. Tease calmness of manner and

								      presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to

								      laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by

								      attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug

								      himself.”


								      “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an

								      uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it

								      would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintances. I

								      dearly love a laugh.”


								      “Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.

								      The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their

								      actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object

								      in life is a joke.”


								      “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth—“there are such people, but I hope

								      I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and

								      good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do

								      divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these,

								      I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”


								      “Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the

								      study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a

								      strong understanding to ridicule.”


								      “Such as vanity and pride.”


								      “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a

								      real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good

								      regulation.”


								      Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.


								      “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss

								      Bingley; “and pray what is the result?”


								      “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He

								      owns it himself without disguise.”


								      “No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults

								      enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I

								      dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little

								      yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I

								      cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought,

								      nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed

								      about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be

								      called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”


								      “That is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable

								      resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your

								      fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”


								      “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some

								      particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best

								      education can overcome.”


								      “And your defect is to hate everybody.”


								      “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to

								      misunderstand them.”


								      “Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a

								      conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not

								      mind my waking Mr. Hurst?”


								      Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was

								      opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not

								      sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too

								      much attention.


								      In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth

								      wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage

								      might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet,

								      who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till

								      the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week,

								      could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her

								      answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to

								      Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.

								      Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the

								      carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that

								      if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she

								      could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however,

								      Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it

								      would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered

								      as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow

								      Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled

								      that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning

								      should be mentioned, and the request made.


								      The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough

								      was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day

								      to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred.

								      Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for

								      her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her

								      affection for the other.


								      The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to

								      go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it

								      would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but

								      Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.


								      To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at

								      Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and

								      Miss Bingley was uncivil to her, and more teasing than usual to

								      himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no

								      sign of admiration should now escape him, nothing that could

								      elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible

								      that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the

								      last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it.

								      Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through

								      the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by

								      themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to

								      his book, and would not even look at her.


								      On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to

								      almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth

								      increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for

								      Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the

								      pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn

								      or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook

								      hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in

								      the liveliest of spirits.


								      They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs.

								      Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to

								      give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold

								      again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions

								      of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their

								      importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when

								      they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and

								      almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.


								      They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and

								      human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new

								      observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and

								      Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been

								      done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding

								      Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their

								      uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been

								      hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.


								      “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at

								      breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner

								      to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family

								      party.”


								      “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am

								      sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope

								      my dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often

								      sees such at home.”


								      “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”


								      Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is

								      Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad

								      to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a

								      bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I

								      must speak to Hill this moment.”


								      “It is not Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom

								      I never saw in the whole course of my life.”


								      This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of

								      being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at

								      once.


								      After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus

								      explained:


								      “About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight

								      ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and

								      requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins,

								      who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon

								      as he pleases.”


								      “Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that

								      mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is

								      the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be

								      entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had

								      been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other

								      about it.”


								      Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an

								      entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a

								      subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and

								      she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an

								      estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man

								      whom nobody cared anything about.


								      “It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and

								      nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting

								      Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps

								      be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”


								      “No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very

								      impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical.

								      I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling

								      with you, as his father did before him?”


								      “Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on

								      that head, as you will hear.”


								      “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.


								      “Dear Sir,—

								      “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late

								      honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have

								      had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal

								      the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts,

								      fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to

								      be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him

								      to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’—My mind, however, is now

								      made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter,

								      I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage

								      of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir

								      Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to

								      the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest

								      endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her

								      ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies

								      which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,

								      moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing

								      of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on

								      these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are

								      highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in

								      the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your

								      side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I

								      cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring

								      your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as

								      well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible

								      amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to

								      receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of

								      waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four

								      o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the

								      Saturday se’ennight following, which I can do without any

								      inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my

								      occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other

								      clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear

								      sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your

								      well-wisher and friend,


								      “WILLIAM COLLINS”


								      “At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making

								      gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He

								      seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my

								      word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance,

								      especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him

								      come to us again.”


								      “There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however,

								      and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the

								      person to discourage him.”


								      “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can

								      mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is

								      certainly to his credit.”


								      Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for

								      Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying,

								      and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.


								      “He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him

								      out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can

								      he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot

								      suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man,

								      sir?”


								      “No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him

								      quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and

								      self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am

								      impatient to see him.”


								      “In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem

								      defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly

								      new, yet I think it is well expressed.”


								      To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in

								      any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their

								      cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks

								      since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any

								      other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done

								      away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with

								      a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.


								      Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great

								      politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little;

								      but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed

								      neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent

								      himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of

								      five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners

								      were very formal. He had not been long seated before he

								      complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters;

								      said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance

								      fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not

								      doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage.

								      This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers;

								      but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most

								      readily.


								      “You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it

								      may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are

								      settled so oddly.”


								      “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”


								      “Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls,

								      you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with you, for

								      such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no

								      knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”


								      “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,

								      and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of

								      appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young

								      ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not

								      say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”


								      He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled

								      on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s

								      admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture,

								      were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything

								      would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying

								      supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The

								      dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know

								      to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was

								      owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him

								      with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good

								      cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He

								      begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she

								      declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to

								      apologise for about a quarter of an hour.


								      During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the

								      servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some

								      conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in

								      which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very

								      fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention

								      to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very

								      remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins

								      was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than

								      usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he

								      protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour

								      in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had

								      himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously

								      pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already

								      had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him

								      twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday

								      before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady

								      Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but he had

								      never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken

								      to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the

								      smallest objection to his joining in the society of the

								      neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a

								      week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to

								      advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with

								      discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble

								      parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations

								      he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some

								      herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”


								      “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet,

								      “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that

								      great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near

								      you, sir?”


								      “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by

								      a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship’s residence.”


								      “I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”


								      “She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very

								      extensive property.”


								      “Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off

								      than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she

								      handsome?”


								      “She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself

								      says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far

								      superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in

								      her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth.

								      She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has

								      prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments

								      which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by

								      the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides

								      with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to

								      drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”


								      “Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the

								      ladies at court.”


								      “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in

								      town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has

								      deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her

								      ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I

								      am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate

								      compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more

								      than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter

								      seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank,

								      instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These

								      are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it

								      is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound

								      to pay.”


								      “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for

								      you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May

								      I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse

								      of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”


								      “They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though

								      I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such

								      little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary

								      occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as

								      possible.”


								      Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as

								      absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest

								      enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute

								      composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at

								      Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.


								      By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet

								      was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when

								      tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr.

								      Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on

								      beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a

								      circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon,

								      protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and

								      Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some

								      deliberation he chose Fordyce’s Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened

								      the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity,

								      read three pages, she interrupted him with:


								      “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away

								      Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt

								      told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow

								      to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from

								      town.”


								      Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but

								      Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:


								      “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by

								      books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their

								      benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be

								      nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no

								      longer importune my young cousin.”


								      Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist

								      at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that

								      he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling

								      amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly

								      for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur

								      again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after

								      assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and

								      should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself

								      at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.


								      Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature

								      had been but little assisted by education or society; the

								      greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of

								      an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one

								      of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms,

								      without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in

								      which his father had brought him up had given him originally

								      great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted

								      by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the

								      consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A

								      fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh

								      when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he

								      felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his

								      patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his

								      authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him

								      altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance

								      and humility.


								      Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended

								      to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn

								      family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the

								      daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were

								      represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of

								      atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it

								      an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and

								      excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.


								      His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face

								      confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of

								      what was due to seniority; and for the first evening she was

								      his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an

								      alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s tête-à-tête with Mrs.

								      Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his

								      parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his

								      hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn,

								      produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general

								      encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.

								      “As to her younger daughters, she could not take upon her to

								      say—she could not positively answer—but she did not know of any

								      prepossession; her eldest daughter, she must just mention—she

								      felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon

								      engaged.”


								      Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was

								      soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire.

								      Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded

								      her of course.


								      Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might

								      soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not

								      bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.


								      Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every

								      sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to

								      attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious

								      to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither

								      Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would

								      continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the

								      collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little

								      cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings

								      discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been

								      always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as

								      he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other

								      room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his

								      civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to

								      join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact

								      much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely

								      pleased to close his large book, and go.


								      In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his

								      cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The

								      attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by

								      him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in

								      quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet

								      indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall

								      them.


								      But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man,

								      whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike

								      appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the

								      way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return

								      from London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed.

								      All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he

								      could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find

								      out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting

								      something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained

								      the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached

								      the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated

								      permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned

								      with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had

								      accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it

								      should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him

								      completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he

								      had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good

								      figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed

								      up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness

								      at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole

								      party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,

								      when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley

								      were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of

								      the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and

								      began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman,

								      and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on

								      his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy

								      corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to

								      fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by

								      the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the

								      countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all

								      astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,

								      one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few

								      moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just

								      deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was

								      impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.


								      In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have

								      noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.


								      Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the

								      door of Mr. Phillip’s house, and then made their bows, in spite

								      of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they should come in, and

								      even in spite of Mrs. Phillips’s throwing up the parlour window

								      and loudly seconding the invitation.


								      Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two

								      eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and

								      she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return

								      home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she

								      should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see

								      Mr. Jones’s shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they

								      were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the

								      Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed

								      towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received

								      him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much

								      more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous

								      acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering

								      himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the

								      young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was

								      quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her

								      contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by

								      exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she

								      could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny

								      had brought him from London, and that he was to have a

								      lieutenant’s commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him

								      the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and

								      had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have

								      continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now

								      except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the

								      stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of

								      them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their

								      aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give

								      him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come

								      in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested

								      that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery

								      tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect

								      of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual

								      good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the

								      room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were

								      perfectly needless.


								      As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen

								      pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have

								      defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong,

								      she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.


								      Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by

								      admiring Mrs. Phillips’s manners and politeness. He protested

								      that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a

								      more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the

								      utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her

								      invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her

								      before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his

								      connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much

								      attention in the whole course of his life.


								      As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with

								      their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and

								      Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most

								      steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at

								      a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of

								      hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had

								      accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house.


								      When this information was given, and they had all taken their

								      seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire,

								      and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the

								      apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself

								      in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison

								      that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs.

								      Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its

								      proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one

								      of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the

								      chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all

								      the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a

								      comparison with the housekeeper’s room.


								      In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her

								      mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble

								      abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily

								      employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs.

								      Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his

								      consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving

								      to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To

								      the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had

								      nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their

								      own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the

								      interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last,

								      however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked

								      into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing

								      him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree

								      of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in

								      general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of

								      them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond

								      them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were

								      superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing

								      port wine, who followed them into the room.


								      Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female

								      eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he

								      finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he

								      immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its

								      being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest,

								      most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill

								      of the speaker.


								      With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and

								      the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to

								      the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at

								      intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her

								      watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.

								      When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of

								      obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.


								      “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be

								      glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs.

								      Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for

								      his reason.


								      Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he

								      received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first

								      there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she

								      was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond

								      of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the

								      game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to

								      have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common

								      demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk

								      to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what

								      she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the

								      history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even

								      mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly

								      relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how

								      far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her

								      answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been

								      staying there.


								      “About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the

								      subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in

								      Derbyshire, I understand.”


								      “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A

								      clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a

								      person more capable of giving you certain information on that

								      head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a

								      particular manner from my infancy.”


								      Elizabeth could not but look surprised.


								      “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion,

								      after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our

								      meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”


								      “As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I

								      have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him

								      very disagreeable.”


								      “I have no right to give my opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his

								      being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I

								      have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is

								      impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion

								      of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not

								      express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your

								      own family.”


								      “Upon my word, I say no more here than I might say in any house

								      in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked

								      in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will

								      not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”


								      “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short

								      interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated

								      beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often

								      happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or

								      frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as

								      he chooses to be seen.”


								      “I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an

								      ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.


								      “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,

								      “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”


								      “I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going away

								      when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the

								      ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”


								      “Oh! no—it is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If

								      he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on

								      friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I

								      have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim

								      before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most

								      painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet,

								      the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed,

								      and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company

								      with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a

								      thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been

								      scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and

								      everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and

								      disgracing the memory of his father.”


								      Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and

								      listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented

								      further inquiry.


								      Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the

								      neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all

								      that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but

								      very intelligible gallantry.


								      “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he

								      added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I

								      knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend

								      Denny tempted me further by his account of their present

								      quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent

								      acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is

								      necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits

								      will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A

								      military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances

								      have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my

								      profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this

								      time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it

								      pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”


								      “Indeed!”


								      “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of

								      the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively

								      attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to

								      provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the

								      living fell, it was given elsewhere.”


								      “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could that be? How

								      could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal

								      redress?”


								      “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest

								      as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have

								      doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to

								      treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert

								      that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance,

								      imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the

								      living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to

								      hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less

								      certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done

								      anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper,

								      and I may have spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too

								      freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are

								      very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”


								      “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”


								      “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me.

								      Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”


								      Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him

								      handsomer than ever as he expressed them.


								      “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive?

								      What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”


								      “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot

								      but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy

								      liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his

								      father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very

								      early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of

								      competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was

								      often given me.”


								      “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never

								      liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed

								      him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not

								      suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such

								      injustice, such inhumanity as this.”


								      After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I do

								      remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the

								      implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving

								      temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”


								      “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I

								      can hardly be just to him.”


								      Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,

								      “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite

								      of his father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like

								      you, whose very countenance may vouch for your being

								      amiable”—but she contented herself with, “and one, too, who had

								      probably been his companion from childhood, connected together,

								      as I think you said, in the closest manner!”


								      “We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the

								      greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the

								      same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same

								      parental care. My father began life in the profession which

								      your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he

								      gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted

								      all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most

								      highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential

								      friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the

								      greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence, and

								      when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a

								      voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he

								      felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of his

								      affection to myself.”


								      “How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that

								      the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If

								      from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to

								      be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”


								      “It is wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions

								      may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend.

								      It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other

								      feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour

								      to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”


								      “Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”


								      “Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give

								      his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants,

								      and relieve the poor. Family pride, and filial pride—for he is

								      very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear

								      to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities,

								      or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful

								      motive. He has also brotherly pride, which, with some

								      brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian

								      of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the

								      most attentive and best of brothers.”


								      “What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”


								      He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me

								      pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her

								      brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and

								      pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and

								      hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a

								      handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand,

								      highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been

								      London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her

								      education.”


								      After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth

								      could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:


								      “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr.

								      Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe,

								      truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they

								      suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?”


								      “Not at all.”


								      “He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know

								      what Mr. Darcy is.”


								      “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does

								      not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he

								      thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals

								      in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the

								      less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich

								      he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and

								      perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”


								      The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered

								      round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between

								      his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to

								      his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great;

								      he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express

								      her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity

								      that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the

								      money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make

								      herself uneasy.


								      “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down

								      to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things,

								      and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five

								      shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not

								      say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am

								      removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”


								      Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr.

								      Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice

								      whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the

								      family of de Bourgh.


								      “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given

								      him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced

								      to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”


								      “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne

								      Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present

								      Mr. Darcy.”


								      “No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s

								      connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before

								      yesterday.”


								      “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune,

								      and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two

								      estates.”


								      This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor

								      Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and

								      useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself,

								      if he were already self-destined for another.


								      “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine

								      and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related

								      of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that

								      in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant,

								      conceited woman.”


								      “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I

								      have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I

								      never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and

								      insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and

								      clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities

								      from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner,

								      and the rest from the pride for her nephew, who chooses that

								      everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the

								      first class.”


								      Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of

								      it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction

								      till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies

								      their share of Mr. Wickham’s attentions. There could be no

								      conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips’s supper party, but

								      his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was

								      said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went

								      away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of

								      Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but

								      there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went,

								      for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked

								      incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the

								      fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of

								      Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least

								      regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper,

								      and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to

								      say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at

								      Longbourn House.


								      Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between

								      Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and

								      concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so

								      unworthy of Mr. Bingley’s regard; and yet, it was not in her

								      nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable

								      appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such

								      unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and

								      nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them

								      both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account

								      of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.


								      “They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some

								      way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people

								      have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short,

								      impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which

								      may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”


								      “Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to

								      say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been

								      concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or we shall be

								      obliged to think ill of somebody.”


								      “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my

								      opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful

								      light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite

								      in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide

								      for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had

								      any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most

								      intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”


								      “I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on,

								      than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as

								      he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without

								      ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides,

								      there was truth in his looks.”


								      “It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what

								      to think.”


								      “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”


								      But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr.

								      Bingley, if he had been imposed on, would have much to suffer

								      when the affair became public.


								      The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this

								      conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom

								      they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give

								      their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at

								      Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two

								      ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it

								      an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been

								      doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the

								      family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much

								      as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to

								      the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats

								      with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and

								      hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities.


								      The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to

								      every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as

								      given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly

								      flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself,

								      instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy

								      evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of

								      their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a

								      great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of

								      everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour. The happiness

								      anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single

								      event, or any particular person, for though they each, like

								      Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he

								      was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a

								      ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her

								      family that she had no disinclination for it.


								      “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is

								      enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening

								      engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself

								      one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement

								      as desirable for everybody.”


								      Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on this occasion, that though

								      she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could

								      not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s

								      invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to

								      join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to

								      find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and

								      was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop,

								      or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.


								      “I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a

								      ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to

								      respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far

								      from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be

								      honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of

								      the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours,

								      Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference

								      which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause,

								      and not to any disrespect for her.”


								      Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully

								      proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and

								      to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse

								      timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness

								      and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr.

								      Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could.

								      She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea

								      it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that

								      she was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being

								      mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a

								      quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible

								      visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed

								      his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent

								      attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more

								      astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms,

								      it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the

								      probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to her.

								      Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well

								      aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any

								      reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did,

								      it was useless to quarrel about him.


								      If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk

								      of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable

								      state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the

								      day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented

								      their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news

								      could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were

								      got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her

								      patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of

								      her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance

								      on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and

								      Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.


								      Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and

								      looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats

								      there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred

								      to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any

								      of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed

								      her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in

								      the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained

								      unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might

								      be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the

								      dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s

								      pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though

								      this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence

								      was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly

								      applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to

								      town on business the day before, and was not yet returned;

								      adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business

								      would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to

								      avoid a certain gentleman here.”


								      This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was

								      caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not

								      less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise

								      had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former

								      was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could

								      hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries

								      which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance,

								      forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was

								      resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned

								      away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly

								      surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality

								      provoked her.


								      But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every

								      prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not

								      dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to

								      Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon

								      able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her

								      cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first

								      two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were

								      dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,

								      apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without

								      being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a

								      disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment

								      of her release from him was ecstasy.


								      She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of

								      talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked.

								      When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and

								      was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly

								      addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his

								      application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she

								      accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left

								      to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to

								      console her:


								      “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”


								      “Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all!

								      To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not

								      wish me such an evil.”


								      When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to

								      claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a

								      whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham

								      to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his

								      consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the

								      set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being

								      allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her

								      neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They

								      stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to

								      imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances,

								      and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying

								      that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige

								      him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He

								      replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she

								      addressed him a second time with:—“It is your turn to say

								      something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you

								      ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the

								      number of couples.”


								      He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say

								      should be said.


								      “Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by

								      I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public

								      ones. But now we may be silent.”


								      “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”


								      “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd

								      to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the

								      advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as

								      that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”


								      “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do

								      you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”


								      “Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great

								      similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,

								      taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say

								      something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to

								      posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”


								      “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am

								      sure,” said he. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend

								      to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”


								      “I must not decide on my own performance.”


								      He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone

								      down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not

								      very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and,

								      unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there

								      the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”


								      The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread

								      his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though

								      blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length

								      Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is

								      blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making

								      friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is

								      less certain.”


								      “He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied

								      Elizabeth with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to

								      suffer from all his life.”


								      Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the

								      subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to

								      them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the

								      room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of

								      superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his

								      partner.


								      “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very

								      superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong

								      to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair

								      partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this

								      pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable

								      event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall

								      take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to

								      Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank

								      me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young

								      lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”


								      The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but

								      Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him

								      forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious

								      expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.

								      Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner,

								      and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we

								      were talking of.”


								      “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not

								      have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for

								      themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without

								      success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”


								      “What think you of books?” said he, smiling.


								      “Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the

								      same feelings.”


								      “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at

								      least be no want of subject. We may compare our different

								      opinions.”


								      “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full

								      of something else.”


								      “The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said

								      he, with a look of doubt.


								      “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for

								      her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon

								      afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember

								      hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave,

								      that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very

								      cautious, I suppose, as to its being created?”


								      “I am,” said he, with a firm voice.


								      “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”


								      “I hope not.”


								      “It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their

								      opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”


								      “May I ask to what these questions tend?”


								      “Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she,

								      endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it

								      out.”


								      “And what is your success?”


								      She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such

								      different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”


								      “I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may

								      vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet,

								      that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment,

								      as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no

								      credit on either.”


								      “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another

								      opportunity.”


								      “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly

								      replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and

								      parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to

								      an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably

								      powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and

								      directed all his anger against another.


								      They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her,

								      and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:


								      “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George

								      Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking

								      me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite

								      forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was

								      the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. Let me

								      recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit

								      confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him

								      ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always

								      been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated

								      Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the

								      particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the

								      least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham

								      mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not

								      well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he

								      was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the

								      way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing,

								      indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,

								      Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but

								      really, considering his descent, one could not expect much

								      better.”


								      “His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the

								      same,” said Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him

								      of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward,

								      and of that, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”


								      “I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a

								      sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”


								      “Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much

								      mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as

								      this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the

								      malice of Mr. Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had

								      undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane

								      met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such

								      happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was

								      satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth

								      instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for

								      Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else,

								      gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for

								      happiness.


								      “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling

								      than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But

								      perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any

								      third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”


								      “No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing

								      satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of

								      his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which

								      have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the

								      good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is

								      perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less

								      attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to

								      say by his account as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no

								      means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very

								      imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.”


								      “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”


								      “No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”


								      “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am

								      satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”


								      “He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has

								      heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it

								      was left to him conditionally only.”


								      “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth

								      warmly; “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances

								      only. Mr. Bingley’s defense of his friend was a very able one, I

								      dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the

								      story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall

								      venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”


								      She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each,

								      and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth

								      listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which

								      Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley’s regard, and said all in her

								      power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by

								      Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose

								      inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had

								      scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told

								      her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as

								      to make a most important discovery.


								      “I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there

								      is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to

								      overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who

								      does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de

								      Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these

								      sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with,

								      perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I

								      am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay

								      my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will

								      excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the

								      connection must plead my apology.”


								      “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”


								      “Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it

								      earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s nephew. It will

								      be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well

								      yesterday se’nnight.”


								      Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring

								      him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without

								      introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment

								      to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should

								      be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong

								      to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the

								      acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air

								      of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking,

								      replied thus:


								      “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world

								      in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of

								      your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a

								      wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst

								      the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me

								      leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in

								      point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided

								      that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time

								      maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of

								      my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I

								      look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by

								      your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant

								      guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted

								      by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a

								      young lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to

								      attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly

								      watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very

								      evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and

								      though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it

								      all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,”

								      “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see

								      him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with

								      unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him

								      time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr.

								      Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and

								      Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length

								      of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a

								      slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to

								      Elizabeth.


								      “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied

								      with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the

								      attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid

								      me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady

								      Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a

								      favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon

								      the whole, I am much pleased with him.”


								      As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she

								      turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr.

								      Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her

								      observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as

								      Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the

								      felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she

								      felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to

								      like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw

								      were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near

								      her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper,

								      therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which

								      placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to

								      find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas)

								      freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane

								      would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating

								      subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while

								      enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a

								      charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from

								      them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was

								      such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane,

								      and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as

								      she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her

								      younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them

								      in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at

								      her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to

								      the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go

								      into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this

								      circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it

								      is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to

								      find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She

								      concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be

								      equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing

								      there was no chance of it.


								      In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her

								      mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a

								      less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she

								      could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy,

								      who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being

								      nonsensical.


								      “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I

								      am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged

								      to say nothing he may not like to hear.”


								      “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be

								      for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to

								      his friend by so doing!”


								      Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her

								      mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone.

								      Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She

								      could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though

								      every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was

								      not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his

								      attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face

								      changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and

								      steady gravity.


								      At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady

								      Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights

								      which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts

								      of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not

								      long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over,

								      singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing

								      Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the

								      company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she

								      endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain;

								      Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting

								      was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes

								      were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched

								      her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which

								      was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving,

								      amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she

								      might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of

								      half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means

								      fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner

								      affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see

								      how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley.

								      She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of

								      derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,

								      imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his

								      interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the

								      hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,

								      “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long

								      enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”


								      Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted;

								      and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech,

								      was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were

								      now applied to.


								      “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to

								      sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the

								      company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent

								      diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a

								      clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be

								      justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there

								      are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a

								      parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an

								      agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not

								      offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the

								      time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and

								      the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be

								      excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not

								      think it of light importance that he should have attentive and

								      conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those

								      to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty;

								      nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of

								      testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the

								      family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,

								      which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.

								      Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.

								      Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins

								      for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to

								      Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young

								      man.


								      To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement

								      to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it

								      would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more

								      spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley

								      and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his

								      notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much

								      distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his

								      two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an

								      opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she

								      could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman,

								      or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.


								      The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was

								      teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her

								      side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him

								      again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did

								      she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to

								      introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that

								      as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief

								      object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and

								      that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her

								      the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She

								      owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often

								      joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s

								      conversation to herself.


								      She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy’s further

								      notice; though often standing within a very short distance of

								      her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She

								      felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr.

								      Wickham, and rejoiced in it.


								      The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart,

								      and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their

								      carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone,

								      which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by

								      some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened

								      their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently

								      impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every

								      attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a

								      languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by

								      the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr.

								      Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment,

								      and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their

								      behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet,

								      in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane

								      were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and

								      talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a

								      silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was

								      too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation

								      of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.


								      When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most

								      pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at

								      Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to

								      assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner

								      with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal

								      invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily

								      engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her,

								      after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the

								      next day for a short time.


								      Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under

								      the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary

								      preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes,

								      she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in

								      the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter

								      married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and

								      with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the

								      least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the

								      match were quite good enough for her, the worth of each was

								      eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.


								      The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made

								      his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of

								      time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following

								      Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it

								      distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a

								      very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed

								      a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet,

								      Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after

								      breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:


								      “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter

								      Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience

								      with her in the course of this morning?”


								      Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise,

								      Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am

								      sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no

								      objection. Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs.” And, gathering her

								      work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:


								      “Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must

								      excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not

								      hear. I am going away myself.”


								      “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.”

								      And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed

								      looks, about to escape, she added: “Lizzy, I insist upon your

								      staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”


								      Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment’s

								      consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to

								      get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down

								      again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings

								      which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet

								      and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins

								      began.


								      “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far

								      from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other

								      perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had

								      there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to

								      assure you, that I have your respected mother’s permission for

								      this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse,

								      however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my

								      attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as

								      I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my

								      future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this

								      subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons

								      for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with

								      the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”


								      The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run

								      away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that

								      she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to

								      stop him further, and he continued:


								      “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right

								      thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to

								      set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am

								      convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and

								      thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it

								      is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble

								      lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she

								      condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this

								      subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left

								      Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was

								      arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool, that she said, ‘Mr.

								      Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose

								      properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake; and for your own,

								      let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high,

								      but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice.

								      Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and

								      I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair

								      cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady

								      Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my

								      power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can

								      describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable

								      to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect

								      which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general

								      intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my

								      views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own

								      neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable

								      young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit

								      this estate after the death of your honoured father (who,

								      however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself

								      without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that

								      the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the

								      melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already

								      said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my

								      fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your

								      esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the

								      most animated language of the violence of my affection. To

								      fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of

								      that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could

								      not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four

								      per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother’s

								      decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,

								      therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure

								      yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when

								      we are married.”


								      It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.


								      “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made

								      no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my

								      thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible

								      of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to

								      do otherwise than to decline them.”


								      “I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave

								      of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the

								      addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he

								      first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is

								      repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no

								      means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to

								      lead you to the altar ere long.”


								      “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather

								      extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am

								      not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are)

								      who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of

								      being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.

								      You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the

								      last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your

								      friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find

								      me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”


								      “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr.

								      Collins very gravely—“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship

								      would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I

								      have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very

								      highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable

								      qualification.”


								      “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You

								      must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment

								      of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and

								      by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being

								      otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the

								      delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take

								      possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any

								      self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as

								      finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have

								      quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:


								      “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the

								      subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than

								      you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of

								      cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established

								      custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and

								      perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as

								      would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female

								      character.”


								      “Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you

								      puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to

								      you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my

								      refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”


								      “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that

								      your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My

								      reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to

								      me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the

								      establishment I can offer would be any other than highly

								      desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family

								      of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances

								      highly in my favour; and you should take it into further

								      consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is

								      by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be

								      made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all

								      likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable

								      qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not

								      serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it

								      to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the

								      usual practice of elegant females.”


								      “I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to

								      that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable

								      man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed

								      sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done

								      me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely

								      impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak

								      plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending

								      to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth

								      from her heart.”


								      “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward

								      gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the

								      express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals

								      will not fail of being acceptable.”


								      To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would

								      make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;

								      determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals

								      as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose

								      negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and

								      whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the

								      affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.


								      Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his

								      successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the

								      vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw

								      Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the

								      staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated

								      both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their

								      nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these

								      felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate

								      the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he

								      trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal

								      which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow

								      from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her

								      character.


								      This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have

								      been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to

								      encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared

								      not believe it, and could not help saying so.


								      “But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall

								      be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She

								      is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own

								      interest but I will make her know it.”


								      “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but

								      if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she

								      would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my

								      situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage

								      state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit,

								      perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me,

								      because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not

								      contribute much to my felicity.”


								      “Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.

								      “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything

								      else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go

								      directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with

								      her, I am sure.”


								      She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to

								      her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr.

								      Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You

								      must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will

								      not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his

								      mind and not have her.”


								      Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and

								      fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the

								      least altered by her communication.


								      “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she

								      had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”


								      “Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr.

								      Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have

								      Lizzy.”


								      “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless

								      business.”


								      “Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon

								      her marrying him.”


								      “Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”


								      Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the

								      library.


								      “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have

								      sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr.

								      Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth

								      replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you

								      have refused?”


								      “I have, sir.”


								      “Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon

								      your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”


								      “Yes, or I will never see her again.”


								      “An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day

								      you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will

								      never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will

								      never see you again if you do.”


								      Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a

								      beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her

								      husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively

								      disappointed.


								      “What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised

								      me to insist upon her marrying him.”


								      “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to

								      request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my

								      understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room.

								      I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”


								      Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband,

								      did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again

								      and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to

								      secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible

								      mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with

								      real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to

								      her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination

								      never did.


								      Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had

								      passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what

								      motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was

								      hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite

								      imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s

								      reproach prevented his feeling any regret.


								      While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to

								      spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia,

								      who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are

								      come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened

								      this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she

								      will not have him.”


								      Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by

								      Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they

								      entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she

								      likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her

								      compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to

								      comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss

								      Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone, “for nobody is on my

								      side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels

								      for my poor nerves.”


								      Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and

								      Elizabeth.


								      “Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as

								      unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were

								      at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss

								      Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer

								      of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and

								      I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father

								      is dead. I shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I

								      have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library,

								      you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will

								      find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to

								      undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in

								      talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous

								      complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can

								      tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not

								      complain are never pitied.”


								      Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that

								      any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase

								      the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption

								      from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who

								      entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on

								      perceiving whom, she said to the girls, “Now, I do insist upon

								      it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr.

								      Collins have a little conversation together.”


								      Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty

								      followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she

								      could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr.

								      Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were

								      very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself

								      with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a

								      doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: “Oh!

								      Mr. Collins!”


								      “My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this

								      point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice

								      that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your

								      daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all;

								      the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I

								      have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps

								      not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had

								      my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often

								      observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the

								      blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our

								      estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any

								      disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my

								      pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid

								      yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to

								      interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be

								      objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your

								      daughter’s lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to

								      error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My

								      object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with

								      due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my

								      manner has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to

								      apologise.”


								      The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end,

								      and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings

								      necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish

								      allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, his

								      feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or

								      dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner

								      and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the

								      assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself

								      were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose

								      civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all,

								      and especially to her friend.


								      The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill-humour or

								      ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry

								      pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his

								      visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it.

								      He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant

								      to stay.


								      After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr.

								      Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the

								      Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and

								      attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and

								      the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth,

								      however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his

								      absence had been self-imposed.


								      “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not

								      meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with

								      him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear,

								      and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”


								      She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a

								      full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they

								      civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer

								      walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he

								      particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double

								      advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and

								      it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her

								      father and mother.


								      Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet;

								      it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of

								      elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s

								      fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance

								      change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some

								      particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting

								      the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the

								      general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the

								      subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no

								      sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from

								      Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained

								      their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said:


								      “This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me

								      a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time,

								      and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming

								      back again. You shall hear what she says.”


								      She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the

								      information of their having just resolved to follow their brother

								      to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor

								      Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:

								      “I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in

								      Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we

								      will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that

								      delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may

								      lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most

								      unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these

								      highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the

								      insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their

								      removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it

								      was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would

								      prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their

								      society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in

								      the enjoyment of his.


								      “It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should

								      not be able to see your friends before they leave the country.

								      But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which

								      Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware,

								      and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends

								      will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr.

								      Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”


								      “Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into

								      Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”


								      “When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business

								      which took him to London might be concluded in three or four

								      days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time

								      convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry

								      to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither,

								      that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a

								      comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for

								      the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend,

								      had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I

								      despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may

								      abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and

								      that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling

								      the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.”


								      “It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more

								      this winter.”


								      “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he

								      should.”


								      “Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own

								      master. But you do not know all. I will read you the passage

								      which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from you.”


								      “Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the

								      truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really

								      do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance,

								      and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and

								      myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from

								      the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I

								      do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on

								      this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding

								      them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My

								      brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent

								      opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her

								      relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a

								      sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call

								      Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all

								      these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to

								      prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of

								      an event which will secure the happiness of so many?”


								      “What do you think of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane

								      as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not

								      expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to

								      be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s

								      indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings

								      for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can

								      there be any other opinion on the subject?”


								      “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear

								      it?”


								      “Most willingly.”


								      “You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her

								      brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy.

								      She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries

								      to persuade you that he does not care about you.”


								      Jane shook her head.


								      “Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen

								      you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure,

								      cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as

								      much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her

								      wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or

								      grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss

								      Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been

								      one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a

								      second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare

								      say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,

								      my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss

								      Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is

								      in the smallest degree less sensible of your merit than when he

								      took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to

								      persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very

								      much in love with her friend.”


								      “If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your

								      representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know

								      the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully

								      deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that

								      she is deceiving herself.”


								      “That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea,

								      since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be

								      deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and

								      must fret no longer.”


								      “But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in

								      accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to

								      marry elsewhere?”


								      “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon

								      mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his

								      two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his

								      wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”


								      “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know

								      that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their

								      disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”


								      “I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot

								      consider your situation with much compassion.”


								      “But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be

								      required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”


								      The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the

								      utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of

								      Caroline’s interested wishes, and she could not for a moment

								      suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken,

								      could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.


								      She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she

								      felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its

								      happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding, and she was

								      gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection

								      sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to

								      Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.


								      They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of

								      the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s

								      conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great

								      deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that

								      the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting

								      so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some

								      length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon

								      down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of

								      all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been

								      invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two

								      full courses.


								      The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again

								      during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen

								      to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.

								      “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged

								      to you than I can express.” Charlotte assured her friend of her

								      satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for

								      the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but

								      Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any

								      conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her

								      from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them

								      towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances

								      were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would

								      have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave

								      Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the

								      fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape

								      out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness,

								      and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was

								      anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction

								      that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture

								      his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till

								      its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost

								      secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably

								      encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure

								      of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering

								      kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked

								      towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally

								      in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love

								      and eloquence awaited her there.


								      In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,

								      everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both;

								      and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name

								      the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such

								      a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no

								      inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with

								      which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any

								      charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss

								      Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested

								      desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment

								      were gained.


								      Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their

								      consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr.

								      Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for

								      their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his

								      prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas

								      began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter

								      had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was

								      likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion,

								      that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the

								      Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and

								      his wife should make their appearance at St. James’s. The whole

								      family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The

								      younger girls formed hopes of coming out a year or two sooner

								      than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved

								      from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid.

								      Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her

								      point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in

								      general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither

								      sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his

								      attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her

								      husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,

								      marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision

								      for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however

								      uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest

								      preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained;

								      and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been

								      handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable

								      circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to

								      Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any

								      other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame

								      her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings

								      must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her

								      the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when

								      he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had

								      passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of

								      course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without

								      difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst

								      forth in such very direct questions on his return as required

								      some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising

								      great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous

								      love.


								      As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any

								      of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when

								      the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great

								      politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see

								      him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him

								      to visit them.


								      “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly

								      gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and

								      you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon

								      as possible.”


								      They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means

								      wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:


								      “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here,

								      my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the

								      risk of offending your patroness.”


								      “My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to

								      you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not

								      taking so material a step without her ladyship’s concurrence.”


								      “You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather

								      than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by

								      your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly

								      probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that we shall

								      take no offence.”


								      “Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such

								      affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily

								      receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other

								      mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my

								      fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render

								      it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health

								      and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”


								      With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them

								      equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet

								      wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his

								      addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been

								      prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher

								      than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections

								      which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as

								      herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve

								      himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very

								      agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of

								      this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast,

								      and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of

								      the day before.


								      The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with

								      her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or

								      two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far

								      from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her

								      astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first

								      the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:


								      “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!”


								      The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling

								      her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so

								      direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected,

								      she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:


								      “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it

								      incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s

								      good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with

								      you?”


								      But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong

								      effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that

								      the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her,

								      and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.


								      “I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be

								      surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was

								      wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it

								      over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am

								      not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable

								      home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connection, and

								      situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness

								      with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the

								      marriage state.”


								      Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward

								      pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not

								      stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what

								      she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all

								      reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness

								      of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days

								      was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had

								      always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly

								      like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that,

								      when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better

								      feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins

								      was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend

								      disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the

								      distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to

								      be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.


								      Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on

								      what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to

								      mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his

								      daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many

								      compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of

								      a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an

								      audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet,

								      with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be

								      entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil,

								      boisterously exclaimed:


								      “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not

								      you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”


								      Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne

								      without anger such treatment; but Sir William’s good breeding

								      carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be

								      positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all

								      their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.


								      Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so

								      unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his

								      account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte

								      herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her

								      mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to

								      Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by

								      making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be

								      expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins,

								      and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.


								      Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal

								      while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than

								      her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she

								      persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she

								      was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she

								      trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly,

								      that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were

								      plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real

								      cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been

								      barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she

								      principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could

								      console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out

								      her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth

								      without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak

								      to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months

								      were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.


								      Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion,

								      and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most

								      agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that

								      Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably

								      sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his

								      daughter!


								      Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she

								      said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for

								      their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it

								      as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas,

								      for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no

								      other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.


								      Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to

								      retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well

								      married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to

								      say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and

								      ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness

								      away.


								      Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept

								      them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded

								      that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again.

								      Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard

								      to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her

								      opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew

								      daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and

								      nothing more was heard of his return.


								      Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was

								      counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again.

								      The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on

								      Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the

								      solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth’s abode in the family

								      might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that

								      head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous

								      expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of

								      their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it

								      was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been

								      so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at

								      Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday

								      fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his

								      marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible,

								      which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his

								      amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the

								      happiest of men.


								      Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of

								      pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much

								      disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange

								      that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it

								      was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated

								      having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent,

								      and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were

								      the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the

								      greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.


								      Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day

								      after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him

								      than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming

								      no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly

								      incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as

								      a most scandalous falsehood.


								      Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but

								      that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away.

								      Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane’s

								      happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she

								      could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of

								      his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend,

								      assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of

								      London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his

								      attachment.


								      As for Jane, her anxiety under this suspense was, of course,

								      more painful than Elizabeth’s, but whatever she felt she was

								      desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth,

								      therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such

								      delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which

								      she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his

								      arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come

								      back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane’s

								      steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable

								      tranquillity.


								      Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his

								      reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been

								      on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need

								      much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of

								      love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The

								      chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he

								      sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology

								      for his absence before the family went to bed.


								      Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention

								      of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of

								      ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it

								      talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her

								      successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous

								      abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded

								      her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she

								      spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were

								      talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself

								      and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were

								      dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.


								      “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that

								      Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I

								      should be forced to make way for her, and live to see her take

								      her place in it!”


								      “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope

								      for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the

								      survivor.”


								      This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore,

								      instead of making any answer, she went on as before.


								      “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If

								      it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”


								      “What should not you mind?”


								      “I should not mind anything at all.”


								      “Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such

								      insensibility.”


								      “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the

								      entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an

								      estate from one’s own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for

								      the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should he have it more than

								      anybody else?”


								      “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.


								      Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very

								      first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled

								      in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret

								      at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in

								      Hertfordshire before he left the country.


								      Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the

								      rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed

								      affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss

								      Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions

								      were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their

								      increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment

								      of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She

								      wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate

								      of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of

								      the latter with regard to new furniture.


								      Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all

								      this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided

								      between concern for her sister, and resentment against all

								      others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to

								      Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane,

								      she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had

								      always been disposed to like him, she could not think without

								      anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that

								      want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his

								      designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness

								      to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness,

								      however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to

								      sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her

								      sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible

								      himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be

								      long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing

								      else; and yet whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or

								      were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been

								      aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his

								      observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him

								      must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s

								      situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.


								      A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her

								      feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them

								      together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield

								      and its master, she could not help saying:


								      “Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can

								      have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual

								      reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long.

								      He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”


								      Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but

								      said nothing.


								      “You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have

								      no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my

								      acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or

								      fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not

								      that pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to

								      get the better.”


								      With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort

								      immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on

								      my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”


								      “My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your

								      sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know

								      what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or

								      loved you as you deserve.”


								      Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw

								      back the praise on her sister’s warm affection.


								      “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. You wish to think all

								      the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody.

								      I only want to think you perfect, and you set yourself

								      against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my

								      encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need

								      not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of

								      whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I

								      dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the

								      inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little

								      dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or

								      sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not

								      mention; the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable!

								      In every view it is unaccountable!”


								      “My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They

								      will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for

								      difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s

								      respectability, and Charlotte’s steady, prudent character.

								      Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune,

								      it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for

								      everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and

								      esteem for our cousin.”


								      “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no

								      one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I

								      persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only

								      think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My

								      dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded,

								      silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as

								      well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper

								      way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte

								      Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the

								      meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade

								      yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility

								      of danger security for happiness.”


								      “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,”

								      replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing

								      them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something

								      else. You mentioned two instances. I cannot misunderstand you,

								      but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking that

								      person to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must

								      not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must

								      not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and

								      circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that

								      deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”


								      “And men take care that they should.”


								      “If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have

								      no idea of there being so much design in the world as some

								      persons imagine.”


								      “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to

								      design,” said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to

								      make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery.

								      Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings,

								      and want of resolution, will do the business.”


								      “And do you impute it to either of those?”


								      “Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by

								      saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you

								      can.”


								      “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”


								      “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”


								      “I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They

								      can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no

								      other woman can secure it.”


								      “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides

								      his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and

								      consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the

								      importance of money, great connections, and pride.”


								      “Beyond a doubt, they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied

								      Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are

								      supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known

								      me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their

								      own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their

								      brother’s. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it,

								      unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed

								      him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so,

								      they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make

								      everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do

								      not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been

								      mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison

								      of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let

								      me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be

								      understood.”


								      Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr.

								      Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.


								      Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning

								      no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did

								      not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever

								      considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to

								      convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his

								      attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and

								      transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but

								      though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time,

								      she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best

								      comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.


								      Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he

								      one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate

								      her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little

								      in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives

								      her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn

								      to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is

								      your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all

								      the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a

								      pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”


								      “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We

								      must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”


								      “True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that

								      whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate

								      mother who will make the most of it.”


								      Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the

								      gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of

								      the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other

								      recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The

								      whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr.

								      Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly

								      acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to

								      know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had

								      known anything of the matter.


								      Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might

								      be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the

								      society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always

								      pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but

								      by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.


								      After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of

								      felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by

								      the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might

								      be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of

								      his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his

								      return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to

								      make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at

								      Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair

								      cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father

								      another letter of thanks.


								      On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of

								      receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend

								      the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible,

								      gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by

								      nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had

								      difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within

								      view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and

								      agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs.

								      Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant

								      woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces.

								      Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a

								      particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in

								      town.


								      The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business on her arrival was to

								      distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When

								      this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her

								      turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and

								      much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she

								      last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of

								      marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.


								      “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got

								      Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard

								      to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this

								      time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an

								      offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of

								      it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I

								      have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as

								      ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are

								      all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so

								      it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in

								      my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves

								      before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is

								      the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you

								      tell us, of long sleeves.”


								      Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given

								      before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with

								      her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her

								      nieces, turned the conversation.


								      When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the

								      subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for

								      Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen

								      so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so

								      easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when

								      accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort

								      of inconsistencies are very frequent.”


								      “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it

								      will not do for us. We do not suffer by accident. It does not

								      often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a

								      young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom

								      he was violently in love with only a few days before.”


								      “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so

								      doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is

								      as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s

								      acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how violent

								      was Mr. Bingley’s love?”


								      “I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite

								      inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every

								      time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own

								      ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to

								      dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an

								      answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility

								      the very essence of love?”


								      “Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt.

								      Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she

								      may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to

								      you, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.

								      But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us?

								      Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief

								      from home may be as useful as anything.”


								      Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt

								      persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.


								      “I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard

								      to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a

								      part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you

								      well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that

								      they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.”


								      “And that is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of

								      his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on

								      Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think

								      of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have heard of such a place as

								      Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution

								      enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter

								      it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”


								      “So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does

								      not Jane correspond with his sister? She will not be able to

								      help calling.”


								      “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”


								      But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to

								      place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of

								      Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude

								      on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did

								      not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes

								      she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated,

								      and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the

								      more natural influence of Jane’s attractions.


								      Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the

								      Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than

								      as she hoped by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her

								      brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without

								      any danger of seeing him.


								      The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the

								      Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day

								      without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for

								      the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not

								      once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for

								      home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which

								      officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions,

								      Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm

								      commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing

								      them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their

								      preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little

								      uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject

								      before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the

								      imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.


								      To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,

								      unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years

								      ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in

								      that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had,

								      therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had

								      been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, it was yet

								      in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former

								      friends than she had been in the way of procuring.


								      Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by

								      character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible

								      subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley

								      with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in

								      bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late

								      possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made

								      acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she

								      tried to remember some of that gentleman’s reputed disposition

								      when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at

								      last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy

								      formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.


								      Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly

								      given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her

								      alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went

								      on:


								      “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely

								      because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not

								      afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your

								      guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an

								      affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.

								      I have nothing to say against him; he is a most interesting

								      young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should

								      think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let

								      your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect

								      you to use it. Your father would depend on your resolution and

								      good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”


								      “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”


								      “Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”


								      “Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of

								      myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me,

								      if I can prevent it.”


								      “Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”


								      “I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love

								      with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all

								      comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes

								      really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should

								      not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! that abominable Mr. Darcy!

								      My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I

								      should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial

								      to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to

								      be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every

								      day that where there is affection, young people are seldom

								      withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into

								      engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than

								      so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even

								      to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise

								      you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry

								      to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with

								      him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”


								      “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so

								      very often. At least, you should not remind your mother of

								      inviting him.”


								      “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile:

								      “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from that. But do

								      not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your

								      account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You

								      know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company

								      for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do

								      what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”


								      Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked

								      her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful

								      instance of advice being given on such a point, without being

								      resented.


								      Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been

								      quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode

								      with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs.

								      Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at

								      length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even

								      repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “wished

								      they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on

								      Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose

								      to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and

								      reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,

								      accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs

								      together, Charlotte said:


								      “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”


								      “That you certainly shall.”


								      “And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”


								      “We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”


								      “I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me,

								      therefore, to come to Hunsford.”


								      Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in

								      the visit.


								      “My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte,

								      “and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza,

								      you will be as welcome as either of them.”


								      The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent

								      from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to

								      hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her

								      friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as

								      it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was

								      impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling

								      that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined

								      not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what

								      had been, rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters were

								      received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be

								      curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she

								      would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce

								      herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt

								      that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she

								      might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with

								      comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The

								      house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her

								      taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and

								      obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings

								      rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait

								      for her own visit there to know the rest.


								      Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce

								      their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth

								      hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.


								      Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as

								      impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without

								      either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it,

								      however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from

								      Longbourn had by some accident been lost.


								      “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of

								      the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in

								      Grosvenor Street.”


								      She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss

								      Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words,

								      “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving

								      her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my

								      last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their

								      brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr.

								      Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy

								      was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not

								      long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I

								      shall see them soon here.”


								      Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that

								      accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in

								      town.


								      Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She

								      endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but

								      she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After

								      waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing

								      every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last

								      appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the

								      alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no

								      longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister

								      will prove what she felt.


								      “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in

								      her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to

								      have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But,

								      my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not

								      think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her

								      behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I

								      do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate

								      with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am

								      sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit

								      till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the

								      meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no

								      pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not

								      calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and

								      was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went

								      away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no

								      longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very

								      wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every

								      advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because

								      she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am

								      very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need

								      not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to

								      be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account

								      for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his

								      sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural

								      and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such

								      fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have

								      met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from

								      something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner

								      of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is

								      really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were

								      not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say

								      that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I

								      will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of

								      what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable

								      kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very

								      soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to

								      Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any

								      certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that

								      you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford.

								      Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you

								      will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc.”


								      This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as

								      she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister

								      at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely

								      over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions.

								      His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for

								      him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped

								      he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy’s sister, as by Wickham’s

								      account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown

								      away.


								      Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise

								      concerning that gentleman, and required information; and

								      Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to

								      her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided,

								      his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else.

								      Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it

								      and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but

								      slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing

								      that she would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted

								      it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most

								      remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering

								      himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in

								      this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his

								      wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more

								      natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few

								      struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and

								      desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him

								      happy.


								      All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating

								      the circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear

								      aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really

								      experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present

								      detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my

								      feelings are not only cordial towards him; they are even

								      impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at

								      all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good

								      sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness

								      has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more

								      interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in

								      love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative

								      insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly.

								      Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.

								      They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the

								      mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something

								      to live on as well as the plain.”


								      With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and

								      otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton,

								      sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass

								      away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at

								      first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she

								      soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned

								      to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater

								      certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte

								      again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty

								      in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such

								      uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little

								      change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would

								      moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew

								      near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything,

								      however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to

								      Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and

								      his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in

								      London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan

								      could be.


								      The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss

								      her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her

								      going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to

								      answer her letter.


								      The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly

								      friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not

								      make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and

								      to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the

								      first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu,

								      wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to

								      expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of

								      her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a

								      solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to

								      him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced

								      that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of

								      the amiable and pleasing.


								      Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her

								      think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter

								      Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had

								      nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to

								      with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth

								      loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He

								      could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and

								      knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his

								      information.


								      It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so

								      early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to

								      Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching

								      their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to

								      welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was

								      pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs

								      were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their

								      cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the

								      drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a

								      twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and

								      kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in

								      bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.


								      Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object

								      was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear,

								      in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always

								      struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of

								      dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would

								      not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of

								      Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated

								      conversations occurring at different times between Jane and

								      herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given

								      up the acquaintance.


								      Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and

								      complimented her on bearing it so well.


								      “But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss

								      King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”


								      “Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial

								      affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does

								      discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid

								      of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now,

								      because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds,

								      you want to find out that he is mercenary.”


								      “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall

								      know what to think.”


								      “She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of

								      her.”


								      “But he paid her not the smallest attention till her

								      grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune.”


								      “No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain my

								      affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be

								      for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was

								      equally poor?”


								      “But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions

								      towards her so soon after this event.”


								      “A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those

								      elegant decorums which other people may observe. If she does

								      not object to it, why should we?”


								      “Her not objecting does not justify him. It only shows her

								      being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.”


								      “Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. He shall be

								      mercenary, and she shall be foolish.”


								      “No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry,

								      you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in

								      Derbyshire.”


								      “Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who

								      live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in

								      Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank

								      Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not

								      one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to

								      recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after

								      all.”


								      “Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of

								      disappointment.”


								      Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had

								      the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle

								      and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the

								      summer.


								      “We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.

								      Gardiner, “but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”


								      No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her

								      acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my

								      dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what

								      felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to

								      disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and

								      mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when

								      we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without

								      being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know

								      where we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes,

								      mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our

								      imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular

								      scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let

								      our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the

								      generality of travellers.”


								      Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to

								      Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she

								      had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her

								      health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant

								      source of delight.


								      When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye

								      was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to

								      bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary

								      on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she

								      had heard of its inhabitants.


								      At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to

								      the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the

								      laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins

								      and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at

								      the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house,

								      amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they

								      were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.

								      Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and

								      Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found

								      herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her

								      cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal

								      civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some

								      minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all

								      her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing

								      out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as

								      soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time,

								      with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually

								      repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment.


								      Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not

								      help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the

								      room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself

								      particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had

								      lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and

								      comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of

								      repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she

								      could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.

								      Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be

								      ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily

								      turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a

								      faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After

								      sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the

								      room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of

								      their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr.

								      Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was

								      large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he

								      attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most

								      respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of

								      countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of

								      the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible.

								      Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and

								      scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked

								      for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left

								      beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every

								      direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most

								      distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which

								      the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with

								      the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that

								      bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was

								      a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.


								      From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two

								      meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the

								      remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William

								      accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the

								      house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity

								      of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small,

								      but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and

								      arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave

								      Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten,

								      there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by

								      Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must

								      be often forgotten.


								      She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the

								      country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when

								      Mr. Collins joining in, observed:


								      “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady

								      Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need

								      not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and

								      condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some

								      portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any

								      hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in

								      every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here.

								      Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at

								      Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her

								      ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say,

								      one of her ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”


								      “Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,”

								      added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”


								      “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort

								      of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”


								      The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,

								      and telling again what had already been written; and when it

								      closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to

								      meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand

								      her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her

								      husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She

								      had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor

								      of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr.

								      Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A

								      lively imagination soon settled it all.


								      About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting

								      ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole

								      house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard

								      somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly

								      after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing

								      place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—


								      “Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the

								      dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not

								      tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”


								      Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing

								      more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the

								      lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a

								      low phaeton at the garden gate.


								      “And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the

								      pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady

								      Catherine and her daughter.”


								      “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is

								      not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives

								      with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is

								      quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be

								      so thin and small?”


								      “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all

								      this wind. Why does she not come in?”


								      “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of

								      favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”


								      “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.

								      “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well.

								      She will make him a very proper wife.”


								      Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in

								      conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s

								      high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest

								      contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing

								      whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.


								      At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on,

								      and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw

								      the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good

								      fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the

								      whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.


								      Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was

								      complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness

								      to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility

								      towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for;

								      and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was

								      such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension, as he knew

								      not how to admire enough.


								      “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all

								      surprised by her ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and

								      spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my

								      knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could

								      have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined

								      that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an

								      invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately

								      after your arrival!”


								      “I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir

								      William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great

								      really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire.

								      About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not

								      uncommon.”


								      Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but

								      their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing

								      them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms,

								      so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly

								      overpower them.


								      When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to

								      Elizabeth—


								      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel.

								      Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us

								      which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely

								      to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there

								      is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think

								      the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the

								      distinction of rank preserved.”


								      While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their

								      different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady

								      Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.

								      Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of

								      living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to

								      company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings

								      with as much apprehension as her father had done to his

								      presentation at St. James’s.


								      As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a

								      mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its

								      prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she

								      could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene

								      to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of

								      the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the

								      glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.


								      When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every

								      moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly

								      calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing

								      of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary

								      talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money

								      or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.


								      From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a

								      rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments,

								      they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room

								      where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were

								      sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive

								      them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that

								      the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a

								      proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he

								      would have thought necessary.


								      In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so

								      completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but

								      just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat

								      without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of

								      her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way

								      to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and

								      could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady

								      Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features,

								      which might once have been handsome. Her air was not

								      conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to

								      make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not

								      rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken

								      in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and

								      brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and from the

								      observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to

								      be exactly what he represented.


								      When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and

								      deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she

								      turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in

								      Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was

								      neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss

								      de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain,

								      were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low

								      voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing

								      remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she

								      said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her

								      eyes.


								      After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the

								      windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point

								      out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that

								      it was much better worth looking at in the summer.


								      The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the

								      servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had

								      promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at

								      the bottom of the table, by her ladyship’s desire, and looked as

								      if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved,

								      and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was

								      commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now

								      enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a

								      manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But

								      Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration,

								      and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the

								      table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much

								      conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an

								      opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de

								      Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady

								      Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time.

								      Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss

								      de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing

								      she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question,

								      and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.


								      When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to

								      be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without

								      any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on

								      every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not

								      used to have her judgement controverted. She inquired into

								      Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a

								      great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her

								      how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as

								      hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her

								      poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great

								      lady’s attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of

								      dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs.

								      Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and

								      Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she

								      knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very

								      genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times,

								      how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than

								      herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether

								      they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage

								      her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name?

								      Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered

								      them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,


								      “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For

								      your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise

								      I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It

								      was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you

								      play and sing, Miss Bennet?”


								      “A little.”


								      “Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our

								      instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try

								      it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”


								      “One of them does.”


								      “Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The

								      Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income

								      as yours. Do you draw?”


								      “No, not at all.”


								      “What, none of you?”


								      “Not one.”


								      “That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your

								      mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit

								      of masters.”


								      “My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates

								      London.”


								      “Has your governess left you?”


								      “We never had any governess.”


								      “No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up

								      at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your

								      mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”


								      Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had

								      not been the case.


								      “Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess,

								      you must have been neglected.”


								      “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us

								      as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always

								      encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary.

								      Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.”


								      “Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if

								      I had known your mother, I should have advised her most

								      strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be

								      done in education without steady and regular instruction, and

								      nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many

								      families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am

								      always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of

								      Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means;

								      and it was but the other day that I recommended another young

								      person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the

								      family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you

								      of Lady Metcalf’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss

								      Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a

								      treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”


								      “Yes, ma’am, all.”


								      “All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the

								      second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married!

								      Your younger sisters must be very young?”


								      “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to

								      be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very

								      hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share

								      of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the

								      means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a

								      right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back

								      on such a motive! I think it would not be very likely to

								      promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”


								      “Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very

								      decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”


								      “With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth,

								      smiling, “your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”


								      Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct

								      answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature

								      who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.


								      “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need

								      not conceal your age.”


								      “I am not one-and-twenty.”


								      When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the

								      card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and

								      Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose

								      to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting

								      Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was

								      superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did

								      not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her

								      fears of Miss de Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having

								      too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the

								      other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the

								      mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of

								      herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her

								      ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and

								      apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not

								      say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble

								      names.


								      When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they

								      chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to

								      Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The

								      party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine

								      determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From

								      these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the

								      coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins’s

								      side and as many bows on Sir William’s they departed. As soon as

								      they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her

								      cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings,

								      which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it

								      really was. But her commendation, though costing her some

								      trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very

								      soon obliged to take her ladyship’s praise into his own hands.


								      Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was

								      long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most

								      comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and

								      such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William

								      was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out

								      in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away,

								      the whole family returned to their usual employments, and

								      Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her

								      cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between

								      breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the

								      garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window

								      in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which

								      the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather

								      wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for

								      common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant

								      aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason

								      for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been

								      much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally

								      lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.


								      From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane,

								      and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what

								      carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh

								      drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform

								      them of, though it happened almost every day. She not

								      unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’

								      conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon

								      to get out.


								      Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to

								      Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it

								      necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that

								      there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could

								      not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they

								      were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped

								      her observation that was passing in the room during these visits.

								      She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and

								      advised them to do it differently; found fault with the

								      arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in

								      negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it

								      only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of

								      meat were too large for her family.


								      Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in

								      commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active

								      magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were

								      carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers

								      were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she

								      sallied forth into the village to settle their differences,

								      silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.


								      The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a

								      week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being

								      only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was

								      the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few,

								      as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond

								      Mr. Collins’s reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and

								      upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were

								      half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the

								      weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great

								      enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she

								      frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine,

								      was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where

								      there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but

								      herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s

								      curiosity.


								      In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed

								      away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to

								      bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a

								      circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her

								      arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few

								      weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom

								      she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively

								      new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused

								      in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his

								      behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by

								      Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest

								      satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration,

								      and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been

								      frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.


								      His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was

								      walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into

								      Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and

								      after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park,

								      hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following

								      morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were

								      two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had

								      brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his

								      uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when

								      Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte

								      had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and

								      immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour

								      they might expect, adding:


								      “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy

								      would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”


								      Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the

								      compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell,

								      and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room.

								      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not

								      handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr.

								      Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in

								      Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to

								      Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her

								      friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth

								      merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.


								      Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the

								      readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very

								      pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight

								      observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some

								      time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his

								      civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the

								      health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and

								      after a moment’s pause, added:


								      “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you

								      never happened to see her there?”


								      She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to

								      see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed

								      between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little

								      confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to

								      meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the

								      gentlemen soon afterwards went away.


								      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the

								      Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably

								      to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some

								      days, however, before they received any invitation 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 gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an

								      attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to

								      come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very

								      little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had

								      called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr.

								      Darcy they had seen only at church.


								      The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they

								      joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her ladyship

								      received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by

								      no means so acceptable as when she could get 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 moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated

								      himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and

								      Hertfordshire, 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 that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are

								      talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it

								      is.”


								      “We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able

								      to avoid a reply.


								      “Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my

								      delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are

								      speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose,

								      who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better

								      natural taste. If I had ever 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, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such

								      advice. She practises 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

								      practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is

								      very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every

								      day, and play on the pianoforte 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 pianoforte 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 arch smile, and said:


								      “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state

								      to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister does play

								      so well. There is a stubbornness about me that 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

								      impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such

								      things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”


								      “I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.


								      “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel

								      Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among

								      strangers.”


								      “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very

								      dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire,

								      you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think

								      he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce;

								      and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was

								      sitting down in 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 ball-room. 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’s 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 practising. 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

								      perform 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 amiss if she practised more,

								      and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very

								      good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to

								      Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her

								      health allowed her to learn.”


								      Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his

								      cousin’s praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other

								      could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his

								      behaviour to Miss de Bourgh 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 gentlemen, 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. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it

								      not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension

								      was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape

								      all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very

								      great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.


								      He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for

								      his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the

								      ladies were to be within.


								      They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were

								      made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was

								      absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in

								      this emergence recollecting when she had seen him last in

								      Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on

								      the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:


								      “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr.

								      Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley

								      to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, 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 he were to give it

								      up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”


								      Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his

								      friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to

								      leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.


								      He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very

								      comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to

								      it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”


								      “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her

								      kindness on a more grateful object.”


								      “Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a

								      wife.”


								      “Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with

								      one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him,

								      or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent

								      understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her

								      marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems

								      perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is

								      certainly a very good match for her.”


								      “It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so 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 Hertfordshire. Anything

								      beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would

								      appear far.”


								      As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she

								      understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and

								      Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:


								      “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near

								      her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on

								      many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the

								      expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But

								      that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a

								      comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent

								      journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself

								      near her family under less than half the present distance.”


								      Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “You

								      cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You

								      cannot have been always at Longbourn.”


								      Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change

								      of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the

								      table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:


								      “Are you pleased with Kent?”


								      A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either

								      side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of

								      Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The

								      tête-à-tête 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 Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk

								      to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a

								      temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day.

								      They called at various times of the morning, sometimes

								      separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by

								      their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam

								      came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which

								      of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded

								      by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his

								      evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George

								      Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less

								      captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she

								      believed he might have the best informed mind.


								      But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more

								      difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he

								      frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his

								      lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity

								      rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to

								      himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew

								      not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally

								      laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally

								      different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told

								      her; and as she would liked to have believed this change 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 were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing

								      but absence of mind.


								      She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of

								      his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the

								      idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the

								      subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only

								      end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a

								      doubt, that all her friend’s 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.


								      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 favourite haunt of hers. How it could

								      occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and

								      even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary

								      penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal

								      inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually

								      thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never

								      said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of

								      talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of

								      their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected

								      questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of

								      solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s

								      happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly

								      understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she

								      came into Kent again she would be staying there too. His words

								      seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his

								      thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an

								      allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a

								      little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the

								      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 Fitzwilliam was

								      meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a

								      smile, she said:


								      “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”


								      “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I

								      generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at

								      the 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 Kent on Saturday?” said she.


								      “Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his

								      disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”


								      “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at

								      least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know

								      anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes

								      than Mr. Darcy.”


								      “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel

								      Fitzwilliam. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better

								      means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many

								      others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must

								      be inured 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 a silence which might make him fancy her affected with

								      what had passed, she soon afterwards said:


								      “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the

								      sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not

								      marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But,

								      perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is

								      under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”


								      “No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he

								      must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of

								      Miss Darcy.”


								      “Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make?

								      Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age

								      are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the

								      true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”


								      As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the

								      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 be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I

								      dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world.

								      She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my

								      acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard

								      you say that you know them.”


								      “I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike

								      man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”


								      “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “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 be the

								      judge?”


								      “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”


								      “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety

								      of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement

								      alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend

								      was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as

								      we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.

								      It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the

								      case.”


								      “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is

								      a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”


								      This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a

								      picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an

								      answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked

								      on indifferent matters until they reached the 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 Miss 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 continued to suffer. He had

								      ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most

								      affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say

								      how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.


								      “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were

								      Colonel Fitzwilliam’s 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.


								      When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate

								      herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her

								      employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had

								      written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual

								      complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any

								      communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost

								      every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which

								      had been used to characterise 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 attention which it had hardly received on the

								      first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had

								      been able to inflict, gave her a 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, a 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 door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the

								      idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once

								      before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire

								      particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her

								      spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter

								      amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried

								      manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing

								      his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered

								      him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then

								      getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but

								      said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came

								      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,

								      coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient

								      encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long

								      felt for her, immediately followed. 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 in

								      anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with

								      patience, when he should have done. He concluded with

								      representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in

								      spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer;

								      and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her

								      acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see

								      that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of

								      apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real

								      security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and,

								      when he ceased, the colour 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 honour of

								      expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so

								      little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of

								      small importance.”


								      “I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a

								      desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that

								      you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even

								      against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility,

								      if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I

								      have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been

								      indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that

								      any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been

								      the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most

								      beloved sister?”


								      As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the

								      emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to

								      interrupt her while she continued:


								      “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive

								      can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You

								      dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the 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 tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of

								      denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend

								      from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him

								      I have been kinder than towards myself.”


								      Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil

								      reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to

								      conciliate her.


								      “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 here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you

								      here impose upon others?”


								      “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said

								      Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.


								      “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling

								      an interest in him?”


								      “His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his

								      misfortunes have been great indeed.”


								      “And of your infliction,” 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 desert. 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

								      me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you

								      behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”


								      She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she

								      continued:


								      “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible

								      way that would have tempted me to accept it.”


								      Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an

								      expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:


								      “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost

								      say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with

								      the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your

								      selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form

								      the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have

								      built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month

								      before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I

								      could ever be prevailed on to marry.”


								      “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your

								      feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own 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 should

								      receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have

								      been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to

								      wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made

								      him prevent his friend’s 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.


								      Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and

								      meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not

								      yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was

								      impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for

								      employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge

								      herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her

								      favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes

								      coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she

								      turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The

								      park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon

								      passed one of the gates into the ground.


								      After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she

								      was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the

								      gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now

								      passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and

								      every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was

								      on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of

								      a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was

								      moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was

								      directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near

								      enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,

								      pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself

								      called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she

								      moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it

								      also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took,

								      said, with 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 honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow,

								      turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.


								      With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest

								      curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still

								      increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of

								      letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The

								      envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the

								      lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight

								      o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:—


								      “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the

								      apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments

								      or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to

								      you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling

								      myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both,

								      cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation

								      and 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 offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of

								      equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first

								      mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I

								      had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I

								      had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and

								      humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the

								      prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown

								      off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my

								      father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on

								      our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its

								      exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two

								      young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few

								      weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that

								      blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each

								      circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the

								      following account of my actions and their motives has been read.

								      If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am

								      under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive

								      to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be

								      obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.


								      “I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common

								      with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any

								      other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening

								      of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his

								      feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love

								      before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you,

								      I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental

								      information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given

								      rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it

								      as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.

								      From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively;

								      and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was

								      beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also

								      watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging

								      as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I

								      remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she

								      received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by

								      any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken

								      here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of

								      your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have

								      been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment

								      has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert,

								      that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such

								      as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that,

								      however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily

								      touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is

								      certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and

								      decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did

								      not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed

								      it on impartial conviction, as truly 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 endeavoured to

								      forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes

								      must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s

								      family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that

								      total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly

								      betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and

								      occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to

								      offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your

								      nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of

								      them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have

								      conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like

								      censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your

								      elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition

								      of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that

								      evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every

								      inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve

								      my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left

								      Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am

								      certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.


								      “The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’

								      uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence

								      of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time

								      was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on

								      joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I

								      readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the

								      certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them

								      earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or

								      delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would

								      ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded

								      by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s

								      indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection

								      with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great

								      natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement 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 Bingley; but her brother is even yet

								      ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence

								      is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough

								      extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this

								      concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however,

								      and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more

								      to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your

								      sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives

								      which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient,

								      I have not yet learnt to condemn them.


								      “With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having

								      injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you

								      the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has

								      particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what

								      I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted

								      veracity.


								      “Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for

								      many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose

								      good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my

								      father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was

								      his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My

								      father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most

								      important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the

								      extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a

								      gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young

								      man’s society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also

								      the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his

								      profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it

								      is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very

								      different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle,

								      which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best

								      friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly

								      the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing

								      him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here

								      again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But

								      whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a

								      suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his

								      real character—it adds even another motive.


								      “My excellent father died about five years ago; and his

								      attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his

								      will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his

								      advancement in the best manner that his profession might

								      allow—and if he took orders, 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 lieu of

								      the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some

								      intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that

								      the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient

								      support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be

								      sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his

								      proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman;

								      the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to

								      assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be

								      in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three

								      thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.

								      I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his

								      society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his

								      studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all

								      restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For

								      about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of

								      the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he

								      applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His

								      circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in

								      believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most

								      unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being

								      ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of

								      which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well

								      assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could

								      not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will

								      hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for

								      resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in

								      proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was

								      doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his

								      reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of

								      acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last

								      summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.


								      “I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget

								      myself, and which no obligation less than the present should

								      induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I

								      feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten

								      years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s

								      nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she

								      was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in

								      London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over

								      it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly

								      by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance

								      between him and Mrs. Younge, 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.

								      Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief

								      object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty

								      thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of

								      revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge

								      would have been complete indeed.


								      “This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we

								      have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject

								      it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty

								      towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form

								      of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not

								      perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of

								      everything concerning either, detection could not be in your

								      power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.


								      “You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last

								      night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what

								      could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here

								      related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of

								      Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant

								      intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father’s

								      will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of

								      these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my

								      assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause

								      from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the

								      possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some

								      opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of

								      the morning. I will only add, God bless you.


								      “FITZWILLIAM DARCY”


								      If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect

								      it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no

								      expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may

								      well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a

								      contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read

								      were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first

								      understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and

								      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 err. But when she read and re-read with the

								      closest attention, the particulars immediately following of

								      Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his

								      receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds,

								      again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter,

								      weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be

								      impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but

								      with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again

								      she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair,

								      which she had believed it impossible that any 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 profligacy which he scrupled not to

								      lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more

								      so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never

								      heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in

								      which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on

								      meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight

								      acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in

								      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 neighbourhood, and the regard which his social

								      powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a

								      considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas!

								      the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received

								      some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel

								      Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she

								      was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel

								      Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the

								      information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs, and

								      whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she

								      had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked

								      by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly

								      banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have

								      hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his

								      cousin’s corroboration.


								      She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in

								      conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening

								      at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in

								      her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such

								      communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her

								      before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he

								      had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his

								      conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of

								      seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that

								      he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield

								      ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the

								      Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story

								      to no one but herself; 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 behaviour to herself

								      could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been

								      deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his

								      vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had

								      most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour

								      grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr.

								      Darcy, she could not but allow that 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

								      latterly 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 merit 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 candour of my

								      sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust!

								      How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!

								      Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind!

								      But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the

								      preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on

								      the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted

								      prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either

								      were 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 hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt

								      depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.


								      After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every

								      variety of thought—re-considering events, determining

								      probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to

								      a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection

								      of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she

								      entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual,

								      and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make

								      her unfit for conversation.


								      She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had

								      each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few

								      minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been

								      sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and

								      almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found.

								      Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she

								      really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an

								      object; she could think only of her letter.


								      The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins

								      having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting

								      obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of

								      their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits

								      as could be expected, after the melancholy 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 diminution 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, madam; but I believe we must abide by our

								      original plan.”


								      Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a

								      servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot

								      bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.

								      It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have

								      the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young

								      women should always be properly guarded and attended, according

								      to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to

								      Ramsgate last summer, I made a 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! Bromley, 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 upbraided him,

								      her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed

								      feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited

								      gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not

								      approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or

								      feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own

								      past behaviour, 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 endeavour 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 Meryton, they would flirt

								      with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they

								      would be going there forever.


								      Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr.

								      Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good

								      opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His

								      affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct

								      cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness

								      of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the

								      thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so

								      replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been

								      deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!


								      When to these recollections was added the development of

								      Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy

								      spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much

								      affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear

								      tolerably cheerful.


								      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 Hunsford

								      again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to

								      curtsey and hold out her hand to both.


								      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, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has

								      yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I

								      am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving

								      her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt,

								      I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt 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 Hunsford

								      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 the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and

								      with a more smiling solemnity replied:


								      “It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your

								      time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most

								      fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very

								      superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the

								      frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may

								      flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been

								      entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s

								      family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing

								      which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see

								      how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge

								      that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I

								      should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion,

								      while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”


								      Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he

								      was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to

								      unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.


								      “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into

								      Hertfordshire, 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 chaise 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 had

								      received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr.

								      and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. 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,” said her companion with a sigh.


								      “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there

								      twice! How much I shall have to tell!”


								      Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to

								      conceal!”


								      Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any

								      alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they

								      reached Mr. Gardiner’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.


								      It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies

								      set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in

								      Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr.

								      Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in

								      token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking

								      out of a dining-room up stairs. 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 inn larder usually

								      affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable

								      surprise?”


								      “And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend

								      us the money, for 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-coloured 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

								      ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”


								      “Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest

								      satisfaction.


								      “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want

								      papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a

								      delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at

								      all. Mamma 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

								      Meryton!”


								      “Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down

								      at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital

								      news—and about a certain person we all like!”


								      Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told

								      he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:


								      “Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You

								      thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say 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 is gone

								      down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”


								      “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection

								      imprudent as to fortune.”


								      “She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”


								      “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said

								      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 harboured

								      and fancied liberal!


								      As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was

								      ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all

								      their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the 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

								      bandbox! 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 Lizzy 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 chaperon 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

								      bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!) and so she asked

								      the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was

								      forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We

								      dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes on purpose to pass for

								      a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel

								      and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for 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, endeavour to

								      amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened

								      as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent

								      mention of Wickham’s name.


								      Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to

								      see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner

								      did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:


								      “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”


								      Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the

								      Lucases 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 Lucases; and

								      Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, 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

								      got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we

								      were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud,

								      that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”


								      To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear

								      sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be

								      congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they

								      would have no charms for me—I should infinitely prefer a book.”


								      But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to

								      anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary

								      at all.


								      In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to

								      walk to Meryton, 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

								      Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn,

								      was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw

								      directly that her father had not the smallest intention of

								      yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and

								      equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never

								      yet despaired of succeeding at last.


								      Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened

								      could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress

								      every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing

								      her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the

								      chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.


								      Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong

								      sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear

								      perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other

								      feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his

								      sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but

								      still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s

								      refusal must have given him.


								      “His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and

								      certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it

								      must increase his disappointment!”


								      “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he

								      has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his

								      regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”


								      “Blame you! Oh, no.”


								      “But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”


								      “No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”


								      “But you will know it, when I tell you what happened the very

								      next day.”


								      She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents

								      as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this

								      for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world

								      without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole

								      race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was

								      Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of

								      consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour

								      to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one

								      without involving the other.


								      “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to

								      make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you

								      must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of

								      merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and

								      of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am

								      inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you

								      choose.”


								      It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from

								      Jane.


								      “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham

								      so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear

								      Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a

								      disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too!

								      and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too

								      distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”


								      “Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you

								      so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that

								      I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your

								      profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much

								      longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”


								      “Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his

								      countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”


								      “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of

								      those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other

								      all the appearance of it.”


								      “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it

								      as you used to do.”


								      “And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a

								      dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s

								      genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind.

								      One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but

								      one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then

								      stumbling on something witty.”


								      “Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not

								      treat the matter as you do now.”


								      “Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say

								      unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane

								      to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain

								      and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!”


								      “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong

								      expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they

								      do appear wholly undeserved.”


								      “Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a

								      most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been

								      encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I

								      want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our

								      acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”


								      Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can

								      be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your

								      opinion?”


								      “That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised

								      me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every

								      particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as

								      possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to

								      the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general

								      prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the

								      death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him

								      in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be

								      gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he

								      really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we

								      may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present

								      I will say nothing about it.”


								      “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin

								      him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and

								      anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him

								      desperate.”


								      The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation.

								      She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her

								      for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane,

								      whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was

								      still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the

								      disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s

								      letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been

								      valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could

								      partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect

								      understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing

								      off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if

								      that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely

								      be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable

								      manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till

								      it has lost all its value!”


								      She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the

								      real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still

								      cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even

								      fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of

								      first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater

								      steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so

								      fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every

								      other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the

								      feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence

								      of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health

								      and their tranquillity.


								      “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion

								      now of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am

								      determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my

								      sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane

								      saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving

								      young man—and I do not suppose there’s the least chance in the

								      world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming

								      to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of

								      everybody, too, who is likely to know.”


								      “I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”


								      “Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come.

								      Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and

								      if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort

								      is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will

								      be sorry for what he has done.”


								      But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such

								      expectation, she made no answer.


								      “Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the

								      Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope

								      it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is

								      an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her

								      mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in

								      their housekeeping, I dare say.”


								      “No, nothing at all.”


								      “A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes.

								      They will take care not to outrun their income. They will

								      never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them!

								      And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your

								      father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say,

								      whenever that happens.”


								      “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”


								      “No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt

								      they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be

								      easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the

								      better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only

								      entailed on me.”


								      The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began.

								      It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the

								      young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The

								      dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were

								      still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course

								      of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for

								      this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was

								      extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in

								      any of the family.


								      “Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would

								      they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be

								      smiling so, Lizzy?”


								      Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered

								      what she had herself endured on a similar occasion,

								      five-and-twenty years ago.


								      “I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when

								      Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have

								      broken my heart.”


								      “I am sure I shall break mine,” said Lydia.


								      “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.


								      “Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so

								      disagreeable.”


								      “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”


								      “And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do me a great deal of

								      good,” added Kitty.


								      Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through

								      Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all

								      sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of

								      Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she been so much disposed

								      to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.


								      But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for

								      she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the

								      colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This

								      invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately

								      married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had

								      recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their three

								      months’ acquaintance they had been intimate two.


								      The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs.

								      Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of

								      Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her

								      sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless

								      ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and

								      talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty

								      continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as

								      unreasonable as her accent was peevish.


								      “I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask me as well as

								      Lydia,” said she, “Though I am not her particular friend. I

								      have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for

								      I am two years older.”


								      In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to

								      make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was

								      so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother

								      and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all

								      possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as

								      such a step must make her were it known, she could not help

								      secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented

								      to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the

								      little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a

								      woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more

								      imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the

								      temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her

								      attentively, and then said:


								      “Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some

								      public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with

								      so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the

								      present circumstances.”


								      “If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great

								      disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of

								      Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already

								      arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the

								      affair.”


								      “Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened

								      away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast

								      down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a

								      little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the

								      list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s

								      folly.”


								      “Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It

								      is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now

								      complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must

								      be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of

								      all restraint which mark Lydia’s character. Excuse me, for I must

								      speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble

								      of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her

								      present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will

								      soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be

								      fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt

								      that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in

								      the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any

								      attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the

								      ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off

								      any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for

								      admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is

								      comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,

								      ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father,

								      can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and

								      despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not

								      be often involved in the disgrace?”


								      Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and

								      affectionately taking her hand said in reply:


								      “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are

								      known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear

								      to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very

								      silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does

								      not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a

								      sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she

								      is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At

								      Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt

								      than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth

								      their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may

								      teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow

								      many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the

								      rest of her life.”


								      With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own

								      opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and

								      sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her

								      vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having

								      performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or

								      augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.


								      Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference

								      with her father, their indignation would hardly have found

								      expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a

								      visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly

								      happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets

								      of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself

								      the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present

								      unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched

								      forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young

								      and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the

								      view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting

								      with at least six officers at once.


								      Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects

								      and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations?

								      They could have been understood only by her mother, who might

								      have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that

								      consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband’s never

								      intending to go there himself.


								      But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their

								      raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of

								      Lydia’s leaving home.


								      Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having

								      been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation

								      was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality

								      entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very

								      gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a

								      sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to

								      herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the

								      inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which

								      had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve,

								      after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern

								      for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such

								      idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed

								      it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing,

								      that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had

								      been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference

								      secured at any time by their renewal.


								      On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining at Meryton, he

								      dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little

								      was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on

								      his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had

								      passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr.

								      Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him,

								      if he was acquainted with the former.


								      He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment’s

								      recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly

								      seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very

								      gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer

								      was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon

								      afterwards added:


								      “How long did you say he was at Rosings?”


								      “Nearly three weeks.”


								      “And you saw him frequently?”


								      “Yes, almost every day.”


								      “His manners are very different from his cousin’s.”


								      “Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon

								      acquaintance.”


								      “Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her.

								      “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a

								      gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to

								      add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not

								      hope,” he continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is

								      improved in essentials.”


								      “Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very

								      much what he ever was.”


								      While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to

								      rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a

								      something in her countenance which made him listen with an

								      apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:


								      “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean

								      that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but

								      that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better

								      understood.”


								      Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and

								      agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off

								      his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the

								      gentlest of accents:


								      “You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily

								      comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to

								      assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride, in that

								      direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others,

								      for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have

								      suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which

								      you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his

								      visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands

								      much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when

								      they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish

								      of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain

								      he has very much at heart.”


								      Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered

								      only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted

								      to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was

								      in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with

								      the appearance, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no

								      further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last

								      with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never

								      meeting again.


								      When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to

								      Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning.

								      The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than

								      pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep

								      from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good

								      wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her

								      injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying

								      herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason

								      to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous

								      happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle

								      adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.


								      Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she

								      could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal

								      felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and

								      beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty

								      generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and

								      illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all

								      real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had

								      vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were

								      overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek

								      comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had

								      brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the

								      unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the

								      country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his

								      principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise

								      indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his

								      amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in

								      general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of

								      entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive

								      benefit from such as are given.


								      Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of

								      her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with

								      pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his

								      affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what

								      she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that

								      continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in

								      exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so

								      highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now

								      the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable

								      a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising

								      from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which,

								      rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of

								      his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his

								      wife.


								      When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure she found

								      little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment.

								      Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home

								      she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the

								      dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their

								      domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her

								      natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were

								      removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil

								      might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly

								      and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a

								      watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found,

								      what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she

								      had been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place,

								      bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was

								      consequently necessary to name some other period for the

								      commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which

								      her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the

								      pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and

								      prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now

								      the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation

								      for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her

								      mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included

								      Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.


								      “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to

								      wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment

								      would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless

								      source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to

								      have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which

								      every part promises delight can never be successful; and general

								      disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little

								      peculiar vexation.”


								      When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very

								      minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always

								      long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother

								      contained little else than that they were just returned from the

								      library, where such and such officers had attended them, and

								      where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite

								      wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would

								      have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a

								      violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going

								      off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister,

								      there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty,

								      though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words

								      to be made public.


								      After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,

								      good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.

								      Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in

								      town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer

								      engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual

								      querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much

								      recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event

								      of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the

								      following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not

								      to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and

								      malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should

								      be quartered in Meryton.


								      The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now

								      fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a

								      letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its

								      commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be

								      prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in

								      July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that

								      left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as

								      they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and

								      comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the

								      Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to

								      the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than

								      Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy

								      the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a

								      peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly

								      passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a

								      few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all

								      the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the

								      Peak.


								      Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on

								      seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time

								      enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her

								      temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.


								      With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected.

								      It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of

								      Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his

								      county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without

								      his perceiving me.”


								      The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to

								      pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass

								      away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at

								      length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and

								      eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the

								      particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general

								      favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly

								      adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them,

								      playing with them, and loving them.


								      The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the

								      next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.

								      One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a

								      suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear

								      inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and

								      affection and intelligence, which might supply it among

								      themselves if there were disappointments abroad.


								      It is not the object of this work to give a description of

								      Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which

								      their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth,

								      Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of

								      Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of

								      Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where

								      she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they

								      bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of

								      the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found

								      from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their

								      direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking

								      over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an

								      inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his

								      willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.


								      “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have

								      heard so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many

								      of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth

								      there, you know.”


								      Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at

								      Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing

								      it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after

								      going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or

								      satin curtains.


								      Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine

								      house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it

								      myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the

								      finest woods in the country.”


								      Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The

								      possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place,

								      instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very

								      idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt

								      than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections;

								      and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if

								      her private inquiries to the absence of the family were

								      unfavourably answered.


								      Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid

								      whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name

								      of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family

								      were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the

								      last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at

								      leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house

								      herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and

								      she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper

								      air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the

								      scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.


								      Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance

								      of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length

								      they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.


								      The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground.

								      They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some

								      time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.


								      Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and

								      admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually

								      ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of

								      a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was

								      instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite

								      side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.

								      It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising

								      ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front,

								      a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but

								      without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal

								      nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen

								      a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty

								      had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were

								      all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt

								      that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!


								      They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the

								      door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all

								      her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest

								      the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place,

								      they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited

								      for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she

								      was.


								      The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much

								      less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding

								      her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large,

								      well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after

								      slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.

								      The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving

								      increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.

								      Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the

								      whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the

								      winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with

								      delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were

								      taking different positions; but from every window there were

								      beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their

								      furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but

								      Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither

								      gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real

								      elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.


								      “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!

								      With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted!

								      Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in

								      them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and

								      aunt. But no,”—recollecting herself—“that could never be; my

								      uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been

								      allowed to invite them.”


								      This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very

								      like regret.


								      She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was

								      really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however,

								      the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with

								      alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we

								      expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How

								      rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any

								      circumstance been delayed a day!


								      Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and

								      saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other

								      miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly,

								      how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it

								      was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s

								      steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He

								      is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has

								      turned out very wild.”


								      Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth

								      could not return it.


								      “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the

								      miniatures, “is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the

								      same time as the other—about eight years ago.”


								      “I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs.

								      Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But,

								      Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”


								      Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this

								      intimation of her knowing her master.


								      “Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”


								      Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”


								      “And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”


								      “Yes, very handsome.”


								      “I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up

								      stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.

								      This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these

								      miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of

								      them.”


								      This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them.


								      Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy,

								      drawn when she was only eight years old.


								      “And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs.

								      Gardiner.


								      “Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so

								      accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room

								      is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my

								      master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”


								      Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant,

								      encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks;

								      Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great

								      pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.


								      “Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”


								      “Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend

								      half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer

								      months.”


								      “Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”


								      “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”


								      “Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know

								      who is good enough for him.”


								      Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,

								      “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think

								      so.”


								      “I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows

								      him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty

								      far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the

								      housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in

								      my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”


								      This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite

								      to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her

								      firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed

								      to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:


								      “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are

								      lucky in having such a master.”


								      “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I

								      could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that

								      they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when

								      they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most

								      generous-hearted boy in the world.”


								      Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought

								      she.


								      “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.


								      “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like

								      him—just as affable to the poor.”


								      Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for

								      more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She

								      related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the

								      rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner,

								      highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he

								      attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led

								      again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many

								      merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.


								      “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that

								      ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of

								      nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or

								      servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him

								      proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it

								      is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”


								      “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought

								      Elizabeth.


								      “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked,

								      “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”


								      “Perhaps we might be deceived.”


								      “That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”


								      On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very

								      pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and

								      lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it

								      was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a

								      liking to the room when last at Pemberley.


								      “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked

								      towards one of the windows.


								      Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should

								      enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added.

								      “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in

								      a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”


								      The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms,

								      were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good

								      paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such

								      as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to

								      look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects

								      were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.


								      In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could

								      have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked

								      in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.

								      At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to

								      Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to

								      have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several

								      minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and

								      returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs.

								      Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father’s

								      lifetime.


								      There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more

								      gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at

								      the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on

								      him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is

								      more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a

								      brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s

								      happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain

								      was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be

								      done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the

								      housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood

								      before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes

								      upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment

								      of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its

								      warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.


								      When all of the house that was open to general inspection had

								      been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the

								      housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at

								      the hall-door.


								      As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth

								      turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and

								      while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building,

								      the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road,

								      which led behind it to the stables.


								      They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was

								      his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their

								      eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with

								      the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed

								      immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced

								      towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of

								      perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.


								      She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,

								      received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be

								      overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the

								      picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure

								      the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s

								      expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately

								      have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to

								      their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift

								      her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to

								      his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of

								      his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered

								      was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the

								      impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the

								      few minutes in which they continued were some of the most

								      uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease;

								      when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and

								      he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left

								      Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and

								      in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his

								      thoughts.


								      At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a

								      few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected

								      himself, and took leave.


								      The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his

								      figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by

								      her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered

								      by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate,

								      the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must

								      appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so

								      vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself

								      in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come

								      a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes

								      sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his

								      discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment

								      arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She

								      blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And

								      his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he

								      should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such

								      civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she

								      seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with

								      such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast

								      did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his

								      letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to

								      account for it.


								      They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water,

								      and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a

								      finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it

								      was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and,

								      though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her

								      uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as

								      they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her

								      thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House,

								      whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to

								      know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he

								      thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was

								      still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt

								      himself at ease; yet there had been that in his voice which was

								      not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in

								      seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her

								      with composure.


								      At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence

								      of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more

								      like herself.


								      They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a

								      while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where

								      the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many

								      charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long

								      range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the

								      stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole

								      park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant

								      smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the

								      matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought

								      them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to

								      the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They

								      crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air

								      of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet

								      visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed

								      room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough

								      coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its

								      windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived

								      their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great

								      walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the

								      carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore,

								      obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on

								      the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but

								      their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to

								      indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much

								      engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in

								      the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced

								      but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were

								      again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to

								      what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching

								      them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less

								      sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before

								      they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more

								      prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and

								      to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a

								      few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into

								      some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk

								      concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was

								      immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost

								      none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she

								      began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she

								      had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when

								      some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise

								      of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her

								      colour changed, and she said no more.


								      Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing,

								      he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to

								      her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was

								      quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his

								      being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people

								      against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself.

								      “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they

								      are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”


								      The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named

								      their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to

								      see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his

								      decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions.

								      That he was surprised by the connection was evident; he

								      sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going

								      away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with

								      Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but

								      triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some

								      relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most

								      attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every

								      expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his

								      intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.


								      The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr.

								      Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as

								      often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood,

								      offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and

								      pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually

								      most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with

								      Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said

								      nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be

								      all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and

								      continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what

								      can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake

								      that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could

								      not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should

								      still love me.”


								      After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the

								      two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending

								      to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some

								      curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It

								      originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the

								      morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and

								      consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by

								      her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence,

								      the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been

								      assured of his absence before she came to the place, and

								      accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very

								      unexpected—“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that

								      you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed,

								      before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not

								      immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth

								      of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned

								      his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with

								      whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,”

								      he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an

								      acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”


								      Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were

								      instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had

								      been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by

								      his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged.


								      “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after

								      a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will

								      you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to

								      your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”


								      The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too

								      great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She

								      immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of

								      being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and,

								      without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying

								      to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of

								      her.


								      They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought.

								      Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was

								      flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her

								      was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the

								      others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs.

								      Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.


								      He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself

								      not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time

								      much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She

								      wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every

								      subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling,

								      and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance.

								      Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas

								      were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over.


								      On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go

								      into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined,

								      and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy

								      handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off,

								      Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.


								      The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of

								      them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they

								      had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and

								      unassuming,” said her uncle.


								      “There is something a little stately in him, to be sure,”

								      replied her aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not

								      unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some

								      people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it.”


								      “I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was

								      more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no

								      necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was

								      very trifling.”


								      “To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as

								      Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his

								      features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he

								      was so disagreeable?”


								      Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had

								      liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that

								      she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.


								      “But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,”

								      replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I

								      shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind

								      another day, and warn me off his grounds.”


								      Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his

								      character, but said nothing.


								      “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I

								      really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so

								      cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not

								      an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing

								      about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity

								      in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea

								      of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his

								      house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help

								      laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose,

								      and that in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue.”


								      Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in

								      vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them

								      to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what

								      she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were

								      capable of a very different construction; and that his character

								      was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had

								      been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she

								      related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in

								      which they had been connected, without actually naming her

								      authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.


								      Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now

								      approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave

								      way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in

								      pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its

								      environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by

								      the morning’s walk they had no sooner dined than she set off

								      again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was

								      spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many

								      years’ discontinuance.


								      The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave

								      Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she

								      could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s

								      civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted

								      with his sister.


								      Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to

								      visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was

								      consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole

								      of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very

								      morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They

								      had been walking about the place with some of their new friends,

								      and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining

								      with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a

								      window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving

								      up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery,

								      guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her

								      surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour

								      which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and

								      the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the

								      circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the

								      preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing

								      had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no

								      other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter

								      than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these

								      newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation

								      of Elizabeth’s feelings was at every moment increasing. She was

								      quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of

								      disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should

								      have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious

								      to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing

								      would fail her.


								      She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she

								      walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw

								      such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made

								      everything worse.


								      Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable

								      introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that

								      her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.

								      Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was

								      exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes

								      convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it

								      difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.


								      Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and,

								      though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her

								      appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her

								      brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her

								      manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had

								      expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as

								      ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such

								      different feelings.


								      They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that

								      Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time

								      to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when

								      Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he

								      entered the room. All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long

								      done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood

								      its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he

								      expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly,

								      though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with

								      the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.


								      To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting

								      personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The

								      whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The

								      suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece

								      directed their observation towards each with an earnest though

								      guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full

								      conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of

								      the lady’s sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that

								      the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.


								      Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain

								      the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her

								      own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter

								      object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of

								      success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were

								      prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was

								      eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.


								      In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister;

								      and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his

								      were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he

								      talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased

								      herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying

								      to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she

								      could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had

								      been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side

								      that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that

								      could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon

								      satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere

								      they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a

								      recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of

								      saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared.

								      He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking

								      together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that

								      it “was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing

								      her;” and, before she could reply, he added, “It is above eight

								      months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were

								      all dancing together at Netherfield.”


								      Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he

								      afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of

								      the rest, whether all her sisters were at Longbourn. There was

								      not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there

								      was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.


								      It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy

								      himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an

								      expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she

								      heard an accent so removed from hauteur or disdain of his

								      companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners

								      which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence

								      might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus

								      seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people

								      with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a

								      disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to

								      the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected

								      their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the

								      change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she

								      could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never,

								      even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his

								      dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to

								      please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as

								      now, when no importance could result from the success of his

								      endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his

								      attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and

								      censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.


								      Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they

								      arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in

								      expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss

								      Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country.

								      Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in

								      the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner

								      looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how she, whom the

								      invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance,

								      but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that

								      this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment

								      than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who

								      was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she

								      ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next

								      was fixed on.


								      Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing

								      Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and

								      many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.

								      Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak

								      of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some

								      others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of

								      considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though

								      while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager

								      to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and

								      aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their

								      favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.


								      But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity;

								      it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident

								      that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had

								      before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love

								      with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify

								      inquiry.


								      Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and,

								      as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find.

								      They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn

								      his character from their own feelings and his servant’s report,

								      without any reference to any other account, the circle in

								      Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it

								      for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing

								      the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority

								      of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and

								      whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily

								      rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of

								      their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight.

								      They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably

								      had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants

								      of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was

								      acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much

								      good among the poor.


								      With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was

								      not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his

								      concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood,

								      it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he

								      had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards

								      discharged.


								      As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening

								      more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it

								      seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings

								      towards one in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours

								      endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him.

								      No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been

								      ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so

								      called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable

								      qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some

								      time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now

								      heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony

								      so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in

								      so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all,

								      above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of

								      goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude;

								      gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving

								      her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony

								      of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations

								      accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would

								      avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental

								      meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any

								      indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where

								      their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good

								      opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his

								      sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only

								      astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be

								      attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be

								      encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be

								      exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to

								      him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted

								      to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself,

								      and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should

								      employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed,

								      of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses.


								      It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the

								      niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s in coming to

								      see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had

								      reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though

								      it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their

								      side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to

								      wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were,

								      therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked

								      herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.


								      Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme

								      had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made

								      of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.


								      Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her

								      had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how

								      unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was

								      curious to know with how much civility on that lady’s side the

								      acquaintance would now be renewed.


								      On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the

								      saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer.

								      Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing

								      view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the

								      beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over

								      the intermediate lawn.


								      In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting

								      there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom

								      she lived in London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very

								      civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though

								      proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily

								      give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her

								      being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however,

								      did her justice, and pitied her.


								      By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a

								      curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such

								      pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first

								      broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman,

								      whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to

								      be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between

								      her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the

								      conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished

								      for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a

								      short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.


								      Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss

								      Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss

								      Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not

								      have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they

								      not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not

								      sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts

								      were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the

								      gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the

								      master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished

								      or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in

								      this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley’s

								      voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry

								      after the health of her family. She answered with equal

								      indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.


								      The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the

								      entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all

								      the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till

								      after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to

								      Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was

								      now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all

								      talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes,

								      nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.


								      While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding

								      whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr.

								      Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room;

								      and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes

								      to predominate, she began to regret that he came.


								      He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three

								      other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had

								      left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended

								      a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than

								      Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;

								      a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the

								      more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the

								      whole party were awakened against them, and that there was

								      scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first

								      came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so

								      strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the smiles

								      which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its

								      objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her

								      attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her

								      brother’s entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and

								      Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to

								      get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt

								      at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this

								      likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first

								      opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:


								      “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from

								      Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.”


								      In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name; but

								      Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her

								      thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave

								      her a moment’s distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel

								      the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a

								      tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance

								      showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking

								      at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to

								      lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then

								      giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained

								      from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose

								      Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she

								      believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which

								      might injure her in Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the

								      latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of

								      her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had

								      ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s meditated elopement. To no

								      creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except

								      to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections her brother was

								      particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which

								      Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming

								      hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and

								      without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate

								      him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something

								      to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.


								      Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his

								      emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not

								      approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time,

								      though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother,

								      whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest

								      in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed

								      to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on

								      her more and more cheerfully.


								      Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer

								      above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their

								      carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on

								      Elizabeth’s person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not

								      join her. Her brother’s recommendation was enough to ensure her

								      favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such

								      terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of

								      finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy

								      returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to

								      him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.


								      “How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,”

								      she cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she

								      is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and

								      I were agreeing that we should not have known her again.”


								      However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he

								      contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other

								      alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous

								      consequence of travelling in the summer.


								      “For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never

								      could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion

								      has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her

								      nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her

								      teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for

								      her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never

								      see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish

								      look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there

								      is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”


								      Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this

								      was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people

								      are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat

								      nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely

								      silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak,

								      she continued:


								      “I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed

								      we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I

								      particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been

								      dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty!—I should as soon call her

								      mother a wit.’ But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I

								      believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”


								      “Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but

								      that was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since

								      I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my

								      acquaintance.”


								      He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the

								      satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any

								      pain but herself.


								      Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred

								      during their visit, as they returned, except what had

								      particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of

								      everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who

								      had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister,

								      his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet

								      Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him,

								      and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s

								      beginning the subject.


								      Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a

								      letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this

								      disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had

								      now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and

								      her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at

								      once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent

								      elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written

								      the direction remarkably ill.


								      They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and

								      her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off

								      by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had

								      been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of

								      all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the

								      country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day

								      later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important

								      intelligence. It was to this effect:


								      “Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred

								      of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of

								      alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say

								      relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just

								      as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us

								      that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to

								      own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty,

								      however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very

								      sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to

								      hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.

								      Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this

								      step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His

								      choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can

								      give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father

								      bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know

								      what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They

								      were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were

								      not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent

								      off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten

								      miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here

								      soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their

								      intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor

								      mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I

								      hardly know what I have written.”


								      Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely

								      knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter

								      instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost

								      impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than

								      the conclusion of the first.


								      “By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried

								      letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not

								      confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer

								      for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would

								      write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.

								      Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia

								      would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place,

								      for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to

								      Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton

								      the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s

								      short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were

								      going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing

								      his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia

								      at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking

								      the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did

								      trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering

								      that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the

								      chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this

								      is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not

								      what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side

								      London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing

								      them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and

								      Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to

								      pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn,

								      and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to

								      his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one

								      can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very

								      great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think

								      so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for

								      them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first

								      plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young

								      woman of Lydia’s connections, which is not likely, can I suppose

								      her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however,

								      that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he

								      shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W.

								      was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and

								      keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but

								      this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my

								      life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having

								      concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence,

								      one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have

								      been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as

								      the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return?

								      I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if

								      inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have

								      just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I

								      cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as

								      possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not

								      afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to

								      ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel

								      Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I

								      am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him

								      to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel

								      Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In

								      such an exigence, my uncle’s advice and assistance would be

								      everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I

								      must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”


								      “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her

								      seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him,

								      without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she

								      reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy

								      appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and

								      before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind

								      every idea was superseded by Lydia’s situation, hastily

								      exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find

								      Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I

								      have not an instant to lose.”


								      “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than

								      politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a

								      minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.

								      Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”


								      Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she

								      felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.

								      Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though

								      in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to

								      fetch his master and mistress home instantly.


								      On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself,

								      and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to

								      leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and

								      commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could

								      take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you

								      one? You are very ill.”


								      “No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.

								      “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only

								      distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from

								      Longbourn.”


								      She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes

								      could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could

								      only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her

								      in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just

								      had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be

								      concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her

								      friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr.

								      Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him

								      too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections,

								      nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”


								      Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in

								      a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I

								      who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it

								      only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his

								      character been known, this could not have happened. But it is

								      all—all too late now.”


								      “I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved—shocked. But is it

								      certain—absolutely certain?”


								      “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were

								      traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not

								      gone to Scotland.”


								      “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover

								      her?”


								      “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my

								      uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in

								      half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that

								      nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are

								      they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is

								      every way horrible!”


								      Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.


								      “When my eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known

								      what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of

								      doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”


								      Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was

								      walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow

								      contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and

								      instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything must

								      sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of

								      the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but

								      the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to

								      her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the

								      contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own

								      wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have

								      loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.


								      But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her.

								      Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all,

								      soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with

								      her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else;

								      and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a

								      sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a

								      manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise

								      restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my

								      absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but

								      real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything

								      could be either said or done on my part that might offer

								      consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with

								      vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.

								      This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having

								      the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”


								      “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say

								      that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the

								      unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be

								      long.”


								      He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow

								      for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was

								      at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her

								      relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.


								      As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that

								      they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality

								      as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she

								      threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their

								      acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at

								      the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted

								      its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its

								      termination.


								      If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection,

								      Elizabeth’s change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor

								      faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is

								      unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often

								      described as arising on a first interview with its object, and

								      even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in

								      her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the

								      latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill

								      success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less

								      interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go

								      with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy

								      must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that

								      wretched business. Never, since reading Jane’s second letter, had

								      she entertained a hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one

								      but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an

								      expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this

								      development. While the contents of the first letter remained in

								      her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham

								      should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for

								      money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared

								      incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an

								      attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though

								      she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an

								      elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no

								      difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her

								      understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.


								      She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire,

								      that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that

								      Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody.

								      Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite,

								      as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections

								      had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The

								      mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a

								      girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!


								      She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot

								      to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon

								      her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable

								      of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost

								      persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s

								      interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered

								      the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had

								      hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant’s account that

								      their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly

								      on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their

								      summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the

								      postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Lydia had

								      never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not

								      but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned

								      in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror,

								      Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth,

								      though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude;

								      and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating

								      to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as

								      soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?” cried

								      Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for

								      us; was it so?”


								      “Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our

								      engagement. That is all settled.”


								      “What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her

								      room to prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to

								      disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”


								      But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her

								      in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth

								      been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that

								      all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but

								      she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst

								      the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at

								      Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour,

								      however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile

								      having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be

								      done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the

								      morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could

								      have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to

								      Longbourn.


								      “I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle,

								      as they drove from the town; “and really, upon serious

								      consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as

								      your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very

								      unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a

								      girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was

								      actually staying in his colonel’s family, that I am strongly

								      inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would

								      not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the

								      regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His

								      temptation is not adequate to the risk!”


								      “Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a

								      moment.


								      “Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your

								      uncle’s opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency,

								      honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so

								      very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him

								      up, as to believe him capable of it?”


								      “Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other

								      neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so!

								      But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if

								      that had been the case?”


								      “In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute

								      proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”


								      “Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is

								      such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be

								      found on the Barnet road.”


								      “Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there,

								      though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional

								      purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on

								      either side; and it might strike them that they could be more

								      economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than

								      in Scotland.”


								      “But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must

								      their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His

								      most particular friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded

								      of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a

								      woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims

								      has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good

								      humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of

								      benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the

								      apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a

								      dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I

								      know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But

								      as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good.

								      Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from

								      my father’s behaviour, from his indolence and the little

								      attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in

								      his family, that he would do as little, and think as little

								      about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”


								      “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love

								      of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than

								      marriage?”


								      “It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied

								      Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of

								      decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But,

								      really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her

								      justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to

								      think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a

								      twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and

								      vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most

								      idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in

								      her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton,

								      nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head.

								      She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and

								      talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it?

								      susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively

								      enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person

								      and address that can captivate a woman.”


								      “But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very

								      ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”


								      “Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever

								      might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of

								      such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane

								      knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that

								      he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has

								      neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful

								      as he is insinuating.”


								      “And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose

								      curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.


								      “I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the

								      other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you

								      yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke

								      of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality

								      towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at

								      liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about

								      the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss

								      Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved,

								      disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must

								      know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found

								      her.”


								      “But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what

								      you and Jane seem so well to understand?”


								      “Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and

								      saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel

								      Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I

								      returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or

								      fortnight’s time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I

								      related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our

								      knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any

								      one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him

								      should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that

								      Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her

								      eyes to his character never occurred to me. That she could be

								      in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such

								      a consequence as this could ensue, you may easily believe, was

								      far enough from my thoughts.”


								      “When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason,

								      I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”


								      “Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on

								      either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you

								      must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be

								      thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready

								      enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near

								      Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months;

								      but he never distinguished her by any particular attention;

								      and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and

								      wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the

								      regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her

								      favourites.”


								      It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could

								      be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this

								      interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could

								      detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From

								      Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the

								      keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval

								      of ease or forgetfulness.


								      They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one

								      night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day.

								      It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not

								      have been wearied by long expectations.


								      The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were

								      standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock;

								      and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise

								      that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their

								      whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first

								      pleasing earnest of their welcome.


								      Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty

								      kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running

								      down from her mother’s apartment, immediately met her.


								      Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears

								      filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether

								      anything had been heard of the fugitives.


								      “Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I

								      hope everything will be well.”


								      “Is my father in town?”


								      “Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”


								      “And have you heard from him often?”


								      “We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday

								      to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his

								      directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely

								      added that he should not write again till he had something of

								      importance to mention.”


								      “And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”


								      “My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are

								      greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction

								      in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary

								      and Kitty, thank Heaven, are quite well.”


								      “But you—how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much

								      you must have gone through!”


								      Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and

								      their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs.

								      Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to

								      by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and

								      aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles

								      and tears.


								      When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which

								      Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the

								      others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to

								      give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence

								      of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still

								      expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would

								      bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain

								      their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.


								      Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few

								      minutes’ conversation together, received them exactly as might be

								      expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives

								      against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her

								      own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to

								      whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must

								      principally be owing.


								      “If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to

								      Brighton, with all my family, this would not have happened; but

								      poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the

								      Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was

								      some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the

								      kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked

								      after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge

								      of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And

								      now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight

								      Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and

								      what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out

								      before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us,

								      brother, I do not know what we shall do.”


								      They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner,

								      after general assurances of his affection for her and all her

								      family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day,

								      and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering

								      Lydia.


								      “Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right

								      to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it

								      as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a

								      few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know

								      that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not

								      let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I

								      shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to

								      Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what

								      is to be done.”


								      “Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what

								      I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find

								      them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married

								      already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not

								      let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much

								      money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And,

								      above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a

								      dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and

								      have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms

								      in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that

								      I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not

								      to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,

								      for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,

								      how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”


								      But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest

								      endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation

								      to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with

								      her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left

								      her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in

								      the absence of her daughters.


								      Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no

								      real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not

								      attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence

								      enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited

								      at table, and judged it better that one only of the household,

								      and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her

								      fears and solicitude on the subject.


								      In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who

								      had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make

								      their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other

								      from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably

								      calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss

								      of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself

								      incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than

								      usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress

								      enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of

								      grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:


								      “This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much

								      talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the

								      wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”


								      Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she

								      added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from

								      it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is

								      irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin;

								      that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and

								      that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the

								      undeserving of the other sex.”


								      Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much

								      oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console

								      herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before

								      them.


								      In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for

								      half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed

								      herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane

								      was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general

								      lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which

								      Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could

								      not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the

								      subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it

								      which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What

								      did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything

								      before the elopement took place? They must have seen them

								      together for ever.”


								      “Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some

								      partiality, especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him

								      any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive

								      and kind to the utmost. He was coming to us, in order to assure

								      us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone

								      to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened

								      his journey.”


								      “And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he

								      know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny

								      himself?”


								      “Yes; but, when questioned by him, Denny denied knowing

								      anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion

								      about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not

								      marrying—and from that, I am inclined to hope, he might have

								      been misunderstood before.”


								      “And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you

								      entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”


								      “How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I

								      felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister’s happiness

								      with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not

								      been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of

								      that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then

								      owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest

								      of us, that in Lydia’s last letter she had prepared her for such

								      a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each

								      other, many weeks.”


								      “But not before they went to Brighton?”


								      “No, I believe not.”


								      “And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself?

								      Does he know his real character?”


								      “I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he

								      formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant.

								      And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he

								      left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”


								      “Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of

								      him, this could not have happened!”


								      “Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to

								      expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their

								      present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the

								      best intentions.”


								      “Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to

								      his wife?”


								      “He brought it with him for us to see.”


								      Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth.

								      These were the contents:


								      “My dear Harriet,

								      “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help

								      laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I

								      am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess

								      with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man

								      in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy

								      without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send

								      them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it

								      will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign

								      my name ‘Lydia Wickham.’ What a good joke it will be! I can

								      hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not

								      keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I

								      hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will

								      dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I

								      shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you

								      would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown

								      before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel

								      Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.


								      “Your affectionate friend,

								      “LYDIA BENNET.”


								      “Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she

								      had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a

								      moment! But at least it shows that she was serious on the

								      subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade

								      her to, it was not on her side a scheme of infamy. My poor

								      father! how he must have felt it!”


								      “I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for

								      full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the

								      whole house in such confusion!”


								      “Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it

								      who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”


								      “I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a

								      time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I

								      endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid

								      I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what

								      might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”


								      “Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not

								      look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care

								      and anxiety upon yourself alone.”


								      “Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in

								      every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either

								      of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much,

								      that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt

								      Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away;

								      and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of

								      great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very

								      kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us,

								      and offered her services, or any of her daughters’, if they

								      should be of use to us.”


								      “She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps

								      she meant well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one

								      cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is

								      impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at

								      a distance, and be satisfied.”


								      She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father

								      had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his

								      daughter.


								      “He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place

								      where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if

								      anything could be made out from them. His principal object must

								      be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them

								      from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he

								      thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady’s removing

								      from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make

								      inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house

								      the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make

								      inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out

								      the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other

								      designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be

								      gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had

								      difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”


								      The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the

								      next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line

								      from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a

								      most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time

								      they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he

								      had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of that they

								      would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only

								      for the letters before he set off.


								      When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving

								      constant information of what was going on, and their uncle

								      promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to

								      Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his

								      sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband’s

								      not being killed in a duel.


								      Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a

								      few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be

								      serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs.

								      Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of

								      freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and

								      always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening

								      them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh

								      instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, she seldom

								      went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found

								      them.


								      All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three

								      months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared

								      to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues,

								      all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into

								      every tradesman’s family. Everybody declared that he was the

								      wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out

								      that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness.

								      Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said,

								      believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister’s ruin

								      more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it,

								      became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come

								      when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before

								      entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained

								      some news of them.


								      Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife

								      received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he

								      had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come

								      to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and

								      Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory

								      information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the

								      principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they

								      might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London,

								      before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not

								      expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was

								      eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that

								      Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London

								      and promised to write again very soon. There was also a

								      postscript to this effect:


								      “I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if

								      possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment,

								      whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be

								      likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself.

								      If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability

								      of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential

								      consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel

								      Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy

								      us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could

								      tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other

								      person.”


								      Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference

								      to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give

								      any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment

								      deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations,

								      except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many

								      years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in

								      the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though

								      she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a

								      something to look forward to.


								      Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most

								      anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival

								      of letters was the grand object of every morning’s impatience.

								      Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be

								      communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some

								      news of importance.


								      But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived

								      for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins;

								      which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for

								      him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew

								      what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and

								      read it likewise. It was as follows:


								      “My dear Sir,

								      “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation

								      in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are

								      now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a

								      letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs.

								      Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your

								      respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of

								      the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time

								      can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can

								      alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a

								      circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a

								      parent’s mind. The death of your daughter would have been a

								      blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be

								      lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte

								      informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your

								      daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence;

								      though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and

								      Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must

								      be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity,

								      at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to

								      be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins,

								      but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have

								      related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this

								      false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of

								      all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself

								      condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family?

								      And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with

								      augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for

								      had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your

								      sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console

								      yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child

								      from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of

								      her own heinous offense.


								      “I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”


								      Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer

								      from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant

								      nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single

								      relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was

								      certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances

								      had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did

								      not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any

								      of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as

								      likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his

								      own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in

								      addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations, for it

								      had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a

								      very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than

								      a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at

								      Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour

								      were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to

								      conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard

								      them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly

								      unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”


								      Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see

								      their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday.

								      Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours,

								      he had yielded to his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would

								      return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion

								      might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When

								      Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much

								      satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her

								      anxiety for his life had been before.


								      “What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried.

								      “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is

								      to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”


								      As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that

								      she and the children should go to London, at the same time that

								      Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the

								      first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to

								      Longbourn.


								      Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and

								      her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the

								      world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them

								      by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs.

								      Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from

								      him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her

								      return that could come from Pemberley.


								      The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse

								      for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore,

								      could be fairly conjectured from that, though Elizabeth, who

								      was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings,

								      was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she

								      could have borne the dread of Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It

								      would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of

								      two.


								      When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual

								      philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in

								      the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had

								      taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had

								      courage to speak of it.


								      It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea,

								      that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on

								      her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured,

								      he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself?

								      It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”


								      “You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.


								      “You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so

								      prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how

								      much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered

								      by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”


								      “Do you suppose them to be in London?”


								      “Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”


								      “And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.


								      “She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence

								      there will probably be of some duration.”


								      Then after a short silence he continued:


								      “Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice

								      to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some

								      greatness of mind.”


								      They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her

								      mother’s tea.


								      “This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such

								      an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will

								      sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as

								      much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty

								      runs away.”


								      “I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I

								      should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”


								      “You go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as

								      Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to

								      be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is

								      ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the

								      village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up

								      with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors

								      till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day

								      in a rational manner.”


								      Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to

								      cry.


								      “Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are

								      a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review

								      at the end of them.”


								      Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were

								      walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the

								      housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to

								      call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead

								      of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to

								      Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but

								      I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I

								      took the liberty of coming to ask.”


								      “What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”


								      “Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you

								      know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He

								      has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”


								      Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech.

								      They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from

								      thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were

								      on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when

								      they were met by the butler, who said:


								      “If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards

								      the little copse.”


								      Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall

								      once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was

								      deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of

								      the paddock.


								      Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as

								      Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for

								      breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:


								      “Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”


								      “Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”


								      “Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”


								      “What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the

								      letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”


								      Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.


								      “Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself

								      what it is about.”


								      “Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.


								      “My dear Brother,

								      “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such

								      as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon

								      after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out

								      in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till

								      we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen

								      them both—”

								          “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are

								          married!”


								      Elizabeth read on:


								      “I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find

								      there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to

								      perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your

								      side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is

								      required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement,

								      her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your

								      children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,

								      moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during

								      your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions

								      which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying

								      with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall

								      send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me

								      your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars,

								      that Mr. Wickham’s circumstances are not so hopeless as they are

								      generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that

								      respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money,

								      even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in

								      addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case,

								      you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole

								      of this business, I will immediately give directions to

								      Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be

								      the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore

								      stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care.

								      Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write

								      explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be

								      married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She

								      comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more

								      is determined on. Yours, etc.,


								      “EDW. GARDINER.”


								      “Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it

								      be possible that he will marry her?”


								      “Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said

								      her sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”


								      “And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.


								      “No; but it must be done soon.”


								      Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time

								      before he wrote.


								      “Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write

								      immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a

								      case.”


								      “Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble

								      yourself.”


								      “I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”


								      And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the

								      house.


								      “And may I ask—” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must

								      be complied with.”


								      “Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”


								      “And they must marry! Yet he is such a man!”


								      “Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But

								      there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how

								      much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the

								      other, how am I ever to pay him.”


								      “Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”


								      “I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight

								      a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty

								      after I am gone.”


								      “That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred

								      to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to

								      remain! Oh! it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I

								      am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all

								      this.”


								      “No,” said her father; “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a

								      farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to

								      think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”


								      “Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be

								      repaid?”


								      Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought,

								      continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then

								      went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the

								      breakfast-room.


								      “And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as

								      they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for this we

								      are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their

								      chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are

								      forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”


								      “I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he

								      certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for

								      her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing

								      him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like

								      it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have

								      more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”


								      “If he were ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,”

								      said Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our

								      sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for

								      them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness

								      of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her

								      home, and affording her their personal protection and

								      countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of

								      gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually

								      with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she

								      will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she

								      first sees my aunt!”


								      “We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,”

								      said Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His

								      consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is

								      come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will

								      steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly,

								      and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past

								      imprudence forgotten.”


								      “Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither

								      you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of

								      it.”


								      It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all

								      likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to

								      the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would

								      not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and,

								      without raising his head, coolly replied:


								      “Just as you please.”


								      “May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?”


								      “Take whatever you like, and get away.”


								      Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went

								      up stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet:

								      one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight

								      preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet

								      could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr.

								      Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, her joy burst

								      forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She

								      was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever

								      been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter

								      would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her

								      felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.


								      “My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She

								      will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at

								      sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he

								      would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear

								      Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write

								      to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run

								      down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay,

								      stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will

								      put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we

								      shall be together when we meet!”


								      Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the

								      violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the

								      obligations which Mr. Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under.


								      “For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a

								      great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has

								      pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money.”


								      “Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it

								      but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and

								      my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the

								      first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few

								      presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a

								      daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was

								      only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter,

								      that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you write

								      for me. We will settle with your father about the money

								      afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”


								      She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin,

								      and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful

								      orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her

								      to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s

								      delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother

								      was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes,

								      too, came into her head.


								      “I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and

								      tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come

								      back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and

								      order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I

								      am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here

								      comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss

								      Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of

								      punch to make merry at her wedding.”


								      Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received

								      her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this

								      folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with

								      freedom.


								      Poor Lydia’s situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it

								      was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and

								      though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor

								      worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in

								      looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she

								      felt all the advantages of what they had gained.


								      Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life

								      that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an

								      annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his

								      wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had

								      he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been

								      indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now

								      be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of

								      the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband

								      might then have rested in its proper place.


								      He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to

								      anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his

								      brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out

								      the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as

								      soon as he could.


								      When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be

								      perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The

								      son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should

								      be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means

								      be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world,

								      but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years

								      after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event

								      had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be

								      saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband’s

								      love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their

								      income.


								      Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs.

								      Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be

								      divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents.

								      This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now

								      to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in

								      acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful

								      acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed

								      most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect

								      approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil

								      the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before

								      supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his

								      daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to

								      himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten

								      pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them;

								      for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual

								      presents in money which passed to her through her mother’s hands,

								      Lydia’s expenses had been very little within that sum.


								      That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side,

								      too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present

								      was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When

								      the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in

								      seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former

								      indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory

								      in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged

								      to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his

								      brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.


								      The good news spread quickly through the house, and with

								      proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in

								      the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been

								      more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come

								      upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded

								      from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to

								      be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her

								      well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old

								      ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this

								      change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery

								      was considered certain.


								      It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on

								      this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table,

								      and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a

								      damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been

								      the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on

								      the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran

								      wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new

								      carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the

								      neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and,

								      without knowing or considering what their income might be,

								      rejected many as deficient in size and importance.


								      “Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit

								      it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger;

								      but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten

								      miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”


								      Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the

								      servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her:

								      “Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your

								      son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into

								      one house in this neighbourhood they shall never have

								      admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by

								      receiving them at Longbourn.”


								      A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was

								      firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with

								      amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea

								      to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should

								      receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion.

								      Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be

								      carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse

								      his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would

								      scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She

								      was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must

								      reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of shame at

								      her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took

								      place.


								      Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the

								      distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted

								      with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so

								      shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might

								      hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who

								      were not immediately on the spot.


								      She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There

								      were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently

								      depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge

								      of a sister’s frailty would have mortified her so much—not,

								      however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to

								      herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between

								      them. Had Lydia’s marriage been concluded on the most honourable

								      terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect

								      himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now

								      be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a

								      man whom he so justly scorned.


								      From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink.

								      The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself

								      of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation

								      survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved;

								      she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous

								      of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by

								      it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance

								      of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have

								      been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should

								      meet.


								      What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that

								      the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago,

								      would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was

								      as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex;

								      but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.


								      She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in

								      disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding

								      and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her

								      wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of

								      both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been

								      softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement,

								      information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received

								      benefit of greater importance.


								      But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude

								      what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different

								      tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon

								      to be formed in their family.


								      How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable

								      independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent

								      happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together

								      because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could

								      easily conjecture.


								      Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s

								      acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his

								      eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and

								      concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be

								      mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was

								      to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the

								      militia.


								      “It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon

								      as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,

								      in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable,

								      both on his account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention

								      to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are

								      still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He

								      has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——’s regiment, now

								      quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from

								      this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among

								      different people, where they may each have a character to

								      preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to

								      Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and

								      to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr.

								      Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment,

								      for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the

								      trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in

								      Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his

								      information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he

								      has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will

								      be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless

								      they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.

								      Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before

								      she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully

								      remembered to you and her mother.—Yours, etc.,


								      “E. GARDINER.”


								      Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s

								      removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But

								      Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being

								      settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure

								      and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her

								      plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe

								      disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia

								      should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with

								      everybody, and had so many favourites.


								      “She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite

								      shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young

								      men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so

								      pleasant in General ——’s regiment.”


								      His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being

								      admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,

								      received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,

								      who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings

								      and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by

								      her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so

								      mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as

								      they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they

								      thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the

								      satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her

								      married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to

								      the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore,

								      he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that

								      as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to

								      Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should

								      consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own

								      inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object

								      of her wishes.


								      Their sister’s wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt

								      for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was

								      sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by

								      dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets,

								      and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would

								      have attended herself, had she been the culprit, and was

								      wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.


								      They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to

								      receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the

								      carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably

								      grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.


								      Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown

								      open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards,

								      embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with

								      an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and

								      wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of

								      their happiness.


								      Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was

								      not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity;

								      and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young

								      couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was

								      disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia

								      still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned

								      from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when

								      at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took

								      notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a

								      laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.


								      Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his

								      manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his

								      marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy

								      address, while he claimed their relationship, would have

								      delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite

								      equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within

								      herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an

								      impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of

								      the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of

								      colour.


								      There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could

								      neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to

								      sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in

								      that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very

								      unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have

								      the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was

								      recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects

								      which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.


								      “Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went

								      away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been

								      things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went

								      away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came

								      back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”


								      Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth

								      looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw

								      anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,

								      “Oh! mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I

								      was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in

								      his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let

								      down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let

								      my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the

								      ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”


								      Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the

								      room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through

								      the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough

								      to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right

								      hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take

								      your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married

								      woman.”


								      It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that

								      embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first.

								      Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs.

								      Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to

								      hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by each of them; and in the

								      mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of

								      being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.


								      “Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the

								      breakfast room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a

								      charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope

								      they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton.

								      That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we

								      did not all go.”


								      “Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I

								      don’t at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”


								      “Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all

								      things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us.

								      We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there

								      will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for

								      them all.”


								      “I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.


								      “And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my

								      sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them

								      before the winter is over.”


								      “I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I

								      do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”


								      Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr.

								      Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he

								      was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.


								      No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so

								      short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with

								      her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These

								      parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even

								      more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.


								      Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had

								      expected to find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had

								      scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the

								      reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the

								      strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have

								      wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope

								      with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was

								      rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were

								      the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of

								      having a companion.


								      Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on

								      every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He

								      did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill

								      more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the

								      country.


								      One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with

								      her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:


								      “Lizzy, I never gave you an account of my wedding, I believe.

								      You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it.

								      Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”


								      “No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too

								      little said on the subject.”


								      “La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We

								      were married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s

								      lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should

								      all be there by eleven o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to

								      go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well,

								      Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,

								      you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I

								      should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the

								      time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she

								      was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in

								      ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I

								      longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”


								      “Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would

								      never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my

								      uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with

								      them. If you’ll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of

								      doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme,

								      or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the

								      Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came

								      to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that

								      horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get

								      together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did

								      not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we

								      were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But,

								      luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all

								      set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been

								      prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy

								      might have done as well.”


								      “Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.


								      “Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But

								      gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word

								      about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say?

								      It was to be such a secret!”


								      “If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the

								      subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”


								      “Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;

								      “we will ask you no questions.”


								      “Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell

								      you all, and then Wickham would be angry.”


								      On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out

								      of her power, by running away.


								      But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at

								      least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had

								      been at her sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly

								      among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least

								      temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and

								      wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none.

								      Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the

								      noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such

								      suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short

								      letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had

								      dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been

								      intended.


								      “You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must

								      be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and

								      (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have

								      been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me

								      understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in

								      the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must

								      endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”


								      “Not that I shall, though,” she added to herself, as she

								      finished the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in

								      an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and

								      stratagems to find it out.”


								      Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to

								      Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was

								      glad of it;—till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive

								      any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.


								      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her

								      letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in

								      possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she

								      was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the

								      benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter

								      convinced her that it did not contain a denial.


								      “Gracechurch Street, Sept. 6.


								      “My dear Niece,


								      “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole

								      morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing

								      will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself

								      surprised by your application; I did not expect it from you.

								      Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know

								      that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on your

								      side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my

								      impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing

								      but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed

								      him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and

								      ignorant, I must be more explicit.


								      “On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had

								      a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with

								      him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my

								      curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have

								      been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where

								      your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked

								      with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can

								      collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and

								      came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive

								      professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that

								      Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it

								      impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in

								      him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and

								      confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his

								      private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for

								      itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and

								      endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.

								      If he had another motive, I am sure it would never disgrace

								      him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to

								      discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which

								      was more than we had; and the consciousness of this was another

								      reason for his resolving to follow us.


								      “There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago

								      governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on

								      some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She

								      then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since

								      maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he

								      knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for

								      intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or

								      three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would

								      not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption,

								      for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham

								      indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had

								      she been able to receive them into her house, they would have

								      taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind

								      friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street.

								      He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His

								      first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her

								      to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her

								      friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,

								      offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found

								      Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared

								      for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not

								      hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some

								      time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were

								      her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and

								      expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with

								      Wickham, he easily learnt had never been his design. He

								      confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of

								      some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not

								      to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own

								      folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and

								      as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about

								      it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew

								      he should have nothing to live on.


								      “Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once.

								      Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have

								      been able to do something for him, and his situation must have

								      been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this

								      question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more

								      effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country.

								      Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof

								      against the temptation of immediate relief.


								      “They met several times, for there was much to be discussed.

								      Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length

								      was reduced to be reasonable.


								      “Everything being settled between them, Mr. Darcy’s next step

								      was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in

								      Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr.

								      Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further

								      inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town

								      the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person

								      whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore

								      readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the

								      former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was

								      only known that a gentleman had called on business.


								      “On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at

								      home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk

								      together.


								      “They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not

								      all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was

								      sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I

								      fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,

								      after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times,

								      but this is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did

								      not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be

								      thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most

								      readily have settled the whole.


								      “They battled it together for a long time, which was more than

								      either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at

								      last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed

								      to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having

								      the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain;

								      and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great

								      pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him

								      of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due.

								      But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at

								      most.


								      “You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the

								      young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to

								      considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in

								      addition to her own settled upon her, and his commission

								      purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone,

								      was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his

								      reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s

								      character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had

								      been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth

								      in this; though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody’s

								      reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all

								      this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured

								      that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him

								      credit for another interest in the affair.


								      “When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends,

								      who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he

								      should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and

								      all money matters were then to receive the last finish.


								      “I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation

								      which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least

								      it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and

								      Wickham had constant admission to the house. He was exactly

								      what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would

								      not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour

								      while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter

								      last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a

								      piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no

								      fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious

								      manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had

								      done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If

								      she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not

								      listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my

								      dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with

								      her.


								      “Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,

								      attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to

								      leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry

								      with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying

								      (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him.

								      His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as

								      when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all

								      please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and

								      that, if he marry prudently, his wife may teach him. I

								      thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But

								      slyness seems the fashion.


								      “Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do

								      not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be

								      quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton,

								      with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing.


								      “But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this

								      half hour.


								      “Yours, very sincerely,

								      “M. GARDINER.”


								      The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of

								      spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure

								      or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled

								      suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might

								      have been doing to forward her sister’s match, which she had

								      feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be

								      probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain

								      of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be

								      true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on

								      himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a

								      research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman

								      whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to

								      meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe,

								      the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name

								      it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a

								      girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did

								      whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly

								      checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her

								      vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection

								      for her—for a woman who had already refused him—as able to

								      overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against

								      relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind

								      of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure,

								      done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a

								      reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch

								      of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been

								      wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it;

								      and though she would not place herself as his principal

								      inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality

								      for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of

								      mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly

								      painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who

								      could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia,

								      her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she

								      grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged,

								      every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself

								      she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause

								      of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of

								      himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and

								      again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even

								      sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding

								      how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that

								      affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.


								      She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one’s

								      approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was

								      overtaken by Wickham.


								      “I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?”

								      said he, as he joined her.


								      “You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not

								      follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”


								      “I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good

								      friends; and now we are better.”


								      “True. Are the others coming out?”


								      “I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage

								      to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and

								      aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”


								      She replied in the affirmative.


								      “I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be

								      too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle.

								      And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she

								      was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my

								      name to you.”


								      “Yes, she did.”


								      “And what did she say?”


								      “That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not

								      turned out well. At such a distance as that, you know, things

								      are strangely misrepresented.”


								      “Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had

								      silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:


								      “I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each

								      other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”


								      “Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said

								      Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at

								      this time of year.”


								      “Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I

								      thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.”


								      “Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”


								      “And do you like her?”


								      “Very much.”


								      “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within

								      this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very

								      promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out

								      well.”


								      “I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”


								      “Did you go by the village of Kympton?”


								      “I do not recollect that we did.”


								      “I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have

								      had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would

								      have suited me in every respect.”


								      “How should you have liked making sermons?”


								      “Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my

								      duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought

								      not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing

								      for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have

								      answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you

								      ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”


								      “I have heard from authority, which I thought as good, that

								      it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the

								      present patron.”


								      “You have. Yes, there was something in that; I told you so from

								      the first, you may remember.”


								      “I did hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was

								      not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you

								      actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and

								      that the business had been compromised accordingly.”


								      “You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may

								      remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of

								      it.”


								      They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked

								      fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to

								      provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:


								      “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not

								      let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be

								      always of one mind.”


								      She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry,

								      though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.


								      Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation

								      that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear

								      sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was

								      pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.


								      The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet

								      was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no

								      means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle,

								      was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.


								      “Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”


								      “Oh, lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”


								      “Write to me very often, my dear.”


								      “As often as I can. But you know married women have never much

								      time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have

								      nothing else to do.”


								      Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s.

								      He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.


								      “He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were

								      out of the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and

								      makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even

								      Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”


								      The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several

								      days.


								      “I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as

								      parting with one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”


								      “This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a

								      daughter,” said Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied

								      that your other four are single.”


								      “It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is

								      married, but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so

								      far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so

								      soon.”


								      But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was

								      shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of

								      hope, by an article of news which then began to be in

								      circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders

								      to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in

								      a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was

								      quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook

								      her head by turns.


								      “Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for

								      Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the

								      better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us,

								      you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But,

								      however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes

								      it. And who knows what may happen? But that is nothing to us.

								      You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word

								      about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”


								      “You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was

								      in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself

								      on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was

								      certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very

								      likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher’s, she told me,

								      on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got

								      three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”


								      Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without

								      changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his

								      name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together,

								      she said:


								      “I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the

								      present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don’t

								      imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the

								      moment, because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure

								      you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or

								      pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we

								      shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of myself, but

								      I dread other people’s remarks.”


								      Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him

								      in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming

								      there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she

								      still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the

								      greater probability of his coming there with his friend’s

								      permission, or being bold enough to come without it.


								      “Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man

								      cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without

								      raising all this speculation! I will leave him to himself.”


								      In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be

								      her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could

								      easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were

								      more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.


								      The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their

								      parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.


								      “As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet,

								      “you will wait on him of course.”


								      “No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised,

								      if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it

								      ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand

								      again.”


								      His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an

								      attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his

								      returning to Netherfield.


								      “’Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our

								      society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not

								      spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they

								      go away and come back again.”


								      “Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do

								      not wait on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him

								      to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the

								      Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there

								      will be just room at table for him.”


								      Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her

								      husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that

								      her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it,

								      before they did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—


								      “I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her

								      sister. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect

								      indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually

								      talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one

								      can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be,

								      when his stay at Netherfield is over!”


								      “I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth;

								      “but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the

								      usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied

								      me, because you have always so much.”


								      Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of

								      servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the

								      period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as

								      it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their

								      invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on

								      the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw

								      him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride

								      towards the house.


								      Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane

								      resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy

								      her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with

								      him, and sat down again by her sister.


								      “There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it

								      be?”


								      “Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do

								      not know.”


								      “La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be

								      with him before. Mr. what’s-his-name. That tall, proud man.”


								      “Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any

								      friend of Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure;

								      but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”


								      Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but

								      little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the

								      awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost

								      for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both

								      sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and

								      of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her

								      dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only

								      as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either of them.

								      But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be

								      suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew

								      Mrs. Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment

								      towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she

								      had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own

								      more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole

								      family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she

								      regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at

								      least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her

								      astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to

								      Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to

								      what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in

								      Derbyshire.


								      The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half

								      a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added

								      lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that

								      his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would

								      not be secure.


								      “Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be

								      early enough for expectation.”


								      She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without

								      daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them

								      to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the

								      door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than

								      Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen’s appearing, her colour

								      increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a

								      propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of

								      resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.


								      Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and

								      sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not

								      often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He

								      looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been

								      used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at

								      Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother’s presence be

								      what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not

								      an improbable, conjecture.


								      Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short

								      period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was

								      received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her

								      two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold

								      and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his

								      friend.


								      Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the

								      latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from

								      irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful

								      degree by a distinction so ill applied.


								      Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a

								      question which she could not answer without confusion, said

								      scarcely anything. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the

								      reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire.

								      There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself.

								      But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his

								      voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of

								      curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found

								      him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object

								      but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please,

								      than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was

								      disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.


								      “Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he

								      come?”


								      She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself;

								      and to him she had hardly courage to speak.


								      She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.


								      “It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs.

								      Bennet.


								      He readily agreed to it.


								      “I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People

								      did say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas;

								      but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have

								      happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is

								      married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you

								      have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It

								      was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put

								      in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Wickham,

								      Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a syllable said

								      of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was

								      my brother Gardiner’s drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to

								      make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”


								      Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations.

								      Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked,

								      therefore, she could not tell.


								      “It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well

								      married,” continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr.

								      Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me.

								      They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it

								      seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His

								      regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving

								      the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank

								      Heaven! he has some friends, though perhaps not so many as he

								      deserves.”


								      Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such

								      misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew

								      from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else

								      had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he

								      meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he

								      believed.


								      “When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her

								      mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you

								      please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy

								      to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”


								      Elizabeth’s misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious

								      attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had

								      flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would

								      be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant,

								      she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself

								      amends for moments of such painful confusion.


								      “The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more

								      to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no

								      pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me

								      never see either one or the other again!”


								      Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no

								      compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from

								      observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the

								      admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had

								      spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be

								      giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she

								      had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though

								      not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should

								      be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she

								      talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that

								      she did not always know when she was silent.


								      When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of

								      her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine

								      at Longbourn in a few days time.


								      “You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for

								      when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family

								      dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you

								      see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did

								      not come back and keep your engagement.”


								      Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said

								      something of his concern at having been prevented by business.

								      They then went away.


								      Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and

								      dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good

								      table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be

								      good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or

								      satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a

								      year.


								      As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her

								      spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on

								      those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour

								      astonished and vexed her.


								      “Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said

								      she, “did he come at all?”


								      She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.


								      “He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt,

								      when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come

								      hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing,

								      teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”


								      Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the

								      approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look,

								      which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than

								      Elizabeth.


								      “Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel

								      perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be

								      embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on

								      Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we

								      meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”


								      “Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh,

								      Jane, take care.”


								      “My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger

								      now?”


								      “I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in

								      love with you as ever.”


								      They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs.

								      Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy

								      schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley,

								      in half an hour’s visit, had revived.


								      On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and

								      the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their

								      punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they

								      repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see

								      whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former

								      parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother,

								      occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by

								      herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane

								      happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He

								      placed himself by her.


								      Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his

								      friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have

								      imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had

								      she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an

								      expression of half-laughing alarm.


								      His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as

								      showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than

								      formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself,

								      Jane’s happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though

								      she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received

								      pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the

								      animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no

								      cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the

								      table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She

								      knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either,

								      or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to

								      hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they

								      spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner

								      whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness, made the sense of

								      what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; and she

								      would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him

								      that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of

								      the family.


								      She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity

								      of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not

								      pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of

								      conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his

								      entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the

								      drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull

								      to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to

								      their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure

								      for the evening must depend.


								      “If he does not come to me, then,” said she, “I shall give him

								      up for ever.”


								      The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have

								      answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the

								      table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring

								      out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a

								      single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the

								      gentlemen’s approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her

								      than ever, and said, in a whisper:


								      “The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none

								      of them; do we?”


								      Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed

								      him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely

								      patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged

								      against herself for being so silly!


								      “A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish

								      enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the

								      sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second

								      proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to

								      their feelings!”


								      She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his

								      coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:


								      “Is your sister at Pemberley still?”


								      “Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”


								      “And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”


								      “Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to

								      Scarborough, these three weeks.”


								      She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to

								      converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her,

								      however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young

								      lady’s whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.


								      When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the

								      ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined

								      by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a

								      victim to her mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few

								      moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost

								      every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening

								      at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his

								      eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to

								      make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.


								      Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to

								      supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of

								      the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.


								      “Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,

								      “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off

								      uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as

								      any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody

								      said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times

								      better than what we had at the Lucases’ last week; and even Mr.

								      Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well

								      done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least.

								      And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs.

								      Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what

								      do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have

								      her at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long

								      is as good a creature as ever lived—and her nieces are very

								      pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them

								      prodigiously.”


								      Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen

								      enough of Bingley’s behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she

								      would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her

								      family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that

								      she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next

								      day, to make his proposals.


								      “It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to

								      Elizabeth. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one

								      with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”


								      Elizabeth smiled.


								      “Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies

								      me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation

								      as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish

								      beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now

								      are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is

								      only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a

								      stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”


								      “You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me

								      smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”


								      “How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”


								      “And how impossible in others!”


								      “But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I

								      acknowledge?”


								      “That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all

								      love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth

								      knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not

								      make me your confidante.”


								      A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone.

								      His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to

								      return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and

								      was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine

								      with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed

								      himself engaged elsewhere.


								      “Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”


								      He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if

								      she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of

								      waiting on them.


								      “Can you come to-morrow?”


								      Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her

								      invitation was accepted with alacrity.


								      He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of

								      them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter’s room, in her

								      dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:


								      “My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley

								      is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come

								      to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never

								      mind Miss Lizzy’s hair.”


								      “We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say

								      Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half

								      an hour ago.”


								      “Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be

								      quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”


								      But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to

								      go down without one of her sisters.


								      The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in

								      the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was

								      his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two

								      obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking

								      and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time,

								      without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not

								      observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently

								      said, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me

								      for? What am I to do?”


								      “Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat

								      still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious

								      occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here,

								      my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane

								      instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at

								      such premeditation, and her entreaty that she would not give in

								      to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and

								      called out:


								      “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”


								      Elizabeth was forced to go.


								      “We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her

								      mother, as soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up

								      stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”


								      Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained

								      quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then

								      returned into the drawing-room.


								      Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was

								      every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her

								      daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable

								      addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged

								      officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with

								      a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to

								      the daughter.


								      He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he

								      went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and

								      Mrs. Bennet’s means, for his coming next morning to shoot with

								      her husband.


								      After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word

								      passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went

								      to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded,

								      unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously,

								      however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have

								      taken place with that gentleman’s concurrence.


								      Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet

								      spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was

								      much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was

								      nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his

								      ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more

								      communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen

								      him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the

								      evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get every

								      body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter

								      to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon

								      after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards,

								      she could not be wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes.


								      But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was

								      finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to

								      fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening

								      the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together

								      over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had

								      this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily

								      turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it

								      all. Their situation was awkward enough; but 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 anyone but myself. He is gone to my father

								      already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give

								      such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much

								      happiness!”


								      She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up

								      the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.


								      Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity

								      and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given

								      them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.


								      “And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious

								      circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance!

								      the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”


								      In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with

								      her father had been short and to the purpose.


								      “Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.


								      “With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare

								      say.”


								      He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good

								      wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily

								      expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They

								      shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came

								      down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own

								      happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; and in spite of his being a

								      lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity

								      to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the

								      excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane,

								      and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and

								      himself.


								      It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the

								      satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet

								      animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever.

								      Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon.

								      Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation

								      in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked

								      to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet

								      joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how

								      really happy he was.


								      Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till

								      their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was

								      gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:


								      “Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”


								      Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his

								      goodness.


								      “You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in

								      thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of

								      your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means

								      unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever

								      be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and

								      so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”


								      “I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters

								      would be unpardonable in me.”


								      “Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what

								      are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and

								      very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear,

								      dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep

								      all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so,

								      at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I

								      remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into

								      Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you

								      should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that

								      ever was seen!”


								      Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition

								      her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her

								      younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects

								      of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.


								      Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and

								      Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.


								      Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at

								      Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always

								      remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous

								      neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an

								      invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.


								      Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her

								      sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow

								      on anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both

								      of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur.

								      In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth,

								      for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone,

								      Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.


								      “He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me

								      that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I

								      had not believed it possible.”


								      “I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account

								      for it?”


								      “It must have been his sister’s doing. They were certainly no

								      friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at,

								      since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many

								      respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their

								      brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we

								      shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once

								      were to each other.”


								      “That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I

								      ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see

								      you again the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.”


								      “Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last

								      November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of

								      my being indifferent would have prevented his coming down

								      again!”


								      “He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of

								      his modesty.”


								      This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his

								      diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good

								      qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed

								      the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most

								      generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a

								      circumstance which must prejudice her against him.


								      “I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!”

								      cried Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and

								      blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there

								      were but such another man for you!”


								      “If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy

								      as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can

								      have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and,

								      perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr.

								      Collins in time.”


								      The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be

								      long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs.

								      Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the

								      same by all her neighbours in Meryton.


								      The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in

								      the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first

								      run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for

								      misfortune.


								      One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane

								      had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting

								      together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn

								      to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a

								      chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the

								      morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to

								      that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and

								      neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded

								      it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that

								      somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet

								      to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with

								      him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of

								      the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction,

								      till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was

								      Lady Catherine de Bourgh.


								      They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their

								      astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of

								      Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them,

								      even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.


								      She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious,

								      made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight

								      inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.

								      Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship’s

								      entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.


								      Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of

								      such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness.

								      After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to

								      Elizabeth,


								      “I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your

								      mother.”


								      Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.


								      “And that I suppose is one of your sisters.”


								      “Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady

								      Catherine. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all

								      is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds,

								      walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part

								      of the family.”


								      “You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after

								      a short silence.


								      “It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but

								      I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.”


								      “This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening,

								      in summer; the windows are full west.”


								      Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner,

								      and then added:


								      “May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left

								      Mr. and Mrs. Collins well.”


								      “Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”


								      Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her

								      from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her

								      calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.


								      Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take

								      some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not

								      very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up,

								      said to Elizabeth,


								      “Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little

								      wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a

								      turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”


								      “Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the

								      different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”


								      Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,

								      attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the

								      hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and

								      drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be

								      decent looking rooms, walked on.


								      Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her

								      waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the

								      gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to

								      make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more

								      than usually insolent and disagreeable.


								      “How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she

								      looked in her face.


								      As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the

								      following manner:—


								      “You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of

								      my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell

								      you why I come.”


								      Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.


								      “Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to

								      account for the honour of seeing you here.”


								      “Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought

								      to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere

								      you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character

								      has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in

								      a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from

								      it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I

								      was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most

								      advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet,

								      would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew,

								      my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous

								      falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose

								      the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for

								      this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”


								      “If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth,

								      colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the

								      trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by

								      it?”


								      “At once to insist upon having such a report universally

								      contradicted.”


								      “Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said

								      Elizabeth coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if,

								      indeed, such a report is in existence.”


								      “If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been

								      industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such

								      a report is spread abroad?”


								      “I never heard that it was.”


								      “And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for

								      it?”


								      “I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship.

								      You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”


								      “This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being

								      satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”


								      “Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”


								      “It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of

								      his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of

								      infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to

								      all his family. You may have drawn him in.”


								      “If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”


								      “Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to

								      such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in

								      the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”


								      “But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour

								      as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”


								      “Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the

								      presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy

								      is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”


								      “Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose

								      he will make an offer to me.”


								      Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:


								      “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their

								      infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the

								      favourite wish of his mother, as well as of 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 Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of

								      propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his

								      earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”


								      “Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there

								      is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall

								      certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt

								      wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you

								      could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on

								      others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination

								      confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And

								      if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”


								      “Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it.

								      Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by

								      his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the

								      inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and

								      despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a

								      disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”


								      “These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife

								      of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness

								      necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the

								      whole, have no cause to repine.”


								      “Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your

								      gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to

								      me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss

								      Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of

								      carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not

								      been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the

								      habit of brooking disappointment.”


								      “That will make your ladyship’s situation at present more

								      pitiable; but it will have no effect on me.”


								      “I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and

								      my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the

								      maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s,

								      from respectable, honourable, and ancient—though

								      untitled—families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They

								      are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their

								      respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart

								      pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or

								      fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If

								      you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit

								      the sphere in which you have been brought up.”


								      “In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as

								      quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s

								      daughter; so far we are equal.”


								      “True. You are a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother?

								      Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of

								      their condition.”


								      “Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew

								      does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.”


								      “Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”


								      Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady

								      Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say,

								      after a moment’s deliberation:


								      “I am not.”


								      Lady Catherine seemed pleased.


								      “And will you promise me, never to enter into such an

								      engagement?”


								      “I will make no promise of the kind.”


								      “Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a

								      more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a

								      belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have

								      given me the assurance I require.”


								      “And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be

								      intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship

								      wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you

								      the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more

								      probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing

								      to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?

								      Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which

								      you have supported this extraordinary application have been as

								      frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely

								      mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such

								      persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your

								      interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have

								      certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,

								      therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”


								      “Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the

								      objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I

								      am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s

								      infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying

								      her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and

								      uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is her

								      husband, who is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his

								      brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the

								      shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”


								      “You can now have nothing further to say,” she resentfully

								      answered. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must

								      beg to return to the house.”


								      And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they

								      turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.


								      “You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my

								      nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a

								      connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”


								      “Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my

								      sentiments.”


								      “You are then resolved to have him?”


								      “I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that

								      manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,

								      without reference to you, or to any person so wholly

								      unconnected with me.”


								      “It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey

								      the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to

								      ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the

								      contempt of the world.”


								      “Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth,

								      “have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No

								      principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr.

								      Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the

								      indignation of the world, if the former were excited by his

								      marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s concern—and the

								      world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”


								      “And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very

								      well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet,

								      that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I

								      hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry

								      my point.”


								      In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the

								      door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I

								      take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your

								      mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously

								      displeased.”


								      Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her

								      ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it

								      herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up

								      stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the

								      dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again

								      and rest herself.


								      “She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”


								      “She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was

								      prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the

								      Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say,

								      and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call

								      on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you,

								      Lizzy?”


								      Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to

								      acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.


								      The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw

								      Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for

								      many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady

								      Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this

								      journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her

								      supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to

								      be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could

								      originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she

								      recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley, and

								      her being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the

								      expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to

								      supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the

								      marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together.

								      And her neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their

								      communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had

								      reached Lady Catherine), had only set that down as almost

								      certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as

								      possible at some future time.


								      In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not

								      help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of

								      her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of

								      her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to

								      Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew;

								      and how he might take a similar representation of the evils

								      attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She

								      knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his

								      dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he

								      thought much higher of her ladyship than she could do; and it

								      was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with

								      one, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own,

								      his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions

								      of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to

								      Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good

								      sense and solid reasoning.


								      If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had

								      often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a

								      relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to

								      be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case

								      he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way

								      through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to

								      Netherfield must give way.


								      “If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come

								      to his friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to

								      understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every

								      wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting

								      me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall

								      soon cease to regret him at all.”


								      The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their

								      visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied

								      it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs.

								      Bennet’s curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on

								      the subject.


								      The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her

								      father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.


								      “Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my

								      room.”


								      She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had

								      to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in

								      some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck

								      her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated

								      with dismay all the consequent explanations.


								      She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat

								      down. He then said,


								      “I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me

								      exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to

								      know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two

								      daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a

								      very important conquest.”


								      The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the

								      instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew,

								      instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be

								      pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his

								      letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father

								      continued:


								      “You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such

								      matters as these; but I think I may defy even your sagacity, to

								      discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr.

								      Collins.”


								      “From Mr. Collins! and what can he have to say?”


								      “Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with

								      congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest

								      daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the

								      good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your

								      impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates

								      to yourself, is as follows: ‘Having thus offered you the sincere

								      congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event,

								      let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which

								      we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter

								      Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet,

								      after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of

								      her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most

								      illustrious personages in this land.’


								      “Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? ‘This young

								      gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the

								      heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble

								      kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these

								      temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of

								      what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this

								      gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to

								      take immediate advantage of.’


								      “Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it

								      comes out:


								      “‘My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to

								      imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on

								      the match with a friendly eye.’


								      “Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I have

								      surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man

								      within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have

								      given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy,

								      who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who

								      probably never looked at you in his life! It is admirable!”


								      Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could

								      only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been

								      directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.


								      “Are you not diverted?”


								      “Oh! yes. Pray read on.”


								      “‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her

								      ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual

								      condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it

								      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, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it.

								      You are not going to be missish, I hope, and pretend to be

								      affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make

								      sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”


								      “Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so

								      strange!”


								      “Yes—that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other

								      man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference,

								      and your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much

								      as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s

								      correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter

								      of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over

								      Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my

								      son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this

								      report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”


								      To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as

								      it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not

								      distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at

								      a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was

								      necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father

								      had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy’s

								      indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want

								      of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too

								      little, she might have fancied too much.


								      Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend,

								      as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to

								      bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed

								      after Lady Catherine’s visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and,

								      before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his

								      aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who

								      wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It

								      was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary

								      could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together.

								      Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip

								      them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were

								      to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty

								      was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly

								      forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the

								      same.


								      They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call

								      upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a

								      general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him

								      alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and,

								      while her courage was high, she immediately said:


								      “Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of

								      giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be

								      wounding 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 of what

								      may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not

								      think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”


								      “You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first

								      betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of

								      course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me

								      thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that

								      generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble,

								      and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering

								      them.”


								      “If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself

								      alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force

								      to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to

								      deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I

								      believe I thought only of you.”


								      Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short

								      pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with

								      me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me

								      so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one

								      word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”


								      Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and

								      anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and

								      immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand

								      that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the

								      period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude

								      and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this

								      reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before;

								      and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as

								      warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had

								      Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how

								      well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face,

								      became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and

								      he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she

								      was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.


								      They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too

								      much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any

								      other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their

								      present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did

								      call on him in her return through London, and there relate her

								      journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her

								      conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every

								      expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s apprehension,

								      peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief

								      that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that

								      promise from her nephew which she had refused to give. But,

								      unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly

								      contrariwise.


								      “It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed

								      myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be

								      certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided

								      against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine,

								      frankly and openly.”


								      Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know

								      enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After

								      abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple

								      in abusing you to all your relations.”


								      “What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your

								      accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my

								      behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It

								      was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”


								      “We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to

								      that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if

								      strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we

								      have both, I hope, improved in civility.”


								      “I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of

								      what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions

								      during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months,

								      inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I

								      shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike

								      manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely

								      conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I

								      confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”


								      “I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong

								      an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever

								      felt in such a way.”


								      “I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every

								      proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I

								      shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed

								      you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”


								      “Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not

								      do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily

								      ashamed of it.”


								      Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make

								      you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit

								      to its contents?”


								      She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually

								      all her former prejudices had been removed.


								      “I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it

								      was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was

								      one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your

								      having the power of reading again. I can remember some

								      expressions which might justly make you hate me.”


								      “The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential

								      to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason

								      to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I

								      hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”


								      “When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself

								      perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was

								      written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”


								      “The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so.

								      The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The

								      feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it,

								      are now so widely different from what they were then, that every

								      unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You

								      must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its

								      remembrance gives you pleasure.”


								      “I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your

								      retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the

								      contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is

								      much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful

								      recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be

								      repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice,

								      though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was

								      right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given

								      good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.

								      Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was

								      spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father,

								      particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed,

								      encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to

								      care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all

								      the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of

								      their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from

								      eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but

								      for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You

								      taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous.

								      By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of

								      my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my

								      pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”


								      “Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”


								      “Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you

								      to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”


								      “My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I

								      assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might

								      often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after that

								      evening?”


								      “Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began

								      to take a proper direction.”


								      “I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met

								      at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”


								      “No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”


								      “Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed

								      by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary

								      politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more

								      than my due.”


								      “My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every

								      civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the

								      past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill

								      opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended

								      to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly

								      tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”


								      He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and

								      of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally

								      leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that

								      his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her

								      sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his

								      gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other

								      struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.


								      She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a

								      subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.


								      After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy

								      to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their

								      watches, that it was time to be at home.


								      “What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which

								      introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted

								      with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest

								      information of it.


								      “I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.


								      “Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”


								      “That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as

								      much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had

								      been pretty much the case.


								      “On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a

								      confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago.

								      I told him of all that had occurred to make my former

								      interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise

								      was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him,

								      moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had

								      done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could

								      easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt

								      no doubt of their happiness together.”


								      Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing

								      his friend.


								      “Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you

								      told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information

								      last spring?”


								      “From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two

								      visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her

								      affection.”


								      “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate

								      conviction to him.”


								      “It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had

								      prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case,

								      but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to

								      confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended

								      him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had

								      been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and

								      purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am

								      persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your

								      sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”


								      Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most

								      delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was

								      invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had

								      yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to

								      begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course

								      was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation

								      till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.


								      “My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a

								      question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she

								      entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to

								      table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered

								      about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she

								      spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a suspicion

								      of the truth.


								      The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary.

								      The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged

								      were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness

								      overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather

								      knew that she was happy than felt herself to be so; for,

								      besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils

								      before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when

								      her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him

								      but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a dislike

								      which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.


								      At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very

								      far from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely

								      incredulous here.


								      “You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No,

								      no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”


								      “This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on

								      you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not.

								      Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He

								      still loves me, and we are engaged.”


								      Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know

								      how much you dislike him.”


								      “You know nothing of the matter. That is all to be forgot.

								      Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in

								      such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the

								      last time I shall ever remember it myself.”


								      Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more

								      seriously assured her of its truth.


								      “Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,”

								      cried Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate

								      you—but are you certain? forgive the question—are you quite

								      certain that you can be happy with him?”


								      “There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already,

								      that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you

								      pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”


								      “Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself

								      more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as

								      impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh,

								      Lizzy! do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you

								      quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?”


								      “Oh, yes! You will only think I feel more than I ought to do,

								      when I tell you all.”


								      “What do you mean?”


								      “Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I

								      am afraid you will be angry.”


								      “My dearest sister, now be serious. I want to talk very

								      seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without

								      delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?”


								      “It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it

								      began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his

								      beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”


								      Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the

								      desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn

								      assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss

								      Bennet had nothing further to wish.


								      “Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as

								      myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his

								      love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as

								      Bingley’s friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and

								      yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very

								      reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at

								      Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another,

								      not to you.”


								      Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been

								      unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own

								      feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But

								      now she would no longer conceal from her his share in Lydia’s

								      marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in

								      conversation.


								      “Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the

								      next morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here

								      again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so

								      tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he

								      would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us

								      with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk

								      out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”


								      Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal;

								      yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him

								      such an epithet.


								      As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively,

								      and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good

								      information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet,

								      have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way

								      again to-day?”


								      “I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to

								      walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and

								      Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”


								      “It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I

								      am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” Kitty

								      owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great

								      curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently

								      consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet

								      followed her, saying:


								      “I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that

								      disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind

								      it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion

								      for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put

								      yourself to inconvenience.”


								      During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent

								      should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved

								      to herself the application for her mother’s. She could not

								      determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting

								      whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome

								      her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set

								      against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain

								      that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her

								      sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the

								      first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her

								      disapprobation.


								      In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library,

								      she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on

								      seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition,

								      but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be

								      through her means—that she, his favourite child, should be

								      distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears

								      and regrets in disposing of her—was a wretched reflection, and

								      she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at

								      him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he

								      approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while

								      pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your

								      father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.


								      Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.

								      “Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your

								      senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”


								      How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been

								      more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have

								      spared her from explanations and professions which it was

								      exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she

								      assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.


								      “Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich,

								      to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages

								      than Jane. But will they make you happy?”


								      “Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief

								      of my indifference?”


								      “None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of

								      man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”


								      “I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I

								      love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly

								      amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain

								      me by speaking of him in such terms.”


								      “Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the

								      kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything,

								      which he condescended to ask. I now give it to you, if you are

								      resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of

								      it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be

								      neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your

								      husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively

								      talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal

								      marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My

								      child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to

								      respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”


								      Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her

								      reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was

								      really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change

								      which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute

								      certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had

								      stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with

								      energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s

								      incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.


								      “Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no

								      more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not

								      have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”


								      To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr.

								      Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with

								      astonishment.


								      “This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every

								      thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s

								      debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will

								      save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle’s

								      doing, I must and would have paid him; but these violent young

								      lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him

								      to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and

								      there will be an end of the matter.”


								      He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his

								      reading Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some

								      time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted the room,

								      “If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am

								      quite at leisure.”


								      Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and,

								      after half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was

								      able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was

								      too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away;

								      there was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the

								      comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.


								      When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she

								      followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect

								      was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat

								      quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under

								      many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard;

								      though not in general backward to credit what was for the

								      advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to

								      any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in

								      her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.


								      “Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy!

								      Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest

								      Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what

								      jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane’s is nothing to

								      it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming

								      man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for

								      my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook

								      it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is

								      charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord!

								      What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”


								      This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be

								      doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard

								      only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three

								      minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.


								      “My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten

								      thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a Lord!

								      And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special

								      licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is

								      particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”


								      This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the

								      gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in

								      the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of

								      her relations’ consent, there was still something to be wished

								      for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for

								      Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law

								      that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power

								      to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his

								      opinion.


								      Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains

								      to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that

								      he was rising every hour in his esteem.


								      “I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham,

								      perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like your husband

								      quite as well as Jane’s.”


								      Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted

								      Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.

								      “How could you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on

								      charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could

								      set you off in the first place?”


								      “I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the

								      words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in

								      the middle before I knew that I had begun.”


								      “My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my

								      behaviour to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil,

								      and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain

								      than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”


								      “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”


								      “You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little

								      less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference,

								      of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who

								      were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for your

								      approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so

								      unlike them. Had you not been really amiable, you would have

								      hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise

								      yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your

								      heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously

								      courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for

								      it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it

								      perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of

								      me—but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.”


								      “Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while

								      she was ill at Netherfield?”


								      “Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a

								      virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your

								      protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible;

								      and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing

								      and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin

								      directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the

								      point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called,

								      and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did

								      you look as if you did not care about me?”


								      “Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no

								      encouragement.”


								      “But I was embarrassed.”


								      “And so was I.”


								      “You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”


								      “A man who had felt less, might.”


								      “How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give,

								      and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder

								      how long you would have gone on, if you had been left to

								      yourself. I wonder when you would have spoken, if I had not

								      asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to

								      Lydia had certainly great effect. Too much, I am afraid; for

								      what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach

								      of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This

								      will never do.”


								      “You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly

								      fair. Lady Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us

								      were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for

								      my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your

								      gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of

								      yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, and I was

								      determined at once to know every thing.”


								      “Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her

								      happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come

								      down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and

								      be embarrassed? or had you intended any more serious

								      consequence?”


								      “My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could,

								      whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or

								      what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were

								      still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession

								      to him which I have since made.”


								      “Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what

								      is to befall her?”


								      “I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But

								      it ought to 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 over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs.

								      Gardiner’s long letter; but now, having that to communicate

								      which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to

								      find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of

								      happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:


								      “I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to

								      have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of

								      particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You

								      supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as much as

								      you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your

								      imagination in every possible flight which the subject will

								      afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot

								      greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a

								      great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and

								      again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to

								      wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round

								      the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world.

								      Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such

								      justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh.

								      Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare

								      from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours,

								      etc.”


								      Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style;

								      and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr.

								      Collins, in reply to his last.


								      “Dear Sir,

								      “I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will

								      soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as

								      you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has

								      more to give.


								      “Yours sincerely, etc.”


								      Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother, on his approaching

								      marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote

								      even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat

								      all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but

								      she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could

								      not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was

								      deserved.


								      The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar

								      information, was as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four

								      sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and

								      all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.


								      Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any

								      congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family

								      heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The

								      reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine

								      had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her

								      nephew’s letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match,

								      was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a

								      moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to

								      Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must

								      sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr.

								      Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her

								      husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could

								      even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on

								      carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed

								      his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James’s, with

								      very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not

								      till Sir William was out of sight.


								      Mrs. Phillips’s vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax

								      on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her

								      sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the

								      familiarity which Bingley’s good humour encouraged, yet, whenever

								      she did speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him,

								      though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more

								      elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the

								      frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to

								      herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse

								      without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings

								      arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of

								      its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked

								      forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from

								      society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and

								      elegance of their family party at Pemberley.


								      Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs.

								      Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what

								      delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked

								      of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake

								      of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in

								      the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an

								      effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman

								      for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her

								      husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so

								      unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and

								      invariably silly.


								      Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection

								      for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do.

								      He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least

								      expected.


								      Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth.

								      So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not

								      desirable even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart.

								      The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an

								      estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and

								      Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were

								      within thirty miles of each other.


								      Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her

								      time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what

								      she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not

								      of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the

								      influence of Lydia’s example, she became, by proper attention and

								      management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From

								      the further disadvantage of Lydia’s society she was of course

								      carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to

								      come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men,

								      her father would never consent to her going.


								      Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was

								      necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs.

								      Bennet’s being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix

								      more with the world, but she could still moralize over every

								      morning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons

								      between her sisters’ beauty and her own, it was suspected by her

								      father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.


								      As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution

								      from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the

								      conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with

								      whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown

								      to her; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope

								      that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The

								      congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her

								      marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by

								      himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this

								      effect:


								      “My dear Lizzy,

								      “I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my

								      dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to

								      have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope

								      you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at

								      court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money

								      enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of

								      about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to

								      Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.


								      “Yours, etc.”


								      As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she

								      endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and

								      expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her

								      power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy

								      in her own private expences, she frequently sent them. It had

								      always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under

								      the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and

								      heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their

								      support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or

								      herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance

								      towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even

								      when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was

								      unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to

								      place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more

								      than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into

								      indifference; 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 staid so long, that even Bingley’s good

								      humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of

								      giving them a hint to be gone.


								      Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but

								      as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at

								      Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of

								      Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid

								      off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.


								      Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the

								      sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able

								      to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had

								      the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first

								      she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her

								      lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had

								      always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her

								      affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind

								      received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By

								      Elizabeth’s instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman

								      may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not

								      always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than

								      himself.


								      Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her

								      nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her

								      character in her reply to the letter which announced its

								      arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of

								      Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But

								      at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, he was prevailed on to

								      overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a

								      little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment

								      gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to

								      see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait

								      on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods

								      had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress,

								      but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.


								      With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.

								      Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were

								      both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons

								      who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of

								      uniting them.