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 gentleman-like manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,

"You could not have made me 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 that ground-work of

disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable 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 agitating reflections till the sound of Lady

Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter

Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.

CHAPTER XII.

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 any thing

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 her 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 offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal

magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned

was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached

Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in

defiance of various claims, in defiance of 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

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 your's, I can only say that I am sorry.--The

necessity must be obeyed--and farther apology would be absurd.--I

had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with

others, that Bingley preferred your eldest 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 an 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 investigations 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 required 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 of 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 eldest 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 which I hesitated not in giving, of your

sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his

affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.--But Bingley has

great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment

than on his own.--To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived

himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against

returning 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 god-son, 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 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 the 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 of it.

His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his

circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me

to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every

appearance of acquaintance was dropt. 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 has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to

be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing

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 every thing 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."

CHAPTER XIII.

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 be well 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 every thing 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 any thing 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 to

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 enquiring. 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 every thing that had passed in conversation

between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips'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 every where

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 every thing 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 any thing.

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 shewn. 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 any thing

that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing 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 Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of

every thing 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 that she had been blind, partial,

prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I 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 distrust.--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 have been 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 been thus

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 any thing 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.

CHAPTER XIV.

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 nobody

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 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 to 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 those 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 for

ever.

Anxiety on Jane's behalf, was another prevailing concern, and Mr.

Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good

opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was

proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame,

unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his

friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so

desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for

happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own

family!

When to these recollections was added the developement 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 enquired 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.

CHAPTER XV.

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 any one to our humble abode. Our plain

manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we

see of the world, must make 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 every thing 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 the greatest 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 any one abiding in it an object of

compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was

obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility

and truth in a few short sentences.

"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into

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 every thing 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 entrance of the lady from

whom they sprung. 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 of 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 privately added, "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

farther.

CHAPTER XVI.

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 sallad 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 shewing

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 any thing 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 to

table. "What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about

a certain person that we all like."

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that 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 not it?

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 formerly 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, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and

Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

"How nicely we are 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 Philips 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 Col. 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 kind 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

which occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,

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 Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice

rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various

pleasures of the morning to any body 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 me drew up all 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 any body 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 any

body 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 see how every body 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 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.

CHAPTER XVII.

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 have told 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 one, without involving the other.

"This will not do," said Elizabeth. "You never will be able to make both

of them good for any thing. 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 Mr.

Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse."

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 any thing just; but one cannot be always 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 was very

uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of 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 acquaintance in general understand

Wickham's character."

Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no

occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own 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 anybody here,

what he really is. Sometime 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 forbad 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 his 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 incumbrance 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 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 Philips so the other day. But I

cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a

very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least

chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his

coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every

body too, who is likely to know."

"I do not believe that 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 that 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

quite as 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."

CHAPTER XVIII.

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

Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart."

"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.

"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so

disagreeable."

"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."

"And my aunt Philips 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 before 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 ecstacy, calling for every one's

congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;

whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining 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 till 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 the 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 peculiar, 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 and 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

is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,

ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! 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 any body. 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 authorizing 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 that 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 the

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 attentions 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 in Meryton, he dined

with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth

disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some

enquiry 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 were acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's

recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen

him often; and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man,

asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.

With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, "How long did you

say that 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 on acquaintance."

"Indeed!" cried 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 ought of civility to his

ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more

serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."

"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much

what he ever was."

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to

rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a

something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive

and anxious attention, while she added,

"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that

either his mind or 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 feelings 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 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

judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her, has always operated, I

know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his

wish of forwarding the match with 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 farther 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 would not miss the

opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there

was every reason to believe would be 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.

CHAPTER XIX.

Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could

not have formed a very pleasing picture 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 dulness of every thing 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 looked forward

with impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the

satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to

name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have

some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by

again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the

present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes

was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was 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 realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can

never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by

the defence of some little peculiar vexation."

When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely

to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and

always very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that

they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers

had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as

made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which

she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a

violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going 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 re-appear 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 northward 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 staid 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 as 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, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. 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 that 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

acquaintance 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 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 enquiries as

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 being now 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.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

[Illustration: MATLOCK]

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:

A Novel.

In Three Volumes.

By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."

VOL. III.

London:

Printed for T. Egerton,

Military Library, Whitehall.

1813.

[Illustration: DOVE-DALE]

PRIDE & PREJUDICE.

CHAPTER I.

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 apprehensions 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, from

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 their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration

of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of

splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With

these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of

viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and

welcomed to them as visitors my 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 like regret.

She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really

absent, but had not 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 mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.

The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a

young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been

brought up by him at his own expence.--"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's 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 Mr. 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 easy and pleasant, encouraged her

communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either

from 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 what every body 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 had 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 was 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 subject

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 now-a-days, who think of nothing but

themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will

give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never

saw any thing 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 shewn 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 bed-rooms, were

all that remained to be shewn. 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 on in quest

of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it

arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of 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 life time.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle

sensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in 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 it was 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 down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were

consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.

As they walked across the lawn 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 each were overspread with the deepest

blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable 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 enquiries after her family. Amazed at the

alteration in 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 together, were some of the most

uncomfortable of 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

enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay

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 their 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 must it 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 enquire 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 Rosing's Park, when

he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor 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 that moment was passing in his mind; in

what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,

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

roused 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; whence, 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, in 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 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. This 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

connexion 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 her

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 last mentioned

between them; and if she might judge from 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 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 the 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 any thing 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 us that he was so

disagreeable?"

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked

him better when they 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 about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and

warn me off his grounds."

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken 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

any body, 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 shewed us the 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

any thing 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.

CHAPTER II.

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 own

arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the

place with some of their new friends, and were just returned 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 lady in a

curricle, driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognising the

livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of 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 now 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 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 enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt, as made every thing 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 been long together, before 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 enquired 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, enquiry; and they soon drew from

those enquiries 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 of 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."