"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said

Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this

time of year."

"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I

understood from the Gardiners that you had."

"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."

"And do you like her?"

"Very much."

"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year

or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad

you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."

"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."

"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"

"I do not recollect that we did."

"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A

most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited

me in every respect."

"How should you have liked making sermons?"

"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and

the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to

repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The

quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas

of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the

circumstance, when you were in Kent?"

"I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was

left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."

"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the

first, you may remember."

"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so

palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually

declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business

had been compromised accordingly."

"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember

what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."

They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast

to get rid of him; and unwilling for her sister's sake, to provoke him,

she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,

"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us

quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one

mind."

She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though

he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.

CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he

never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,

by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she

had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was

forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means

entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to

continue at least a twelvemonth.

"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"

"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years perhaps."

"Write to me very often, my dear."

"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for

writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to

do."

Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He

smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of

the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us

all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas

himself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law."

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with

one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."

"This is the consequence you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said

Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are

single."

"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married;

but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If

that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into, was

shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by

an article of news, which then began to be in circulation. The

housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the

arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot

there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She

looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.

"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for Mrs.

Philips first brought her the news.) "Well, so much the better. Not that

I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure

_I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to

come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?

But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to

mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"

"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in

Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose

to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He

comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was

going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on

Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks, just fit to be

killed."

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming, without changing

colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to

Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,

"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present

report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from

any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt

that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you, that the news does not

affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he

comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid

of _myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."

Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in

Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there, with no

other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial

to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming

there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come

without it.

"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man cannot come

to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this

speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself."

In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her

feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily

perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,

more unequal, than she had often seen them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,

about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you

will wait on him of course."

"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised if I

went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in

nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention

would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to

Netherfield.

"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society, let

him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in

running after my neighbours every time they go away, and come back

again."

"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not

wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine

here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon.

That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at

table for him."

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her

husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her

neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before _they_

did. As the day of his arrival drew near,

"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her sister. "It

would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can

hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;

but she does not know, no one can know how much I suffer from what she

says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"

"I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied Elizabeth; "but

it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual

satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because

you have always so much."

Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,

contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety

and fretfulness on her side, might be as long as it could. She counted

the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;

hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his

arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window,

enter the paddock, and ride towards the house.

Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely

kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went

to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down

again by her sister.

"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"

"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not

know."

"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to be with

him before. Mr. what's his name. That tall, proud man."

"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does I vow. Well, any friend of

Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to be sure; but else I must

say that I hate the very sight of him."

Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little

of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness

which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time

after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable

enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their

mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be

civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either

of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be

suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.

Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.

To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and

whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive

information, he was the person, to whom the whole family were indebted

for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an

interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as

what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his

coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,

was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered

behaviour in Derbyshire.

The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a

minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to

her eyes, as she thought for that space of time, that his affection and

wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.

"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be early

enough for expectation."

She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to

lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her

sister, as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little

paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the

gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with

tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any

symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance.

Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down

again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She

had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and

she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as

she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's

presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but

not an improbable, conjecture.

Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period

saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.

Bennet with a degree of civility, which made her two daughters ashamed,

especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of

her curtsey and address to his friend.

Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the

preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was

hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill

applied.

Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question

which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any thing.

He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence;

but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her

friends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed,

without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable

to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she

as often found him looking at Jane, as at herself, and frequently on no

object but the ground. More thoughtfulness, and less anxiety to please

than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed,

and angry with herself for being so.

"Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did he come?"

She was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself; and to

him she had hardly courage to speak.

She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.

"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said Mrs. Bennet.

He readily agreed to it.

"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say,

you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope

it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,

since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my

own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have

seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know;

though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,

George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a

syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing.

It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to

make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"

Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth

dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could

not tell.

"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,"

continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very

hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to

Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to

stay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you

have heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the

regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so

many as he deserves."

Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery

of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,

however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually

done before; and she asked Bingley, whether he meant to make any stay in

the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.

"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother,

"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please, on Mr.

Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and

will save all the best of the covies for you."

Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious

attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had

flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be

hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt,

that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for

moments of such painful confusion.

"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be

in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure,

that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either

one or the other again!"

Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no

compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing

how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her

former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;

but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He

found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as

unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no

difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded

that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,

that she did not always know when she was silent.

When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her

intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at

Longbourn in a few days time.

"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when

you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with

us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure

you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep

your engagement."

Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of

his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away.

Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine

there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did

not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a

man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and

pride of one who had ten thousand a-year.

CHAPTER XII.

As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;

or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that

must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.

"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she,

"did he come at all?"

She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when

he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If

he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will

think no more about him."

Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach

of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her

better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.

"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly

easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by

his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly

seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent

acquaintance."

"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane,

take care."

"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now."

"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with

you as ever."

* * * * *

They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in

the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good

humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had

revived.

On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two,

who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as

sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the

dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take

the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by

her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to

invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to

hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was

decided. He placed himself by her.

Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He

bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that

Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes

likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing

alarm.

His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an

admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded

Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his

own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the

consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It

gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in

no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table

could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little

such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to

advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but

she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and

cold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,

made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;

and she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell

him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of

the family.

She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of

bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away

without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than

the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and

uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the

gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her

uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all

her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.

"If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give him up for

ever."

The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have

answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,

where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,

in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her,

which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of

the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,

"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;

do we?"

Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with

her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience

enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself

for being so silly!

"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to

expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not

protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?

There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"

She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup

himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,

"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"

"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."

"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"

"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,

these three weeks."

She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse

with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for

some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering

to Elizabeth again, he walked away.

When the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies

all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when

all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her

mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated

with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.

They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had

nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side

of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.

Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to

supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the

others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What

say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,

I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The

venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat

a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the

Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges

were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French

cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater

beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And

what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her

at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good

a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,

and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."

Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of

Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at

last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy

humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at

not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.

"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The

party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we

may often meet again."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I

assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an

agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am

perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any

design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with

greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally

pleasing than any other man."

"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and

are provoking me to it every moment."

"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"

"And how impossible in others!"

"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I

acknowledge?"

"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to

instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive

me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your

confidante."

CHAPTER XIII.

A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His

friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in

ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably

good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many

expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."

He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would

give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.

"Can you come to-morrow?"

Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was

accepted with alacrity.

He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them

dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing

gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,

"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is

come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss

Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss

Lizzy's hair."

"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is

forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."

"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!

where is your sash my dear?"

But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down

without one of her sisters.

The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the

evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his

custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the

five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at

Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any

impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last

Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do

you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"

"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five

minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she

suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,

"Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room.

Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at

such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it.

In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,

"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."

Elizabeth was forced to go.

"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as

soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in

my dressing-room."

Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained

quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned

into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every

thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His

ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their

evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the

mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command

of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter.

He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went

away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.

Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.

After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed

between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in

the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy

returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably

persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's

concurrence.

Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the

morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more

agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption

or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him

into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the

other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;

and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get

every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter

to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;

for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be

wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.

But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she

saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother

had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her

sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in

earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of

both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would

have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she

thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and

Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as

well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few

words to her sister, ran out of the room.

Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give

pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest

emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.

"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!

why is not every body as happy?"

Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a

delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of

kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not

allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be

said, for the present.

"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any

account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it

from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to

know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear

family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"

She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the

card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease

with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many

previous months of suspense and vexation.

"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious

circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the

happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"

In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her

father had been short and to the purpose.

"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.

"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say."

He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and

affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her

delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with

great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen

to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;

and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his

expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for

basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of

Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and

himself.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of

Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as

made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped

her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or

speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,

though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when

Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed

how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their

visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he

turned to his daughter and said,

"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."

Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his

goodness.

"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in

thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your

doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are

each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so

easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will

always exceed your income."

"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be

unpardonable in _me_."

"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you

talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely

more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so

happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it

would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not

be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when

he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was

that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that

ever was seen!"

Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her

favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger

sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness

which she might in future be able to dispense.

Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty

begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;

coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after

supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough

detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought

himself obliged to accept.

Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for

while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else;

but she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those

hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane,

he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of

her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of

relief.

"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me, that

he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not

believed it possible."

"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for

it?"

"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to

his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have

chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,

as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will

learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we

can never be what we once were to each other."

"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever

heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again

the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."

"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,

he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being

indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!"

"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his

modesty."

This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and

the little value he put on his own good qualities.

Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference

of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving

heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice

her against him.

"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried

Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed

above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but

such another man for you!"

"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as

you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your

happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very

good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."

The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a

secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and

_she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her

neighbours in Meryton.

The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the

world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,

they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.

CHAPTER XIV.

One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been

formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the

dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the

sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the

lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the

equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses

were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who

preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that

somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid

the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the

shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three

continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown

open, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh.

They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their

astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.

Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even

inferior to what Elizabeth felt.

She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no

other reply to Elizabeth's salutation, than a slight inclination of the

head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her

name to her mother, on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of

introduction had been made.

Mrs. Bennet all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such

high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting

for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,

"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I suppose is your mother."

Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters."

"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine.

"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married,

and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man,

who I believe will soon become a part of the family."

"You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short

silence.

"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I

assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."

"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in

summer; the windows are full west."

Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then

added,

"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and

Mrs. Collins well."

"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."

Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from

Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no

letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.

Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some

refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,

declined eating any thing; and then rising up, said to Elizabeth,

"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness

on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you

will favour me with your company."

"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and shew her ladyship about the

different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."

Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,

attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall,

Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and

drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent

looking rooms, walked on.

Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her

waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk

that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for

conversation with a woman, who was now more than usually insolent and

disagreeable.

"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked in

her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following

manner:--

"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my

journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I

come."

Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account

for the honour of seeing you here."

"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to

know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may

choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been

celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such

moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most

alarming nature, reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your

sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that

_you_, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon

afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I

_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure him

so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on

setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to

you."

"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring

with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming

so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"

"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted."

"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth,

coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report

is in existence."

"If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been

industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a

report is spread abroad?"

"I never heard that it was."

"And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?"

"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. _You_

may ask questions, which _I_ shall not choose to answer."

"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has

he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"

"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."

"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his

reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,

have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You

may have drawn him in."

"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."

"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such

language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,

and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."

"But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as

this, ever induce me to be explicit."

"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the

presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is

engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?"

"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will

make an offer to me."

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,

"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,

they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of

_his_ mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned

the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would

be accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of

inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to

the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his

tacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of

propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his

earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?"

"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no

other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be

kept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry

Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the

marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by

honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make

another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"

"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss

Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or

friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will

be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him.

Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned

by any of us."

"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr.

Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily

attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause

to repine."

"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude

for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that

score?

"Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here

with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be

dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims.

I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."

"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;

but it will have no effect on _me_."

"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my

nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal

side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,

honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both

sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of

every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The

upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or

fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you

were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere,

in which you have been brought up."

"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that

sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are

equal."

"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who

are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their

condition."

"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does

not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."

"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"

Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady

Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a

moment's deliberation,

"I am not."

Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"

"I will make no promise of the kind."

"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more

reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I

will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the

assurance I require."

"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into

anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry

your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make

_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to

me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it

on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with

which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as

frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my

character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these.

How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs,

I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in

mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the

subject."

"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the

objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no

stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous

elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a

patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is

_such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of

his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what

are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"

"You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered.

"You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to

the house."

And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned

back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!

Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you,

must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"

"Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments."

"You are then resolved to have him?"

"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,

which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without

reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."

"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the

claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in

the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."

"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any

possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either,

would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the

resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former

_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's

concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in

the scorn."

"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I

shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your

ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you

reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point."

In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of

the carriage, when turning hastily round, she added,

"I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your

mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."

Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her

ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She

heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother

impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady

Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.

"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."

"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously

civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.

She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through

Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had

nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to

acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.

CHAPTER XV.

The discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw

Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many

hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine it

appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,

for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.

Darcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report of

their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;

till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,

and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the

expectation of one wedding, made every body eager for another, to supply

the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her

sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at

Lucas lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the

Collinses, the report she concluded had reached lady Catherine) had only

set _that_ down, as almost certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked

forward to as possible, at some future time.

In revolving lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help

feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting

in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to

prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate

an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar

representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared

not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his

aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose

that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it

was certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,

whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would

address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would

probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak

and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.

If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often

seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might

settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity

unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady

Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to

Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.

"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to

his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to

understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of

his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might

have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him

at all."

* * * * *

The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had

been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same

kind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and

Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.

The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her

father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room."

She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell

her, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner

connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might

be from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the

consequent explanations.

She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He

then said,

"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me

exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its

contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink

of matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest."

The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous

conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;

and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained

himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to

herself; when her father continued,

"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters

as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the

name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."

"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?"

"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with

congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of

which it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping

Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says

on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows. "Having thus

offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on

this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another:

of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter

Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after

her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate,

may be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious

personages in this land."

"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young

gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of

mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive

patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin

Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate

closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be

inclined to take immediate advantage of."

"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out."

"My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine

that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with

a friendly eye."

"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_

surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within

the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more

effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any

woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in

his life! It is admirable!"

Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force

one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so

little agreeable to her.

"Are you not diverted?"

"Oh! yes. Pray read on."

"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last

night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she

felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some

family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her

consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty

to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and

her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run

hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr.

Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad

business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their

living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally

known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain

from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young

couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an

encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should

very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as

a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names

to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian

forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's

situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you

look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I

hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we

live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our

turn?"

"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so

strange!"

"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man

it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_

pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate

writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any

consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving

him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and

hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine

about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?"

To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had

been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his

repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her

feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she

would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by

what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but

wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of

his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.

CHAPTER XVI.

Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as

Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy

with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's

visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to

tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in

momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed

their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the

habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five

set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to

outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,

were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was

too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a

desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon

Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,

when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the

moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was

high, she immediately said,

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving

relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I

can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor

sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to

acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest

of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise

and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a

mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs.

Gardiner was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to

me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could

not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,

in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced

you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the

sake of discovering them."

"If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone.

That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other

inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your

_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought

only of _you_."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,

her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your

feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_

affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence

me on this subject for ever."

Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of

his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not

very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone

so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make

her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The

happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never

felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as

warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth

been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the

expression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;

but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of

feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his

affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to

be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She

soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding

to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through

London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the

substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on

every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,

peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that

such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from

her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her

ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself

to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,

had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have

acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of

my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so

abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all

your relations."

"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your

accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour

to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was

unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that

evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,

will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved

in civility."

"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I

then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of

it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your

reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a

more gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you

can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some

time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an

impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such

a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper

feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never

forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible

way, that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at

all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."

Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you

think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its

contents?"

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her

former prejudices had been removed.

"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was

necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part

especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the

power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might

justly make you hate me."

"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the

preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my

opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily

changed as that implies."

"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly

calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a

dreadful bitterness of spirit."

"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The

adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings

of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so

widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant

circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some

of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you

pleasure."

"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_

retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment

arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of

ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will

intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a

selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a

child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my

temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride

and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)

I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father

particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,

almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond

my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to

_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with

my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might

still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not

owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most

advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a

doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my

pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"

"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be

wishing, expecting my addresses."

"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you.

I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.

How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?"

"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take

a proper direction."

"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at

Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"

"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."

"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.

My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I

confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due."

"My object _then_," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every civility

in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped

to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you

see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes

introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an

hour after I had seen you."

He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her

disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to

the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of

following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed

before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness

there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must

comprehend.

She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to

each, to be dwelt on farther.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know

any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that

it was time to be at home.

"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which

introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with

their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of

it.

"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.

"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."

"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And

though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much

the case.

"On the evening before my going to London," said he "I made a confession

to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of

all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,

absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the

slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself

mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent

to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was

unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."

Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his

friend.

"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him

that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"

"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits

which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection."

"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to

him."

"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had

prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but

his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess

one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not

allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months

last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was

angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained

in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me

now."

Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful

friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked

herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it

was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,

which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the

conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.

CHAPTER XVII.

"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question

which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and

from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in

reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own

knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing

else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The

acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.

Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;

and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy,

than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,

there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in

the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one

liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a

_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far

from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.

"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,

you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."

"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and

I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am

in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are

engaged."

Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much

you dislike him."

"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I

did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these,

a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever

remember it myself."

Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more

seriously assured her of its truth.

"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried

Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you

certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be

happy with him?"

"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that

we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,

Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"

"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more

delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you

really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than

marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought

to do?"

"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I

tell you all."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am

afraid you will be angry."

"My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously.

Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell

me how long you have loved him?"

"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.

But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds

at Pemberley."

Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the

desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of

attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing

farther to wish.

"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I

always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I

must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your

husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But

Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you

tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know

of it, to another, not to you."

Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to

mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made

her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer

conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,

and half the night spent in conversation.

* * * * *

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next

morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with

our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always

coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or

other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?

Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's

way."

Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet

was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an

epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and

shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;

and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes

hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"

"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk

to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has

never seen the view."

"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am

sure it will be too much for Kitty. Wont it, Kitty?"

Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great

curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently

consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,

saying,

"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that

disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is

all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to

him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to

inconvenience."

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be

asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the

application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother

would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur

would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she

were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it

was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to

her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the

first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her

disapprobation.

* * * * *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw

Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was

extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to

be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means, that _she_,

his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be

filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched

reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,

looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes

he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while

pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he

wants you in the library." She was gone directly.

Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.

"Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be

accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"

How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more

reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from

explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;

but they were now necessary, and she assured him with some confusion, of

her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

"Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be

sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.

But will they make you happy?"

"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my

indifference?"

"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but

this would be nothing if you really liked him."

"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him.

Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not

know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in

such terms."

"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind

of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he

condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on

having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your

disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor

respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked

up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the

greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape

discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing

_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are

about."

Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;

and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the

object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her

estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that

his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many

months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she

did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to

say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with

you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy."

To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy

had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.

"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;

made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him

his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble

and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have

paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own

way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about

his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."

He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading

Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her

at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come

for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."

Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after

half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join

the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for

gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any

thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity

would come in time.

When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,

and made the important communication. Its effect was most

extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and

unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that

she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to

credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the

shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to

fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless

herself.

"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would

have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich

and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages

you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so

pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my

dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I

hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing

that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,

Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and

Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,

soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,

her mother followed her.

"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten

thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a

special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But

my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,

that I may have it to-morrow."

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman

himself might be; and Elizabeth found, that though in the certain

possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'

consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow

passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood

in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak

to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark

her deference for his opinion.

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get

acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising

every hour in his esteem.

"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps,

is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well

as Jane's."

CHAPTER XVIII.

Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.

Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could

you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when

you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first

place?"

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which

laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I

knew that I _had_ begun."

"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour

to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke

to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;

did you admire me for my impertinence?"

"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."

"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.

The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious

attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking

and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and

interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really

amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you

took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and

in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously

courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;

and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly

reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks

of _that_ when they fall in love."

"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was

ill at Netherfield?"

"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it

by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are

to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me

to find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may

be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling

to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first

called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did

you look as if you did not care about me?"

"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."

"But I was embarrassed."

"And so was I."

"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."

"A man who had felt less, might."

"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that

I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you

_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when

you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of

thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too

much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort

springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the

subject? This will never do."

"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady

Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us, were the means of

removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to

your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to

wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me

hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."

"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,

for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to

Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?

or had you intended any more serious consequence?"

"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I

might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to

myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,

and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."

"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to

befall her?"

"I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to

be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done

directly."

"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and

admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But

I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."

From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy

had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's

long letter, but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would

be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt

had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as

follows:

"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have

done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but

to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than

really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as you chuse; give a

loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible

flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me

actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very

soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I

thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I

be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful.

We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in

the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one

with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I

laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can

spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.

Your's, &c."

Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and

still different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in

reply to his last.

"DEAR SIR,

"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will

soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as

you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has

more to give.

"Your's sincerely, &c."

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching

marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even

to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her

former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was

affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing

her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was

as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were

insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of

being loved by her sister.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations

to Elizabeth, from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the

Collinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden

removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so

exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that

Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till

the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend

was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their

meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she

saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her

husband. He bore it however with admirable calmness. He could even

listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away

the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all

meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did

shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.

Mrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater tax on his

forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in

too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good

humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.

Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all

likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could, to shield

him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him

to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse

without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising

from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it

added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to

the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to

either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at

Pemberley.

CHAPTER XIX.

Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got

rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she

afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley and talked of Mrs. Darcy may be guessed.

I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment

of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children,

produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,

well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was

lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in

so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and

invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her

drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted in

going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near

a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to

_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his

sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county

to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source

of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with

her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally

known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a

temper as Lydia, and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she

became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less

ignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's

society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham

frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of

balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily

drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite

unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but

she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no

longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,

it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without

much reluctance.

As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from

the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that

Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude

and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every

thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on

to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received

from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,

if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this

effect:

"MY DEAR LIZZY,

"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear

Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you

so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will

think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very

much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live

upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four

hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it,

if you had rather not.

"Yours, &c."

As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in

her answer to put an end to every intreaty and expectation of the kind.

Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice

of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she

frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an

income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in

their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to

their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or

herself were sure of being applied to, for some little assistance

towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the

restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the

extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap

situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for

her soon sunk into indifference; her's lasted a little longer; and in

spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to

reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for

Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia was

occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself

in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently

staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he

proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she

thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she

dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as

attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility

to Elizabeth.

Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters

was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each

other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion

in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an

astonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive, manner of

talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect

which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open

pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in

her way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a

woman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not

always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;

and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in

her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him

language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time

all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,

he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;

and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her

resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity

to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on

them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had

received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the

visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy,

as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever

sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing

her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Spelling and hyphen changes have been made so that there is consistency

within the book. Any other inconsistencies with modern spellings have

been left as printed.